Promises, promises (or Novel 101)

Hello out there . . . anybody still reading this blog? Can't say that I'd blame you if you're not. I have all these good intentions . . . and I'm apparently busily paving a new road to hell with them.



Anyway, my apologies for so few posts this spring. As I might have mentioned a few times, I'm in the midst of writing a book. Note that I left off the prefix "re-". That was on purpose. I've rewritten/revised/re-imagined this particular MS several times over the past two years. And in April, after some soul-searching, and some "poor me/why me" complaining, and some wine, I decided to undertake it all over again. I blathered about that here.



And ever since, that's what I've been doing. Every morning I trundle up to my 3rd floor office, coffee cup in hand, open my laptop, put my scent-of-the-day candle on my candle-warmer thingie, and start writing. 1000+ words later (or more. Today was 2106!), I run spell-check, hit save, and jot down some notes about where I'm headed in the MS tomorrow. I've told my agent she'll have a finished draft by the middle of July. And now I've also told you the same thing. So I urge you to nag me about it. Seriously. I'm approaching this with more discipline and focus than ever before. Not that I ever thought writing a book was easy. (No, I've done it. I know how hard it is.) But, I'm learning it's not just the book or the writing or the ideas or any one thing. It's all of it and more. The timing has to be right, the story has to be true, and the writing has to have its own voice. Do I think I've hit that trifecta? Yes. Could I still be wrong? Of course. I certainly have been before. But this is what I do. I'm a writer, ergo I write.

Two of my writing pals have recently posted about their own writing processes (and hey, here's a shock, more eloquently then I have), so I urge you to check out Kristy's post and Patry's whole cool new blog.

Now, I ask for a bit more indulgence . . . I'm off to make myself some iced coffee so I can go sit on my porch and read what I wrote this morning. I'll be back to posting more regularly one of these days, too. But for now, my writing energy is focused elsewhere.

Novel 101 (Starting Over)

I know I've been incommunicado for a few weeks now.

But, like spring, I do believe I too am emerging from winter and hibernation, tossing off some covers and turning my face towards the sun.



I've been doing lots of reading, a little traveling, and am in the process of wrapping my head around a new way of looking at things, particularly my WIP.

I think one of my strengths as a writer is how I capture the quiet moments of my characters, their introspection, their "resting." And that's all well and good, but in and of itself it isn't enough. As one of my most trusted readers/editors put it, I need to "earn the resting" and I need to earn it through action.

I know this, I really do, but I don't always do it. I can fall in love with my own paragraphs, sometimes, to the detriment of the whole. Last week I was talking to high school writers (one of my favorite things to do) and I found myself saying, over and over, "No matter how beautifully written a scene is, if it doesn't move the plot forward it has to go." They'd nod at me and jot down my words (almost like they thought I knew what the heck I was talking about) and it made me feel all professional (which is nice) but when I was driving home and thinking about it I realized that I needed to hear that advice more than those kids did. I need to listen to my own pearls of wisdom. And put them into action.

Next week (or maybe sooner, depending on how the week plays out), I'll be opening up a brand new document. And I'm going to allow the "what if's" to fly across the page. I'm going to earn my resting. I'm going to be open to the possibilities of magic in the world of my characters. I'm going to be prodding myself to know that it's in the characters' doing that emotions are elicited and honest and true. I'm going to be relentless that every scene--action and quiet--has to move the plot forward.

Because while the resting is important, I need to remember that growth is an action.

Think Fearlessly, Act Locally

So, I spent last week putting the final touches on my MS. Today I'll read it through one last time, tweak a few things here and there, rewrite the synopsis, and send it off to my agent. Yes, I'm well aware that all the news in publishing (and the auto industry and Wall Street, and . . . . ) is bleak. I believe a week ago we had "Black Wednesday." To some, I suppose, it would seem silly at best and utterly pointless/stupid/bang-your-head-against-the-wall frustrating to be sending off a MS in the hopes it'll be published. But, read this journal entry written by my dear, wise author friend Bev Marshall. She gets to the heart of why we write.

