Tag: editing process

Crystallizing

I can certainly tell that Entangled LEREs was the first book written in the Incomplete States series. (Back then, the working title was The Long Summer.) I’m a third of the way through it in the initial editing and revising process, and I’ve deleted four chapters. Those chapters, written while I was exploring and developing the novel’s concept, no longer fit the overall story arc. To keep them in would be indulging myself.

So, off they went. The muse(s) didn’t argue at all, so I must have made the right decisions. Still, I saved each chapter intact as a file, with a note about where they came from, and updated the Editing Checklist to show what I did, and why.

The chapters were fascinating remnants of the genesis of the initial concept and the finalized concept. I remembered struggling daily as I wrote, trying to decide, what is this novel about? As the finalized concept crystallized, one novel became two novels, and then burgeoned into a series. Characters and their tales, plot twists and settings all arose. I didn’t include everything; sometimes I knew that what I was writing was writing to think, exercises to help me understand what I was learning and where I was going. They were saved, too, just in case I later veered.

In point of fact, the largest document of the twenty-five documents (including the four books) I created while developing this series is the document called “Circle (working doc)”. At five hundred pages, it’s one hundred ten thousand words and seventy-nine chapters. Some of the chapters made their way into the beta version of the four books. Many have notes about my intentions when they were written about where they should be in the narrative. Several of the chapters were written as snapshots of action, outcomes, or discussions between characters to help me understand the story arc but included information that I felt shouldn’t be ‘given’ to the reader.

They might still end up in the final first draft of the four books. I don’t know, and won’t know until I’ve completed this phase of editing and revision.

That’s what it’s all about.

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I Find

The first two parts of Entangled States, ten chapters, are like reaching a coast. The direction doesn’t matter. You hit the stretch where the land and sea meet. It’s turbulent, with crashing waves and hissing, seething waters. Taking it all must be done in pieces. There is the sea and the land, and there’s also the sky. Each exercises its own elements, colors, and behaviors. Once you pass this borderland, you’re released from the complications inherent to progressing from sea to land and freer to relax and take more in.

Now into part three of the book, it settles down again. I remember writing all of this, and recall thinking about the parts, and the placement of these chapters and scenes, and how they’ll interact. At that point, it was like being too close to a pointillism piece of art. Distance is needed for the colors to blend and become something more than blobs.

Wild, to think, while writing it, I saw these blobs and strokes, and applied them, and now I need to step back to comprehend the whole. I was realizing the whole on one level while I already saw and comprehended it on another level. Then, not so wild, as I write to help clarify and understand what I think.

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Nerves

I’m nervous as I’m editing this second book in the Incomplete States series. The series’ first book, Four On Kyrios, was straightforward for the most part. This book, Entangled LEREs, is well-named, with entangled stories and characters. It reminds me of Slaughterhouse Five meets The Sound and the Fury, Cloud Atlas, and Lincoln in the Bardo. Editing becomes intense for me. I imagine readers asking themselves and the book, “What’s going on? I don’t understand.” Makes me want to revise it to make it clearer and more linear.

The muses push back against that impulse and insist that I don’t change anything. And there it goes, I’m cringing and sweating, thinking, what am I doing? “Trust us,” the muses urge. In response, I hold my head and rub my forehead and temples, and think, pitting desire to change things against the muses’ directives.

The muses remind me, “You’re in the middle of the series. Don’t make any major changes until you’ve gone through all four books.” Right, because the mud settles later, and it all becomes clearer. These are mysteries in mysteries, all part of the concept and story. Yes, I remember writing these chapters and battling the muses about it back then.

Man, it makes me nervous, though. My jaw hurts from gritting my teeth. Should a writer have such a love/hate relationship with their muses and the novel in progress? I remind myself that I was going all in, that, yes, I knew when I was writing it that it would be way out there. I remember those battles with myself from back then. I hope readers can get through it and find the effort rewarding. Even as I nurture that hope, I remind myself, I write for myself. I’m my only guaranteed audience.

I think it’s time to call it a day.

