This is the essence of writing like crazy to me. Dive in and start writing, and hopefully, it’ll stick.
Amor Said
As Always
Done writing like crazy for today.
Done writing like crazy on Incomplete States. I finished the beta version of the series today when I wrote the last words of the chapter that bothered me.
I went through it today, and it didn’t bother me as much as I remembered. It worked better than I realized. So, okay, it’s acceptable for now. We’ll see once the first draft of the series is finished.
I began this series with a half-assed concept on July 16, 2016. It was just supposed to be one novel with a working title, The Long Summer. I didn’t expect to be working on it for over two years, but as I explored the concept and it grew, so did the novel. As I learned the story, I learned that there were a few more novels to it. I realized it was a series. And, as I wrote, I realized, as many writers do (as Thomas Weaver reminded me), I didn’t start at the beginning. That forced me to go find the beginning.
Now the four books and the series are completed, in a beta version. The fun part, the most exciting part, the creative part that lets me gulp down coffee and write like crazy, is completed. Now work is required. Revision and editing.
Revision and editing is fun in its own way. I know from editing and revising other novels, what I wrote will surprise me. Hopefully, that’ll be so this time, and the story will engross me.
Starting that will need to wait until tomorrow. I feel comfortable going back and reading the first book tomorrow because I began writing it last October and finished its beta version in January of this year. It’s been a few months, time enough for it to slip out of mind so that I can look at it with fresh eyes.
As always, as expected, I experience a spectrum of emotions with being done with this phase. I’m elated. Writing a novel or a series is challenging. It takes some fortitude, discipline, hope, and persistence. Finishing one is satisfying because I established a goal and achieved it. I also feel a little free, because a burden has been lifted. I’m anxious, too, because now I need to edit and revise it and put my baby out there.
As always, too, I feel sad. The fun part is over. That was amazing. The writing process often presented unexpected twists and turns in what I was writing. I feel privileged to enjoy such a creative process.
Now, too, as always, not having the series to write means changes to my daily routine. Change is always a challenge, so I need to work through that.
As always when writing that first effort, it’s been a ride.
Now, as always, my ass is in a little pain from sitting for so long. I’m hungry, too. The day has moved on without me, and I need to go out there and catch up. To use a favorite final line from a favorite author, novel, and series, “Good-bye and hello, as always.”
Later.
Writer’s Strike
I was contemplating going on strike this morning. Why not? I can, can’t I? My muses and characters go on strike when they’re disenchanted with the story. Isn’t it fair that I also go on strike?
I do not like the chapter I’m working on. It’s almost finished. The characters and muses agree, yes, that’s the chapter. It’s perfect.
My reaction is, I respectfully think you’re fucking nuts.
I’m aware that I am the writer, that the characters and muses are imaginary constructs that exist as part of my writing process. (Well, I hope that’s the case.) It’s a subject that takes me into an existential hole. I’m the writer, and I think, therefore I write, but I always seem to be driven by the muses and characters’ preferences and decisions. When I stumble in my writing, it’s generally because the characters object to the story’s direction, or the characters’ development.
This, I think, is turnabout is fair play. I object to what they’re doing. I don’t like it. There isn’t a writer’s block involved. The characters gleefully push their words their my fingers, and we make great progress toward the conclusion. So, it’s not a block. It’s a disagreement.
Frankly, the situation has been developing for a few weeks. Just a few days ago, I was complaining about my characters’ tendency to talk things over. I wanted action. No, they needed to talk it out. Well, they’re the characters, right? I’m just the writer. Despite our artistic differences, I yielded to them.
I’m going to yield to them this time, too. Because, number one, I feel the urge to write like crazy. I don’t like what I’m writing, but I feel obligated to write it. This brings up a couple questions. One, is it totally insane that I feel obligated to write it? Two, do I need to like what I’m writing?