In working on this last revision/rewrite I discovered that I was writing fearlessly. Okay, the market might have cratered, but that didn't mean I should give up on my characters. I'm not writing for some vague "market" anyway. I'm writing to tell a story, an important story. I'm writing because it's who I am and what I do. And so my words soared out onto the computer screen. Nobody's buying? Okay, then, even more reason to write from the heart.

And as I went about the rest of my week, I thought how freeing it was to write without fear. And it extended beyond just writing. So, the economy is terrifying? That gave me the freedom to scale back on my holiday buying, but it also meant that I wanted to make what I give count all the more. Distill it down, so to speak. Rather than 6 or 7 wrapped presents under the tree, what are three things that will tell my son I really know him?

And what can I do for the booksellers who've helped me so much? I can get off my couch and go buy my books from them rather than adding to "my cart" with a click of the mouse. And lots of those great indies have web presences, too.

Here are two of my local stores who will get my business:

The fabulous Main Street Books in St. Charles, owned by the wonderful Vicki Erwin

And the classic Left Bank Books in the Central West End (and now also in downtown St. Louis. Yes, they just oepend a new store this fall. You gotta love that!)

Two other indie stores that have treated me (and gobs of other authors well!) are Schwartz's in Milwaukee and The Garden District Book Shop in New Orleans.

Feel free to share your favorite indie store when you leave a comment. And this holiday season, don't let the bad news hold you back.

Fearless. That's my new motto.

Novel 101--A Radical Revisionista

So, once again I'm revising. Revising the MS I thought was done a year ago. The MS I've since rewritten 3 (or was it 4?) times.

This has been the hardest book I've ever written. Okay, I know it's only the third (or fourth?) book I've even started. But I also know it's the most complex. I think it's better than All the Numbers. And the writing of it has been a completely different experience.

I remember when I was pregnant with my second child, thinking, well, I'm an experienced mom so I know what I'm doing. Uh huh. I knew the basics. Nursing. Diapering. But each baby taught me how to be his own mom. What worked with one son didn't always (or ever) work with the other one.

We talk about books being labors of love . . . like child rearing. We talk about the fear of sending them (kids and books) out into the world to get knocked around. And I'm discovering that each book gets written in its own way just like each child gets raised in his or her own way. And I have to give myself over to that.

My sons taught me how to be a mom. My sons taught me I could handle things I'd never imagined. They taught me I was stronger than I ever thought. They taught me I had to take risks and be fearless so that they could dare to take chances and chase dreams.

My characters teach me the very same things. My characters are teaching me how to be a writer.

And one of my dearest, most trusted reader-editors used the perfect phrase for all of this. She told me being cautious wouldn't strengthen my story. She told me that "a more radical approach to revision is the right one."

Which means that I'm reconsidering major plot points. I'm looking at scenes and thinking, what the hell, what if I connected these characters here? Or here. I'm fearlessly "killing my darlings"--deleting those scenes that might be beautifully/wittily/choose-your-adverb written but DON'T MOVE THE STORY FORWARD. Or worse, SLOW IT DOWN.

I'm moving things around, withholding information, rediscovering characters' motivations. It's exhilarating and terrifying (kind of like parenting toddlers or teens). I know it's working when I wake up thinking about my book, when in those not-quite-awake moments an idea or solution comes to me and I just know it's perfect. Which tells me that all night my subconscious has been working on my book.

I'm letting go of what I thought the book was supposed to be and grabbing on to what it's becoming, what it was destined to be.

Again, kind of like watching my sons become the adults that was in them from the start.

It's an amazing journey, both parenting and authoring. And much of the time I need to remind myself to enjoy the ride and stay out of the way.

Novel 101 (Bonus Edition)--Or why I love massages

Bet that got your attention, huh? Okay, so here's the scoop--

For the past five years or so, I've been getting regular, monthly massages. It's good for my health--physical and emotional (and, as you'll see if you keep reading, also good for my writing). My massage therapist has become a friend, and I look forward to seeing her. But, I have a confession to make. Sometimes I cheat on her. Last winter a friend gave me a gift certificate to a spa for a massage (she didn't know I was already seeing somebody). And, you know, different can be good. So, occasionally, when say my regular masseuse and I get off schedule or she has to go out of town, I sneak over to the spa to see Geoff.