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Going On

Have you ever seen a movie or read a book about a prisoner who uses a spoon or other small implement to chip away their rock or cement prison and eventually escape? I was thinking about that the other day as I was editing Entangled LEREs and realized, that’s not how it feels editing the second book in the Incomplete States series.

It also doesn’t feel like I’m struggling to move the needle. Nor does it feel like I’m climbing a mountain or swimming an ocean.

It feels pretty damn good.

I miss writing like crazy each day, truly. I resent, too, that it’ll take sooooo looong before these novels will be published. By ‘sooooo looong’, I mean like months or more. Yes, I’m indulging in some hyperbole to expose my natural impatience.

I’m not good at this persistent, slow stuff. I eat fast, drive fast, think fast, and talk fast. I like doing things fast. I like being intense and immersed.

But, I’m enjoying this leisurely editing and revising. I’m reading other books as I edit, novels that are best sellers or prize winners, prizes like the Man Booker, Peabody, and Pulitzer, or books by authors who won a Nobel Prize for Literature. I used to avoid reading such lofty others while I’m writing or editing. Correcting myself, I used to avoid reading most published literature while I was reading and writing because I often felt that my writing could never achieve such heights, and it depressed and demoralized me.

I’m more confident about it now. While I still enjoy and admire the aforementioned sort of books, I’m not cringing from my efforts when I go back and forth between the two. More often, when I find something special by someone else that I’m reading, I pause to understand the passage’s impact on me and explore what the author did and how they did it, hoping that I can learn how to do it.

The process has helped. I can see improvement in my writing. I sometimes find beauty or insights in my work that startles me.

Like many writers, I’ve found that writing is a progression. With a little talent and heavy loads of persistence and determination, we can improve what we’re revealing and how it’s revealed as we tell the stories that flow through us. This progression shines in the editing process. Further away from the fiery crucible of creativity where the flow is so intense, I can apply the lessons that I perceive. I’m more mindful. While I’m doing this, my appreciation for the diverse processes of writing/creativity and writing/editing/revising increases. As with many facets of our existence, it’s a spectrum.

Of course, on the obverse of this coin, when I read portions of my earlier published works, I cringe. There’s a plan afoot to edit and revise some of that stuff stirring in my head. What’s that? Don’t look back? You might have a point.

Time to resume editing like crazy.

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“Four On Kyrios”

I’m feeling breathless, worried, and giddy today. You probably suspect that it’s the smoky air because I’ve been complaining about the wildfire smoke so often in July and August. Well, you’d be wrong, suckah. We have good air today.

I’m breathless and giddy because I completed the first draft of Four On Kyrios today. The novel has officially made the transition from beta to first draft. At the same time, I received feedback from two friends who volunteered to read the beta version as a second pair of eyes. They’d finished reading the manuscript and offered their comments. Both were enthusiastic and are ready to read the next book in the series. That pleases me, but I’m worried because, as a writer, I’m unique among writers, and worry whether others who read what I wrote will describe it as gilded garbage.

That was decent sarcasm, wasn’t it?

Four On Kyrios is the first book of the Incomplete States series. It didn’t take me long to read, edit, and revise it. I attribute that speed to several points.

One, it was the third book in the series to be written. That advantage means that a great deal of thinking about the concept, plot, background, and setting was already completed.

Two, I edit and revise as I write. My organic writing process drives this pattern. Writing what’s already written helps me connect with the muses and continue discovering and telling the story. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that I fix grammar, punctuation, pacing, and continuity issues when they’re discovered. (Are you surprised?)

Three, Four On Kyrios is the smallest of the four novels in the Incomplete States series. MS Word clocks it at ninety thousand words and three hundred seventy-five pages.

Four, of the four novels, it has the simplest plot and the fewest characters. Those factors keep it easy to read and edit.

As this is the first novel in a series of four, it’ll stay in first draft status while I read, edit, and revise the others.  The four books were written to tell one larger tale, so they’re interconnected. I came out of the editing and revising process with one page of notes. Some are reminders, a few are continuity questions, and the rest were issues. All of the issues except two were resolved. They’ll remain open until I complete the other three books.