I answer the first question, yes, you’re fucking nuts, but that’s not a problem, per se, and I answer the second one, but if I’m writing for me, shouldn’t I like what I’m writing? This prompts some internal dialogue between me, myself, and I, and the suggestion that maybe I do secretly like it, but I’m worried about how readers might react.
Interesting.
I’ve not put on my reader’s persona to address the issue because it’s just too early. It makes no sense to read this as a reader when I haven’t completed it as a writer. It’s a work-in-progress.
I console myself that this is the beta draft, not even the first draft, dude. I also console myself that many writers think their first draft is crap. So, you know, write the crap that the characters and muses are pushing, and then revise and edit the hell out of it once it’s written. Despite my disagreement with my muses and characters, getting it written remains the key. That’s my function as the writer. The mantra is, get it written. The mantra is, you’re still learning the story.
Okay, now that I’ve vented, time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Another Complaint to Make
My characters are irritating me. I’m itching to get to the action, but here they go, talking it all out, establishing what they know. It’s maddening.
“Come on,” I shout at them. “Let’s go.”
But, no. They continue to challenge each other’s memories, grasp of what’s going on, and what they’re supposed to do. It rankles me.
Yet, I understand it. They’re people who have been forced together, selected for what they don’t know and what they haven’t done. They’re not the same people they were earlier in the series. Of course they’re confused. Some are also resentful, angry, and suspicious. In this situation, some don’t speak, but watch and listen. Others must verbalize it all.
I thought, hey, let’s initiate an attack on them.
No. That was rejected.
Not even a sniper killing one of them?
No.
A fight among them?
No.
An interruption, something that disrupts them and forces them to action, a realization, perhaps, or a sense of urgency? Only Richard has a sense of urgency. (Richard has assumed the mantle of mastermind at this point. The other character that’s restless and worried is Seven. But she’s an imaginary character, existing in imaginary time, biding the moment when she acts, waiting to see what happens, because she thinks she might have screwed it up.)
No; they’re talking.
They’re doing pages and pages of talking.
It’s too much dialogue, in my opinion. It kills the pace.
Sorry, the characters and muse answer. Pace isn’t our concern.
I guess I’ll let them talk for now, and then see if I can edit or revise it later. Honestly, working through their dialogue seems like the only way to move forward.
It was a frustrating day of writing like crazy. Thank god for coffee.
Piece Work
I was thinking about my organic writing process, and how much of it is piece work.
Like many writers, I had a concept in the beginning. Then I developed a sketchy framework. Then, like many writers, I wrote to tell myself the story, to realize most of the facets, discover the plot, story and character arcs, and to find where I will begin and end. Today, I’m working on a climatic chapter, the penultimate moment. I’ve already written the end and denouement. Writing this series of scene that is this chapter means that the series’ beta version is done.
In true piece-work fashion, I’ll put together all these raw chunks of words and story until I can see the entirety. Then I’ll begin reading, editing, and revising, cutting and changing as necessary to find the right story (or stories) out of this mass of words. I’m reminded of a sculptor studying rock, marble, and wood, studying it to see what art is within the mass, waiting to come out.
From the beta will come the first draft. From the first draft will come a second draft, something that’s workable and complete. With the second draft, maybe I’ll have something to give to an editor. I’ll see. If I need to, there will be a third draft.
It’s been a long process for me to learn these things, that the first product isn’t the final product, that it won’t be perfect — that it’ll probably have substantial flaws — but whatever flaws are found doesn’t mean that I’ve failed. Writing is a journey and exploration. But it’s not just the story being explored; the novel isn’t the end-all of the journey. Most of the journey and exploration is about me, about learning how I think, what I imagine, and what I don’t know. When I write, more of myself and my attitude is revealed to me through the characters and novels than I ever realized would happen back when I first thought, “Hey, I think I’ll write a novel.” Part of this is learning, how do I cope with setbacks, disappointments, and frustrations? How do I found and maintain the pace and discipline to traverse the arcs and write a novel, or a series? How do I deal with going the wrong way?