Or like today.

Last week I decided to up my workout and rather than just walk, I started jogging every few blocks. I was all about getting more fit. It was working well. Until yesterday when my lower back felt like someone was jackhammering on it. With flamethrowers. Geoff fit me in. I explained that I'd started running and my lower back was now killing me. He nodded. Told me to start out face down and left the room. I did as I was told. When he came back in he started working on my legs. And then he explained what had happened. My hamstrings were really tight. So were my glutes (not in a good way). That had caused my lower back muscles to seize up. Also, my abs are not as strong as they could be (like I didn't know that!), which caused further strain on my back.

Great, Judy, you're saying. Fascinating. So you're in bad shape. Why do we care?

Here's where it gets cool and morphs into Novel 101.

I realized that what often seems to be the presenting problem isn't always the issue. I'd been applying heat to my back--which felt good but didn't help my hamstrings. Just like when a scene isn't working--maybe it's because an earlier section is too tight (like my hamstrings). Or another part isn't strong enough (like my abs). Just fixing the immediate scene might not be the fix you really need. Unless your novel is just a bunch of vignettes (and even then, probably), the problems are more than likely systemic--you've got to look at the whole. And when you shift one thing around, you probably need to see what muscles that change is pulling at. And when you can't get one part right, maybe rather than gnash your teeth and tear your hair out and rewrite that one specific part until you're blue in the face and ready to chuck the whole thing in the shredder, maybe what you should do is step back and think about what comes before and what comes after--and ask if those parts are as strong as they could be. Or too intense. What needs toning? What needs to be unknotted?

Ah, now doesn't that make sense? And one more tip--getting a massage is never a bad idea.

Novel 101--"Ripeness is all"

So, it's been awhile since I've blogged here and even longer since I've had a Novel 101 post. Lots of reasons for this, but no good excuses.

The quote above is from my favorite Shakespeare play, King Lear. And, the point of it has been made clear to me yet again. (That's one of the totally cool things about my old buddy Bill--the truths he writes about apply on so many levels and keep teaching me even when I'm not looking for it.). Let me try to explain.

I'm not a patient person. I try, but it's a struggle. (Just ask my family.) But, I know that plenty of things are better with age. With ripening. The tomatoes in my garden. Wine. I know that things take time. There are processes which should not and cannot be rushed. I mean, heck, I'm a writer--getting an agent and publishing my first book took seven years. I've never been in the army, but I sometimes think the phrase "hurry up and wait" came from the submission process rather than the military.

But, as Shakespeare wrote, "ripeness is all." Things happen when they're meant to happen, being ready matters, and don't rush things that shouldn't be rushed. I know this; I just don't always embrace it.

Then, at the end of last week, after finishing the workbook for Writing the Breakout Novel, by Donald Maass, and after reviewing my notes and ideas and list of "what ifs" for my revision, I pulled out a hard copy of the MS of my novel, the one I thought I'd finished in February, but now know I haven't. The copy I hadn't looked at, not once, since February 28. And I started reading it. Almost immediately I went in search of several colored flair pens and these handy dandy little page flags:



Because, I'd discovered something in my MS--it wasn't as "done" as I'd thought. Having not looked at it in four months had given me some perspective, some "ripening"--I was finally ready to see the scenes that needed sharpening, the lines that needed some edge, the passages of prose that needed to be (eek!) killed off.

Even more important, as I started reading I understood some things about my protagonist I hadn't seen clearly before. She'd ripened as well, into someone even more complex than I'd initially seen.

We'd needed the distance from each other, the aging, the perspective--as much as I hadn't wanted to be patient, it had been a good thing (okay, there, Mom, I said it. I finally learned it. Blah, blah, blah, okay, okay, okay, patience is a virtue!).