Most of the changes in the novel were more about expanding some scenes to slow down and let the characters breathe. I’ve been reading a lot since I finished the beta draft of the four books. Reading others’ published novels impact my ‘sense’ of the book. To me, this is the instinct we develop as writers because we read. It’s a feel for what seems right and correct about something we’re reading. It’s about flow and story-telling.

Just for the record, I’ve read Lincoln in the Bardo, A Visit from the Goon Squad, Godless, The Midnight Line, Time’s Eye, and Diary in the past few weeks after finishing the first three books of the Dire Earth Cycle. I’m now reading The Pagan Lord and The Order of Time and searching for The Triggerman’s Dance. I think La Rose might be up next on my reading, though. The Order of Time is a fascinating book about time, physics, and quantum mechanics by Carlos Rovelli. I don’t agree with all of his points, but it’s fun thinking about them.

Now, on to the next novel in the Incomplete States series, Entangled LEREs. I’ll begin editing and revising it tomorrow. Right now, though, my stomach is posting orders for something to eat.

I think I shall comply.

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Editing & Rewards

I’ve learned more about myself, again. I’m happy to report this. I think it’s important to recognize that we’re always changing. That means that we always have some mystery about who we are that we need to confront and resolve. (At least I do, but I suppose others like to leave some mystery to themselves.) Some changes are as slow to witness as a snail’s progress across a patio. Other changes can be seen like a meteor’s flash in the August night.

One thing that I’ve learned is why I like editing, a lesson learned and forgotten. Writing like crazy in my finest efforts is primal, immersive, and intense. It’s also rewarding. Reward is associated with solving problems that are created as part of exploring the plot and understanding the characters. Reward also comes from the tangible progress of putting words onto pages until hundreds of pages are done and a novel is completed. That’s very tangible and satisfying.

Editing, though, lacks that sense of progress and reward of writing like crazy. I miss both of those things. But I’ve found that the editing process grounds me. As it’s more relaxing than writing because it’s less intensive, it has a gentler and more reflective quality in it.

Writing like crazy is also exhausting. That might seem strange to people who don’t know how much thinking is involved in writing. Editing, being less exhausting, leaves me with more free energy. Weirdly, I don’t know how to use that energy. I end up reading more. Conversely, reading more triggers the write-like-crazy impulse in me. But I’m editing, so I need to shun that. It’s a frustrating dynamic.

There is a sense of progress inherent in editing. It’s measured in the number of pages and chapters read, the number of notes made to check on this, and the number of those items that become resolved and checked off. But creative writing is problem-solving; editing isn’t, to me, so different areas of my brain are engaged. When I’m editing, I’m mostly reading. Remembering, I’m reading and editing my own work. I’m familiar with it. That’s exactly why others need to edit it for me when I’m satisfied that the draft is sufficiently complete to hand it off to someone to edit.

Done editing for the day. Not a great deal was accomplished in the sense that I didn’t cover many pages. (Ten, actually, when I go back to see how many I read.) That was because I discovered a name was spelled incorrectly. I was surprised to find that I’d spelled it wrong in the manuscript and in my bible of information. Global find and replace was needed, but to reach that point required research and decisions about which spelling to use.

That’s editing though, finding and correcting the mistakes, along with revising the story to improve flow and clarify.

At least in my mind.

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Going Retro

Yea, verily, I’m struggling.

I’m dissatisfied with an aspect of my novel in progress, “Incomplete States.” I love its sprawling sweep, but it sprawls too much. The sprawl dilutes focus on the characters, and I don’t think the typically reader will care about them.

Which, in thinking about writing this novel’s first draft, is understandable. Its concept consumed me, as did trying to understand and convey the concept to readers through the story. Thinking about it during the last several days was at first depressing. Then, I thought I began to more fully see the issue. I let my imagination off its leash. Ideas about what to do began streaming in.

Still not satisfied with the process, I pulled out a pen and notebook. I’ve done that several times while writing this novel, so the notebook is already in place. It’s a rawer and simpler way to process information for me, and that makes it faster.