I think that may be where many beginning writers struggle; they don’t realize how much of writing is about themselves as much as it is about the story they’re writing. It can be daunting, descending into our private depths to face the person within. It’s a test of resilience to face yourself and your shortcomings, and find ways to address them.
Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Then Again
I didn’t know what I was going to write today. I knew I had a scene in progress. In theory, there was another scene ahead. With it in mind, I was puzzling around what do I write today to get there, and considered just jumping ahead to write that scene.
That didn’t feel right to my instincts, though, so I sat down, and started typing from where the last sentence left off. Once again, I went off in an unanticipated, unexpected direction. When, twenty pages later, I finished the scene and stopped, I was pleased and touched by what had happened. It was so in character with the series and novel in progress. I hadn’t planned it; the characters and muse seemed in control. Intellectually, I know, it must be me, right? I’m the one with the brain behind the skull and fingers on the keyboard, but the writing had that dreamlike flow, as if I was a pipe and it was just being pumped through me.
It’s unnerving, honestly, because I wonder if I’m not a little crazy. (Okay, I concede that I’m a little crazy; I suppose what’s in question is how crazy I might be.) I like what I wrote, and I worry that others won’t like it. Then again, I don’t care. Some readers won’t; some readers will. The words are out there as part of the record, subject to the editing and revising processes just like everything else.
Now — amazing, I’ve been here for over two and half hours. My rear end is in pain from sitting. I still have coffee in that twelve ounce mug. An oily film covers the coffee’s cold surface.
Time to drink up, mask up, and call it done for another day of writing like crazy.
Baking the Novel
First, decide you’re going to bake a cake (write a novel). To start, make a cup of coffee to drink while you conceptualize what you’re going to bake (write).
Come up with a story idea from your concept. Collect some ingredients – characters, setting, initial incident. Start mixing them together (writing).
Realize that you’re missing some ingredients (like motivation, background, and other characters). Make some coffee and hunt for the missing ingredients.
Coming up with the missing ingredients, you add them in, and then decide to make something different (a variation of the concept that just blows your mind with excitement).
Find and add more ingredients (setting, characters, motivation, story twists).
Realize that you forgot to turn the stove on (yeah, you overlooked some huge aspect and now have a gap in the story).
Go to turn on the stove but then stop to pet the cat, and then feed the cat. Smell the kitty litter, and clean it. Also notice that the floor is dirty. Turn on the robot vacuum.
Monitor the robot vacuum, cursing it as it goes around and around a piece of dirt you want it to pick up that you refuse to pick up because that’s why you have a robot sweeper.
Decide to check the mail to get away from the madness. Come back and make coffee, go through the mail (why do they keep sending you this junk?) and also look for something to eat because you’re hungry (even though you just ate, like, three hours ago, but, hey, writing is a strenuous mental activity that drains energy (something that non-writers will never understand!)).
Discover that there’s nothing in the house that you want to eat. Decide to make a shopping list, and then go to the store. (While you’re out, you’ll also stop and fill the car’s gas tank and do any other errands (because you’re efficient).)
Because you’re now too hungry to return home and make something with the stuff bought at the store, go somewhere and buy something to eat right now.
Return home, put away the groceries. Make and drink coffee while thinking about your cake (the novel), nosh on a snack item that you purchased, pick up the stuff that the robot vacuum missed, pet the cat (because he’s following you around and underfoot), give the cat treats (to buy him off), and then —
Brainstorm! Make the frosting because this cake with that frosting would be fantastic (in other words, write an ending because you think it’s the perfect ending).
Remember, you never did turn on the oven, damn it. You missed a huge step.
Realize, this is a layer cake. And you can’t put the frosting on because there’s nothing to put it on.
But you really like that frosting, so you go ahead and make it (write it up) and set it aside for use later, and then — epiphany! — decide every layer will be a different flavor of cake, with a different icing. It’s not really a cake, but a torte, you decide, and then go off to the computer to jump on the Internet to research tortes and cakes.