So, that's my tidbit of writerly wisdom for the week (or maybe month, we'll see how things go). As hard as it can be, as much as I might want to send the MS off to readers, to my agent, to the world, I have to wait for the ripening--I have to allow for the cool days of spring and the warm rains of summer and the sunshine and moonlight and all that it requires. Then I have to look at it again and I have to trust that when it's truly ready, I'll know because my own words will tell me.

Odds and Ends

So it's late June and I'm fully immersed in summer. Sitting on the front porch reading, talking, watching the world go by. Taking my dog on long walks and letting him play in the creek. Grilling almost every night. Even though I'm no longer tied, at least professionally, to an academic schedule, summer is still more than just a season. It's a philosophy, a state of mind. The kids are home and the rhythms of the house change. (Over on my group blog, my post today is about my summer mom makeover. In a sense.)

I'm also blogging less often. But that has more to do (I think) with the writing work I'm doing than anything else. I've decided to take another run at my MS for Unexpected Grace (for regular readers, this is the novel I thought I'd completed in February). I'm excited about this. I know I'm just a few fine tunings away from what I want it to be. And I've figured out how to get there. Which strings to pull, which threads to loosen. And I owe my buddy Kristy Kiernan a huge thanks for pointing me in the right direction. We were chatting a week or so ago, talking about writing and ice cream and dogs and such, and she recommended the Donald Maass book Writing the Breakout Novel.

I admit, I was skeptical. I viewed it (and many writing books, I hate to say) as on the same level of those articles and headlines that promise you can "lose your belly fat and still eat everything you want!" But this book is the real deal. It is practical and smart and hands on. It's not suggesting a formulaic anybody-can-write-a-bestseller plan. It's designed to help writers take a draft to the next level. It has clarified things for me. Crystalized what I was aiming for. Helped me give my characters and plot some needed torque. I highly recommend it. And I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Finally, and most importantly, three years ago today I married my trophy husband, my keeper spouse. Happy anniversary, John.

New Paths

For the past five weeks I've been immersed in the life of a woman coming to terms with the twists and turns and vagaries of her life. At times, she's felt like a pinball, simply trying to brace herself for the next blow before it smacked into her. She had thought for years, things were following a certain path, that her choices were leading her in a specific way, that she was in control, and that she was happy.

What did John Lennon say? Life's what happens while you're making other plans.

Well, that's what happened to Kate and to me.

I'd thought I had her figured out. I'd believed I knew her. I'd been sure I could tell her story. And, I'd been so busy being right I didn't take the time to listen, to really get to know her. Kind of like when a friend needs to talk and I am too quick with advice or counsel. I get so busy helping I forget to hear what she's really saying or asking for.

Well, in the past five weeks I finally let myself meet her. I finally quit my yapping long enough to listen. To discover. To toss out all the clutter that got in the way.

And, I let myself find Kate. And in the process I learned so much about myself as a writer. It was all pretty cool.

So, my manuscript--re-visioned, revised, rewritten--is back on my agent's desk. Did I get it right? I'll find out soon. It certainly feels as though I did. But if it isn't there just yet, I know to trust Kate to show me her world. And she trusts me enough now to let me into her heart. She knows I'll listen before I start writing.

In the meantime, I intend to get caught up with my blog posts. I've also got a project waiting for me on the dining room table involving lots of frames and even more family photos. I've got a stack of new recipes to try. And I've got a whole new set of characters whispering to me, wanting to let me into their lives, their fears, their hearts. And this time, I've promised to listen more carefully than I did with Kate.

P.S. I also have a new blog post up at the group blog I belong to. It's not about writing, but if you have kids applying to colleges, you might want to check it out.

Sea Change

As some of you might recall, I've spoken often about revising. Well, much of the revising I've done before (and my nattering about it) was little more than a tune-up. Kicking the tires. Right now, I'm immersed in an engine overhaul. I might even have to trade in the car. It's invigorating, terrifying and thrilling. It's taking all of my concentration (just ask anyone in the house who's looking for clean laundry. Or dinner.). Here's the big paradigm shift I've come to understand: I am now fitting the old parts worth keeping into the new, rather than plopping the new sections into the old. Just understanding that has made a huge difference--and made it much easier for me to scrap whole chunks. Delete entire scenes. Toss away pages.