I’m, of course, partially just disappointed. I wanted to be done with the damn book so I can move onto other projects. Yes, I’ve entered the stage when my beloved novel has become the damn book, a thorn in my side as much as a joy of creation. This is like that D.I.Y. project, like putting down new floor tile, that is progressing well until, halfway through, you realized you made a major error. You know it must be fixed, but first, a little venting and stewing is in order. Those who are more stoic would probably just begin fixing it immediately, but that’s not how I roll. I must simmer in emotions first.

But, issue thought out, choices considered, and decisions made, I’ve bounced back up. Here I go again.

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The Editing Season

Changes in seasons are important matters in our home. First, we’re an area that experiences all our seasons. Summer gets intensely hot. It’s normally over ninety degrees, with recurring jumps over one hundred degrees. Rain is infrequent. Winter isn’t bitterly cold but does prominently feature snow, ice, and temperatures in the night below thirty degrees.

These season changes require shifts. When spring changes to summer, shorts, sandals, and lights shoes and shirts replace boots, gloves, heavy coats, and jeans. A large cleaning project takes place. Bedding is changed. The furnace is switched off, and the air conditioning is inspected and put on standby. Gutters are cleaned, and the house is repaired.

I finished a novel’s first draft a few weeks ago. Since then, I’ve been editing it.

This type of editing is like a change of season. I’m reading for specific matters, addressing grammar and punctuation as I proceed. It’s not really about copy-editing functions. They’re included because I’m there. This editing is more about continuity, logic, pacing, and consistency.

The process had been going well, until the end of June. Then I crossed into a chapter called “Entrance.”

I’d written “Entrance” early on while writing the novel. It was one of several “genesis chapters” written as I embraced the concept and developed the settings, characters, and story dynamics.

I’m an organic writer, and often feel my way through the story like I’m walking through a dark and unfamiliar room. As I write, illumination grows. I see more of the room until it all comes together. It’s a non-linear process, though; I might write the far right corner for a while, and then the front left corner, and have very little idea about the space between them.

I don’t consider it easy nor difficult as a process. I enjoy the writing process, but the organic writing process sometimes leads to these situations. Something written early in the process no longer aligns with what later develops.

It is not actually a critical matter. It can be a critical matter. I’ve known of writers who are paralyzed when encountering these things. They’re horrified, and even despondent about what they discovered. For one thing, it means the beautiful piece they’ve crafted is flawed. That’s true, but, the flaw’s impact is dependent on its extent. I’ve known many writers who have a difficult time seeing that.

I realized this problem about two thirds of the way through the chapter. Awareness had been growing, and then a new light lit the room. I knew that this did not work, not as written. That meant it needed to be re-written, but I also needed to address that story arc and its continuity, find issues, and resolve them.

The first thing I did was walk away. Essentially, this was like encountering something unexpected during spring cleaning. Say, you’ve pulled out all your shorts, put the first pair on, and discovered they’re too small for you.

For me, I’d want more information. Did the shorts shrink, or did I grow? I’d pursue answers by weighing myself and trying on other shorts. Weighing itself isn’t necessarily helpful. As I’ve aged, I’ve seen my body shape shift. Although I weigh five more pounds than I did ten years ago, my shoulders are smaller and my waist is larger.

Once I’ve gathered more information, I can make decisions and establish a course to follow.

That’s what I did with the novel. Once I walked away and thought about it, I decided on a course of action.

  1. Think.
  2. Drink coffee.
  3. Relax.
  4. Put this into context.
  5. Read that chapter and the others in that arc to assess how much they deviate.
  6. Change as necessary.

To relax, I did other things. I read, watched television and movies, and did tedious chores. I pursued activities that didn’t require significant resources, and yet distracted me. Yet, every day, I opened the document to that chapter and began reading it again.

Relaxing was important, but not as important as putting the situation into context. I fall back on an old idea that’s one of my fundamental approaches to life: it’s better to have a good plan and do something, rather than trying to develop a perfect plan. That doesn’t mean that I don’t seek perfection, but I don’t let the pursuit of perfection paralyze me.