Check your email. Catch up on Facebook (like, post, and share), Pinterest and other social media, blogs, the news (he said what?) and sports (or fashion). Play some games (because, without acknowledging it, you feel stressed, and games — going for a new high score, or beating others on an online game — gives you instant gratification and validates you).
Turn on the television. Surf channels. Shake your head at the things on television these days. Wonder if some of the actors you’re seeing in the re-runs are still alive. Turn the television off.
Then, oh, it’s late. You’re tired. Another cup of coffee is needed but you’re too tired for that, and it’s too late (where’d the time go?). The rest of the family will be home soon, and there are the things you’re supposed to do with friends and family, going to movies, dinner, cut grass, wash car, clothes, dishes —
Well, you’ll continue tomorrow, you tell yourself. This cake (or torte) is going to be a masterpiece. It’ll blow people’s minds. It’s just so exciting, but there’s so much to do. There are more ingredients to collect, and then it all must be baked, frosted, and put together —
It’s so real, you can see, smell, and taste it. You sit for a while, absorbing the wonder of the cake (or torte) that you imagine.
Tomorrow, you tell yourself, tomorrow will be different. You don’t want any half-baked cake.
Right, you’ll begin by making coffee and listing all the ingredients, and maybe brainstorming all the steps that you need to do to complete this masterpiece, like turning on the oven. Yes, that’ll be the first thing that you do.
Tomorrow.
The Turn
The turn I’ve encountered with my muse and the characters develops into a complex scene. I struggle to see the setting and put the pieces together.
It’s not writing block. This is like trying to solve a complex logic puzzle by assembling and analyzing disparate bits of information. Part of me is bucking against the muse, because it’s work, and I feel like I should understand it before I write it, while the muse just encourages me, “Don’t worry, just type.”
Part of this is laziness of the whiny, I-don’t-wanna immature sort. It’s groan-inducing work to think about how this fits into what has happened and seeing how these twists and turns affect the ending.
Part of it is annoyance of the sort experienced when you think you’re almost done and then experience a last-minute delay.
A friend comes by. I haven’t seen him in a few months. He apologizes for interrupting me,. I brush that off, and we chat. (His interruption secretly relieves me.)
His wife died of lung cancer almost two years ago. He’s been at a loss and he’s now seeing a grief counselor. He’s visiting his son and grandchildren, and his brothers. One brother lives down in Healdsburg, he said, which surprises me. I thought this brothers live in Chicago and New York. Yes, the one that lives in Ithaca still has a place there, and still teaches one semester a year at Cornell, but has decided to live in California for most of the year.
We chat further and exchange offers and promises. Who knows if we’ll keep them?
Returning to writing, I realize that his interruption was fortunate. As my muse knows, I over-analyze. Part of my issue when I do that is I fall into the weeds of the details. Down there, I can’t see the larger parts and picture.
I know and recognize this from my days as an analyst. It was always useful, after being presented with a problem, collecting and compiling information, to walk away and let my subconscious mind work on what it’s seen without the interference of my conscious mind and its foibles. Because I knew that worked, I cultivated the methodology and was successful with it. Collect, compile, regard, walk away, and then come back. The break always allowed me to see with sharpened focus and new clarity.
It happened today with the writing as well. Resuming, I understand where the muse is taking me and what I need to type. Lesson learned, once again.
Now I can write like crazy, at least one more time.
The Writing River
I’ve often compared fiction writing to boating on a river. Sections can be treacherous, tumultuous, and troubling, while other stretches are smooth but fast moving pieces. Then there are those that are slower and languid.
I’m on a fast, smooth stretch this week (knock on wood). A character in concert with a muse knows where we’re going and has assumed command. All I need to do is keep up with her and type, and then revise and edit for continuity, pacing, and grammar.
It’s not always like this – I’ve had lots of other experiences – so I’m accepting this, and carrying on. I don’t see or hear any rapids ahead on this writing river, but I never know what I find after the next bend.
Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Michael Seidel, writer 