So, now I'm back to work--my posts might be a little scattered for a week or two, but I'm having a blast, drinking lots of coffee, and occasionally coming up for air. And, speaking of looking at things in a new way and feeling inspired about all possibilities, I'll leave you with this:

The Embroidery that is Revision

In my Thanksgiving post, I quoted a passage from one of my favorite novels of all time, Wallace Stegner's Crossing to Safety. I flat out love this book. It's got Madison, it's got a story of an adult lifelong friendship between two couples, it's got a writer/teacher struggling to make sense of his place in the cosmos, and, above all, it's got magical, lyrical writing that I get completely lost in. It, along with a few other stories (The Sound and the Fury and The Things They Carried to name two) take my breath away.

But, I digress.

Here's another quote:

"Charity and Sally are stitched together with a thousand threads of feeling and shared experience. Each is for the other that one unfailingly understanding and sympathetic fellow-creature that everybody wishes for and many never find."

These two women know each other beyond knowing. And, so does Stegner. And that's what I've recently discovered again in my revisions.

With All the Numbers, when I wrote the scene in which my main character has to take her dead son's clothes to the funeral home, I knew I'd found the perfect place to open the book. But, this was actually the very last scene I wrote. Initially, I was surprised that I hadn't started here, but as I thought about it, I knew that would have been impossible. I hadn't yet wallowed in her world of grief to know what that moment would feel like for her. To know what it would mean for her to smell her son on his clothes. And to frantically not want to lose that scent. Until I'd written the rest of her story, I hadn't put in enough stitches. And when I had, it all worked.

I'm now in the final revisions of Unexpected Grace. And I had to do some major restitching of one of the narrative lines. Using completely different yarn. And, if a few months ago, you'd told me, gee, Judy, maybe you need to make that one guy die 8 months ago rather than 8 years ago, I would have panicked. Well, no, I'd have wanted to say (but I'd have been too tongue-tied to do so), I can't do that because, well, it's not how I thought it out and no, it just won't work. But, since I'd completed the story, I knew the characters so well that when it was suggested to me recently, I thought, oh my, that's exactly right. It was as if I'd pulled some threads too tight, and this one suggestion opened up so much more. And it's been incredibly easy. All because I'd thought I was done. I'd gone so far in with my characters; I knew them so well.

I HAD to know those thousand threads of my characters. And I could stitch and sew and pull and knot all I wanted, but until enough threads were present, I wouldn't have the full picture. And I might have to yank out an entire section and restitch. And in the process I'd probably poke my finger and perhaps even draw blood. But in the end I'd have a fully formed piece. Only because I'd allowed myself the luxury of a draft. I'd allowed myself to make a garment, try it on, let it out here and take it in there. Put it on the dummy and glance at it from all angles and under different lights. Revision truly is RE-VISION. Another look. A glance back.

And to go back to the quote--it's something everyone wishes for but many never find. Maybe because it requires a writer's eye.

In the Midst of Things

I'm in the middle of revisions of Unexpected Grace, and I'm having a blast with them. I'll write more about the process next week, but suffice it to say that having a brilliant reader point out one change can open up a world of possibilities. It was definitely a "lightbulb" moment--one of those "Gee, I could have had a V-8" experiences. I'd been too close to the manuscript to see how to tighten everything up and add some needed tension. Once my reader suggested it, I knew it was perfect. Other eyes are always a good thing!

My blogging buddy Larramie tagged me for a meme I'm actually going to be able to complete. Here's the scoop:

1. You have to post these rules before you give the facts.
2. Players, you must list one fact that is somehow relevant to your life for each letter of your middle name. If you don't have a middle name, just make one up...or use the one you would have liked to have had.
3. When you are tagged you need to write your own blog-post containing your own middle name game facts.
4. At the end of your blog-post, you need to choose one person for each letter of your middle name to tag. Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and to read your blog.