I still had a finished novel. It was still a rough draft. Its concept remained sound. Everything else I’d read and edited so far, several hundred pages into the process, remained enjoyable and promising.

Relaxing helped me understand that I had several courses available.

  1. Rewrite the rest of the novel to synchronize and align with this arc.
  2. Delete that arc and re-write the characters as necessary for the other arcs.
  3. Rewrite this arc and the characters as necessary.

Those were academic exercises. By this point in my writing, I know the stories and arcs, and how it all comes together and ends. I played with those exercises to uncover other potential mines.

Reading the chapter and consulting my notes, memories about decisions made and directions taken returned with time and patience. Reading the subsequent chapters in this arc confirmed my thoughts that, strange as it may sound, this chapter was an anomaly. It was a large anomaly, but just that, and not a precursor to a flawed arc.

I didn’t read that chapter just once completely, but three times, plus multiple partial readings, to develop understanding and insight. When I finished the third reading, I knew what I needed to change, and how. Then I began making changes.

I think a large part of this process is that this isn’t my first novel. Once upon a time, I wrote a novel and thought that first draft was supposed to be publisher-ready. I was naive. Reading that first draft of that first novel was depressing as hell; it was a mess. I learned from the process, and started writing another novel. I put that first novel away, because it was the first, and because I’m an optimistic. Inside myself, I tell myself, maybe I can go back and fix it someday. I do it all because, no matter what else I believe or hope, I believe I’m a writer, and I must write.

I’ve finished fixing that arc. Now I’ve resumed my process from the point where I stopped. One thing I’ve learned about my organic process is, as much as it’s about writing down words and creating a story, it’s about collecting and sifting through the raw material. The second draft is about clarifying and solidifying the vision I found when I wrote the first draft.

Last, I’ve learned that even when there’s a setback to the novel’s completion, there’s progress. Call me a foolish optimist, naive, or pragmatic, but I attempt to learn and I keep going.

Now I have my coffee, and it’s time to do it again, at least one more time. Then, once I finish this draft, which is still probably several weeks in the future, guess what I’ll do?

I’ll do it at least one more time. Then, I’ll turn it over to others, and go from there.

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Read Like A Reader

I’m editing and revising the novel in progress. Its working title was ‘Long Summer’. Its gained a new title, ‘Incomplete States’. 

Long summer was part of the original concept, a summer for Brett and a summer for Humanity, ending as first contact and first battles were experienced. As concept understanding and development evolved and flowered, the underpinning concept and overarching story shifted. ‘Incomplete States’ is a fuller, better, title for the novel as written.

Into the editing and revising stage, I’m reading as a reader. I’ll mostly address my novel as I would if I were ignorant to its workings, as a reader would, reading it for entertainment. The differences come from noticing things and taking action on them.

  1. Typos, grammatical and spelling errors, of course.
  2. Pacing. If I find myself skipping over something, there’ a problem to be addressed. The Writer is summoned to find the root cause and solution.
  3. Pauses.

With pauses, anything breaking the reading rhythm and makes me pause requires a special investigation initiated. Several reasons can exist for the pauses. As I can’t wholly divorce myself from knowing the novel as a writer, I’m a prophet about some things destined to happen. I might be noticing a continuity issue regarding that, or a continuity issue with previously established matters. This problem, or challenge, is why some writers set aside their first draft, something called the ‘cold method’. Others will indulge in reading it aloud. I sometimes read aloud to clarify what’s causing the pause.

Mechanics could be the source for the pause, such as sloppy sentence or paragraph structures, or poor precedents and antecedents, or clumsy descriptions. Dialogue, and who is saying what, sometimes becomes muddy and must be clarified. Once in a while, the style has shifted. Some style shifts are planned and expected. The novel is a multiplex telling through six character POVs. Those characters roam in a sometimes sharply chaotic manner as their experiences and expectations, age, sex, race, and history change. The writing needs to be clear about what’s going on without revealing too much. Style is sometimes a party to that effort, but shouldn’t be an intrusion.

