A Load of Relief
I’ve been editing the novel in progress, The Constant. It’s the first go-through of the initial complete manuscript. Naturally, there are issues. Things were removed, facts and timelines confirmed — like descriptions and locations — and sections were worked over to make them punchier and tighter. All was going well. I was averaging twenty-five to fifty pages a day, comfortable progress. Then, on page three hundred twenty-seven, I began reading the chapter, Thelma & Louise. I knew within paragraphs that it didn’t work and began the struggle to fix it.
I initially approached it as a wordsmithing problem. Nope; wasn’t it. It was deeper. I wrestled for several days about why this chapter bothered me. The issue was a constant 24/7 thorn for more than a week. I tried working on around it, buy my mind was fused to the issue. I eventually decided it was too much of an information dump and would break it up into more digestible bites. Growing comfortable with that idea, evolving it by establishing where I’d cut it up, I began working on that.
That choice caused another problem, though. No answer arrived to it. Additionally, I found I was adding more material than I wanted to this story aspect. As I wrote, I liked what I wrote, but not that I was adding it.
Around day fourteen, three days ago, two answers came almost concurrently about what to do and how to do it. They arrived after I’d gotten up to let Papi out of the house and fed sick cat because he yelled in the middle of the night. After writing it in my head for a while before returning to sleep, I immediately began working on the revisions when I got up that morning. It was intense.
I finished it today, a satisfying moment. Whether the result will hold up to further reading and revising is another matter. When I wrote the original chapter, in two settings, the results pleased me. But this is all part of the exploratory and creative process for finding story and writing a novel for me.
Cheers
The Surviving Dream
I was out with others. We were in endless stores but outside, in rolling, emerald green hills bathed in sunshine. I was happy but I was aware that it was a dire situation. Everyone was aware. What measures did we need to take? How could we survive?
Then, boom, all were dead.
Then I was getting back up. I was aware it was a dire situation. What measures did we need to take? Okay, I’d just died, so what we’d done didn’t work. We needed to do something else. Then, boom, something was coming, and we all died.
I was back after a second, in the same situation, trying to figure out what to do, then it all happened again.
I spoke with others. How can we stop this cycle? Others were certain that it couldn’t be stopped, they saw no way that it could. But a man in uniform stepped forward.
He was dressed like a WWII Nazi officer, grey uniform and hat, black epaulets, knee-high shiny black boots, in a movie. “Actually, it can be stopped,” he said. “You just need the right place to hide and the perfect timing.”
Before I could question him more, he said, “Ah, here it comes again.”
I saw something coming, or more correctly, looking down and across the stores on the grassy hills, I saw its effects on the people and world. I warned others that it was coming as I took cover with a cat. I died.
Born again after that, I joked with the cat, “Well, that didn’t work. Did you die, too?” The cat didn’t answer. Then, knowing the cycle was short, I began hunting for the next place to hide. This time, I seemed more aware of the threat coming toward me. It rippled through the people and fields like a light breeze blowing through a rows of wheat. Watching it come up, I timed my move and stepped aside.
I’m not certain if I died or not. There wasn’t a moment of awareness of dying, but I was again considering the situation, the German officer beside me. “No, it’s not that easy,” he said in a jocular voice.
I was dubious of him. “I think you’re trying to distract me. Who are you? Why are you even here?” I had the sense that he was there for misdirection. He was there to stop me from seeing and thinking.
An event was coming again. Picking up my cat, I turned my back and hunkered down under a table.
The dream ended.
Surprise!
A moment ambushed today that I really wasn’t expecting. I finished writing, editing, and revising draft number ten of April Showers 1921.
I’d finished writing the novel, and it ‘felt’ correct, a coherent and complete tapestry of time, characters, settings, events, and story.
I was pretty damn astonished. Just like reading an entertaining book, writing a book that entertains me leaves me breathless and lost, wanting more while processing, it’s over. It’s good. It’s done.
Draft number ten is a hefty boy, let me tell you, six hundred ten pages in MS Word, one hundred eighty thousand plus words. It’d required eight months, my gosh, almost to the date I’d officially started it after a dream in early January. I’d first mentioned it in a January 27, 2019 post. Eight months of thinking about it, writing, revising, researching, editing, processing, and editing, revising, and re-writing again and again. It’s odd and startling to realize that I’ve written all those pages in that time, and doesn’t count all those pages that’ve been removed during the revising process. It was just such a short spurt of time, and just a few hours each day of typing.
Now, I’m contemplating, what do I do with myself? This is my writing time, but I’ve finished writing the novel. It’s like getting out of school early. Such possibilities! Should I go eat? Well, I’m not hungry; this is my writing time. Tell someone? Well, of course, I posted this, to share with my online friends. Many of you are writers and appreciate the satisfaction of writing and finishing. I think you, of all, will most understand, and have been quite supportive.