This will be easy because, like at least half of the little girls born circa 1960, my middle name is ANN. (I used to wish it had an "E" at the end to make a very plain name--Judy Ann Merrill--a tad more exotic.)

Here goes - -

A--I'm an Author. As a little girl I dreamed about being an author. Then, I spent years (oh, say, 7!) thinking it would never, ever happen. Then, when it did, I couldn't fully wrap my brain around it. But, man, the first time I wrote it on my tax form, I was thrilled. And I've finally gotten so that it rolls off my tongue (right along with "novelist") when someone asks what my job is. Totally cool.

N--I Notice things. Details, oddities, you name it. I have a head full of trivia and tidbits that I can draw from when I'm writing. My kids have learned, sometimes much to their dismay, that they better not change their story because I'll call them on it. My husband refers to this as my "spidey-senses." Whatever it is, it serves me well.

N--Never say Never, Never give up. I can't help it, I'm a glass half-full person. I've had too many times where I've thought, that's it, I'm throwing in the towel, but I could never actually do it. Like when I told my sister, late in 2000, that I'd had it with dating and I wasn't going to even attempt it again until my boys were out of the house (in 5 or 6 years). Then, less than 6 weeks later, a friend told me she had a guy for me to meet. That guy? He's now my husband. Or a manuscript I'd been working on for years. The one I had almost relegated to the trash heap. Yeah, the one you can now buy in bookstores across the country (and in a handful of foreign countries). The world is too full of possibilities and surprises to ever give up.

There you go--3 facts, one for each letter.

Now I need to tag three other bloggers (I hate this part of memes).

Therese at Making it Up
Daisy at Compost Happens
Melanie at Refrigerator Door

Working far from Home

I recently spent a week in California. Ooh, I hear you thinking, nice gig. Ocean breezes and all. Not quite. I did get to drive up the coast (from LA to Santa Barbara) before it burned up, but I was there getting my first real taste of being a member of the Sandwich Generation. My dad was having surgery; I was there to help him and my mom.

(The most important news--the surgery was successful and went very well. Which is not always a given when the patient is nearly 80. We've been lucky--earlier this fall my husband and I went to help out his mom (almost 90!) after surgery and she had the same results--successful and fully recovered.)

On the plane ride out, I read through my "finished" MS--it's only finished until my agent mentions the revisions I need to make--and discovered a few tweaks and minor scenes I needed to write. One morning I stayed at the hotel for a few hours to finish things up, then took a deep breath and hit SEND. About 14 seconds later, panic set in. And doubt. It sucks, I thought. My agent is going to be disappointed and then scour through our contract to figure out how to drop me as a client. I'll need to find a real job (not one I can do in my PJs).

Around that time, my mom called and I realized I should head over to the hospital, a quick two-block walk away.

And when I arrived, my dad was resting comfortably, so I urged my mom to take a break. I'll hang out here, I said. You go get something to eat. And that's when the characters started showing up. No, not the folks who wander around in my head. These were real flesh and blood folks who gave me lots of material for future characters. The wack-job nutcase in the next room who kept insisting he wasn't the patient, just a stand-in, so the rules didn't apply and no procedures could be done on him. Or the nutcase wack-job across the hall who kept trying to escape his room. So they took his clothes away. He showed them. He wandered around in his boxers. (I swear, it was just a surgery floor, not a section 8 ward or anything). And the sweet stuff. The nurses who showed such kindness and patience. Watching my parents, and the ballet between them, after being married for 56 years.

Here are a few other things I learned:

~security guards don't like it when you walk past them and say, "Hey Buddy" to their guard dogs and hold out your hand for them to sniff (the dogs, not the guards).

~The Tater Tot folks have been keeping something from us. The cafeteria had these amazing tater tot "logs"--even better than the hash browns at McDonald's. (I know. Tater Tots are sorta low-class. I love them anyway. But, I also work in my PJs.) It was very good I didn't discover them until the last day.