Yesterday’s reading efforts went superbly. I knocked out four chapters. Some changes were done. Afterward, I was answering some interview questions. The questions forced me to think more deeply about my processes. One conclusion realized from this exercise was how my processes had shifted. I used to write to finish what I was writing. I often had unrealistic expectations about how the novel should read, and how I felt about finishing it.

I’m now more comfortable with the journey and experience of writing a novel, including editing and revising it. It’s a unique experience. While people all around the planet are writing novels, each one is writing a unique novel. The experience of writing and finishing each novel is different. They concepts and stories are bred from different states of existence, expectations, and experiences – hopefully.

Time to get on with the pleasure of reading, editing and revising.

Cheers

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Schrodinger’s Novel

Phase one has been completed. A draft of the current novel-in-progress exists. One hundred eighty thousand words, it requires editing and revising.

That realization would have once fired me into an arc of despair a few years ago. Back then, when I finished the first four novels, (five, if I include the wreck of the very first miserable novel I wrote), I hated the idea of editing and revising. I wanted to be done with writing it and have the novel completed, damn it. But with the next four novels, I learned to embrace and enjoy this peculiar state. In honor of Erwin Schrondinger’s thought experiment about a cat, I call this state, a Schrodinger novel.

The novel exists but needs work. How much work isn’t known or understood. To reach that point, I must employ myself as a reader. (I don’t use outside readers until the second draft is completed and the initial kinks have been resolved.) Yet, because the novel is still incomplete in my mind and requires work, I, the writer, must also continue employing my intelligence, skills and creativity to resolve the issues.

With a tenth novel finished, I feel comfortable with my process. I’ve become more patient, mature and insightful about how I write. It’s fun and rewarding, because, damn, man, over the course of the last ten months, I’ve written one hundred eighty thousand words. That’s just what made it into the book. Twenty-five thousand more words exist in summaries, tracking documents, snapshots and thought exercises that I documented. Then there’s the stuff that I wrote and cut because it was going down a wrong path, failed to further the story, or I didn’t like it.

At this point, the novel has some semblance of the expected finished novel, subject to others’ feedback. That infuses me with powerful satisfaction.

There is a mood shift inherent in the process. My focus is sharper. I’m no longer fumbling and reaching to create a beginning and ending or to connect the dots. That, which is really the second most challenging aspect of novel writing for me, has been done.

The first most challenging aspect? To keep going when it became frustrating and I thought it hopeless. Sometimes I’d take a wrong turn. Sometimes, I’d write myself into a corner. “Now what?” I wondered. Sometimes, I’d read someone else’s novel and think, “How beautiful. I’ll never write that well.” Yeah, I do, I understand, but my writing is different from their writing, and has its own beauty.

Meanwhile, as I completed the first draft, other titles began arising as potential final titles. I often provide a working title that captures the concept and overarching story’s essence. That’s typically overcome by events as the transition from the abstract embedded in the concept to the tangible required to tell a story is processed and the actual words make their way from mind to page (or screen). One in particular arose more sharply and clearly: ‘Entanglements’. Unfortunately, that title is in use by several other writers for their novels.

As I write that and think, another novel title arises. I want to let it simmer for a few days before writing it for others’ consumption. I have conducted Internet searches, and the title doesn’t show up as another’s title.

***

The words I write here have the relaxed, intellectual tone of introspection about what was done and what remains. But the physical being that I am is sitting here in the coffee shop with a secret grin. I want to run around and shout it out to the world, “It’s done, it’s done!” But then I would need to amend that, “Well, the first draft is completed. It is, and it is not, something.” (See? There’s that whole Schrodinger’s novel again: what state does it exist in? It’s funny to me, if no one else.)

In a way, finishing a novel, or a draft of one, reminds me of being in love. It feels special. I’m thrilled, pleased and hopeful, but I really don’t know what remains to come. There’s a lot of uncertain energy unsettling the air.

All of those who have been in love will know what I mean.

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