I suppose I’ll take a break today, and then return tomorrow, and start going through my notes to confirm that I’m not leaving something out there hanging. Then…well, we’ll see.
But, um, yeah, I guess I’m done writing like crazy for today.
Yeah.
Take That, World
A friend’s daughter recently published a short story. I ended up with it in hand to read. It wasn’t her first. She’s been published about a dozen times.
Oh, how the urge to edit pulsed through me as I read it. My inner writer was shaking his head. The story was wooden, with passive verbs, a weak concept, and slow pacing. There was much telling, then showing what’d been told, and then sometimes told again.
I was dismayed and baffled. This was my take, but this was a recently published short story. This must be what editors like.
Novels that were recently published that I’d read were recalled. With many designated as bestsellers, I often thought the writing was clumsy, particularly in the early chapters, but they knew how to tell a story, and that came through in the end. Of course, there were a few where the writing was sublime. Those tend to be the award winners.
Yes, I know, every reader brings their a unique set of expectations, and finds their own story from what the writer offered. My take will be different from what others find and enjoy. Yet, something like the things I found that I wanted to edit seem like the basics of strong writing.
I concluded, I’m out of step with what’s wanted and desired in the writing and publishing world — and the reading world — and probably destined to be so forever. Accepting that, I’ll resign myself, again, to writing for myself and trying to improve my writing.
Take that, world.
Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Double Think
Seven triple four began doubting his mission. The Kazmo believed he had a special insight into where the other versions of him resided. The Kazmo were correct, although it wasn’t as easy as they perceived. The silver machines didn’t know or understand that many of his other versions were fakes. Usually existing for about fourteen minutes, triple four suspected these other versions existed to distract the Kazmo and their resources.
That fact scared triple four. If he was right, his other selves knew about the Kazmo and their project.
They probably also knew about him, too, then. But if they knew about him, it could be that the fake others might only exist in his perceptions.
What he needed was a way to figure this out. If he couldn’t, he didn’t have a reason to exist.
Laughing At Myself
I’ve been laughing at myself. When I finished the first draft of April Showers 1921, I thought, what a mess. Then I began hunting for what to do.
I found problems with structure, character motivation, pacing, story-telling… Whatever could go wrong seemed present. Very disheartening.
I began hunting fixes, slicing like a surgeon removing tumors. Draft two was finished and stalled, then three was written and discarded, followed by four. I lamented to myself, “This is like telling the history of World War II. So much happened. How do I find the right handle to it?”
That lament helped. Although I was complaining, it was true. The novel sprawled in a million directions. I needed to reduce the sprawl and improve the story.
Meanwhile, in parallel, I was reading thrillers. I was reminded of a Stephen King quote: “I showed them what can happen, and then I make them wait for it to happen again.” I’m paraphrasing. Forgive me. Maybe it wasn’t King, too, but I thought it was.
Whoever came up with that quote, it helped me sharpen my story’s focus, and tightened my grip on the sprawl.
I created some rules for myself.
- Head down. Focus, and stay focused. Work hard. Concentrate.
- Stay humble. Ride the wave. It’s a long ride, so manage your energy and emotions.
- Write better. Tell a better story. Sharpen your story-telling skills.
The last was revealing. I’d always concentrated on writing, putting words after words, fixing pacing and finishing novels and stories. Now, I decided that I needed to elevate my efforts and focus on being a better writer. That would hopefully result in a better story and novel.
It required hard decisions. Cut this arc. Modify that one. Tens of thousands of words were shred.
Partway through draft number seven. I think I’ve found a grip. I won’t know until I’ve finished and read it through again.
Done writing and editing like crazy for today. Time to go for a walk and let myself decompose.
The Fourth Time
Finished the novel-in-progress’ first draft back in June. Turned out to be a hot mess. So, after a few days of sulking and withering under the glares I gave myself in the mirror, I tried again.
Yeah, finished that draft and choked on it. I went into a hard work & focus mode that I’d discovered in myself about forty years back. Went to work on number three. Number three was a third of the way through when I realized, no; not working. Still not finding the root issue.
Damn it. My frustration levels were rising and hadn’t peaked. But with each draft, I narrowed down issues, and fixed problems. Come number four, and damn it, I remained dissatisfied. I kept thinking about what the problem was. Then, once I realized and admitted what it was, I began addressing how to fix it. The challenge haunted me through everything I was doing.
A possible answer was found this morning. Warning myself not to overthink it, I resumed work with draft number three as the basis, but designated as draft number four. I warned myself not to get my hopes up; I thought I could fix it twice before.
I did end up satisfied with the changes today. Need to sustain the effort, though, focus and keep the pressure up until I finish a draft that satisfies me. This might well take all summer. I could be writing about draft number twenty by autumn’s first day.
Done with writing like crazy for the day. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 