~And finally, when I saw Matt Lauer at LAX (he was out there for the fires) I do believe I was much more tickled to see him than he was to see me. I daresay he might not even be aware that he saw me.

It's good to be home.

Telling Stories

This morning, I drove 200 miles with a cracked windshield. Once I got over the worry that it was going to collapse in on me as I drove, I'd find myself looking at it and thinking of how stories get written. (Okay, backstory here--I'd been visiting my younger son at college for Family Weekend. Saturday night I took him and one of his buddies out to eat. I was reminded once again of how no one enjoys eating with more gusto than college boys who aren't paying for it. We walked back to my car to discover some hooligans had decided to wing an empty beer bottle at my windshield, leaving it with a lovely bulls-eye design. Disclaimer #1--my first words were "Holy F---!" Disclaimer #2--this was not the first time my son had heard me use such language.)

But as I looked at the cracks emanating out from the middle (the point of impact I surmised, using all my best CSI powers), I would notice how some wended one way and others a different way, but there wasn't always a logical pattern. And some of the lines criss-crossed and I'd wonder which original crack they belonged to. (Okay, it's a pretty dull drive. And there was very little traffic). I was also listening to some good storytelling music (Sugarland, Mary Chapin-Carpenter and three Springsteen CDs). I like all those artists (okay, I like the first two; I'm a complete fanatic for The Boss) and one of the things I like best about them all is the way their songs tell stories. And the stories, through details, make me wonder and think. The stories aren't neatly packaged, they aren't all tidy and happy. Sometimes they raise more questions than answers. (Stop now and go buy Springsteen's new CD, MAGIC. It's that good.)

And I thought about my WIP--which is done, but not quite. I've written the ending (which I chatted about doing a few posts ago), and am now in the "filling-in" stage. Going back and adding texture, adding layers, making sure the lines criss-cross as they should and wander out from the point of impact. I love this stage of writing a novel--I know the characters, know what caused their cracks and broken edges, know which ones have healed and which ones never will. I get to polish things up and make sure nothing collapses in on itself.

As I drove I also thought about another story--this one true, so true, as a matter of fact, that if you wrote it people wouldn't believe it. And it's full of broken edges and criss-crossed lines and things happening as they should even when the fissures are so deep as to seem insurmountable. I had Jeremy in my ninth-grade English class. And while I guessed at some of his challenges, I had no idea what he was going through. He kept a smile on and he did his work (okay, not at first, but when I explained that yes, I too believed he could play college and maybe even pro football but no matter what he needed to pass 9th grade English), and the other day when I read this in the paper I cried and smiled and thought, this is the sports story I want to hear--not about Michael Vick or steroids, but about a good kid and good people who helped him become who he is.

Stories--the true ones, the ones we make up, the songs--they all start with a single point of impact, and where the lines travel and twist and intersect is what makes each one unique. The power is often in the journey and the connections.

Last Things First

A week or so ago, I sat down all revved up to finish the manuscript I've been working on since January. I'm excited about this story--I'm stretching some writing muscles with it, trying out some new things. And like any new endeavor, it's not without some aches and pains. (I went back to the gym for the first time in two months yesterday too--so I know whereof I speak regarding sore muscles.)

But, I've been enjoying, for the most part, this journey. My first novel came to me with a clearly defined final scene. So in writing it I was filling in the arc from A to B, but I always had that final scene pulling me forward. It was comforting. With Unexpected Grace, that final scene has been much more nebulous. I'm telling the story (or is it stories?) through two narrative lines, one in the present (2002-03) and one in the past (1958-1971). Two very different narrators, but they're connected. But, I'd spent lots of time dinking around at the 50,000+ word mark. I didn't want to admit that I was stuck, so I revised the heck out of the first two-thirds of the book. (Yup. 2/3s. I write on the short side. My goal is always to get to 75,000 words.) I wasn't moving forward, though and was getting frustrated. I talked to one of my agent's readers who acts as an editor (God bless her!). We worked through much of my wanderings. But her final piece of advice hit home the hardest. "Finish it. Get to the end." I knew she was right. I needed to finish the damn book before I could start revising and polishing and rearranging. All I'd been doing for a few weeks was, as my husband would say, rearranging the deck chairs on The Titanic. (Not that he'd ever say that to me about my writing.)

So, I told myself, get to the end. I sat down two days after Labor Day to write. I now knew how it was going to end. I was excited about it. I had those final scenes in mind. I just needed to write 20,000 words before I could write the last 5,000. But those 20,000 seemed insurmountable.

That's when I took a flying leap and went right to the end. And it worked. Amazingly well. The ending scenes kept getting longer (that's good) and sharper (even better). I now know what will and what won't work between what came before and what comes last.

So, sometimes, it seems, in writing and in life, it's good to break a few rules, shake things up, get out of the comfort zone. Eat dessert first. Write the end before you've finished the middle.

Now, I need to head back out to the porch (we're having beautiful fall writing weather) and finish things off. I have to kill a character I adore, and I get to help another character figure out some big things about herself.

I love this stuff. All that middle mumbo-jumbo? It doesn't seem so daunting now.

Revising, Part Two

Last week I referred to the continuum of emotions about revising and said I was closer to the "root canal" end than I'd like to be--I'm happy to report that I persevered anyway and made good progress (2500+ words). I took the whole RE-VISION mantra to heart and allowed myself to drift in the mind of my main character (and no, while it might have looked like all I was accomplishing was upping my winning percentage on Spider 2 solitaire, be assured, I was working. Slaving away.)

So much of writing is about control--I get to orchestrate the lives of the characters, I pick the setting, I determine the conflicts, I get to resolve the issues. I even pick names. I set writing schedules for myself, I tally word count, I run spell-check, I choose who I ask to read drafts. And I like being in charge. I mean, so much of our lives we aren't bosses of--even when we think we are (if you don't believe me, have a teenager. Or five. Toss in a golden retriever). However, when it come to revision, I find I have to cede that control a bit. I have to slow down, let my mind wander (maybe play some solitaire--thanks Kristy!--), and let the story take over. In doing so, I discover what the characters want me to know and where the story needs to go without my pulling all the strings.

So, this week I'm following Kate and Virginia where they want to go. I'll let them tug at my sleeve and whisper their truths to me in the early light of morning and softening darkness of twilight. And I'll make sure their truth flows through my pen.

Revising

Sometimes I love revising a manuscript--other times I'd rather have a root canal. On that revision continuum, right now I'm closer to the dentist's chair than I'd like to be. It's at times like this that I'm reminded that as much as I love writing, it's hard work. (But, if it weren't then everybody'd be doing it and where would I be then, right?)

I'm a little over halfway into my MS. And I'm loving it. I'm trying things I haven't attempted before, and by all accounts, it's working. Yes, I need to flesh out some things, but I've figured out how that's going to happen. The characters are becoming richer every time I sit down with them.

So where's the problem? I've gotten perhaps too attached to some of my prose. As my first creative writing teacher (27 years ago!) pointed out to all of us when she handed back our first stories to revise--we should examine the word "revision" and truly see it as a RE-VISION. Taking a new look. Seeing it with fresh eyes. A new perspective. She didn't want us to just polish things but to perhaps explore a new approach. And it might require us to discard (horrors!) some of the words we'd carefully crafted. We might have to toss out (eek!) whole paragraphs.

That's where I am this week. I realized that one of my narrators, Kate, wasn't dumped six years ago by her fiance, but he died in a plane crash. Now, that's not going to be a big portion of the actual MS, but it explains so much of why she's the way she is now. I need to work in enough of that backstory so it works for the reader. And for Kate. And that requires lots of re-vision. Some of her flippancy needs to be toned down, other conversations need to be completely revamped. It's work. Satisfying work, yes, but also hard. Frustrating at times. And when I highlight whole sections and go to EDIT and then click on CUT, a little part of me gasps to consider what has just disappeared. But I know, that later this week, or next, or maybe even next month, I'll look at it and the changes will be seamless and I'll wonder how I ever could have seen it any other way . . . unless of course my vision shifts again.