Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I did the same thing that Scott said, buying Writer’s Digest and books on fiction writing, looking for the secrets before realizing, just read and write. It wasn’t wasted time or effort, though, because I glimpsed other writers’ processes and developed my processes and voice from thinking about what they’d done, trying to do the same, and then adjusting.
This is the essence of writing like crazy to me. Dive in and start writing, and hopefully, it’ll stick.
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.
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.
I’ve noticed people doing this.
I’ve notice that I do it.
After completely something, say reading a few pages of a book, people take a deep breath, let it out, and say, “Okay.” Based on observations and personal experience, it’s a psychological preparatory step. They and I have been putting something off that we planned to do, something we’re not really happy about doing, I think. We keep telling ourselves that we’re going to do it. We’ve have the conversation with ourselves that we can’t put it off any longer, that we’ve stalled long enough, that we are going to do it, and we’re going to do it now.
“Okay.”
I don’t know where this comes from, but I suspect that I’m mimicking someone in the past, or maybe my wife. I’ve heard bosses say it in this same way. I hear myself say it, and I hear my spouse. I hear people in stores say it to themselves while they’re stocking shelves, and I hear it from baristas in coffee shops as they turn away from the counter.
Deep breath. Release. (Sometimes a sigh.) “Okay,” so soft, it’s like they’re talking to themselves.
I’ve heard it from all age groups, including a young girl. She seemed like a six-year old by size and expression. She was standing about six feet from a car. I saw her take the breath. I heard her say, “Okay.” Then she turned and walked back to the car.
“Okay.”
Okay seems like a uniquely American expression, even if some claims to its origins begin in Germany, Greek, Scotland, and Haiti, along with Puerto Rico and French Louisiana. I have heard it used in foreign television shows made in exotic places like Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and the U.K. I don’t know if the residents of those lands use okay in this context, as a final acknowledgement to oneself, it is time.
Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Okay.
Hey, all you hep writers out there in writing land. Hope this post finds you in the writing groove on this first day of the eighth month of the eighteenth year of this new century.
When does this stop being the new century? It’s still a young century as the age of centuries go, just in its teens, which could be why it’s rebelling against everything and challenging every word. Just old enough to vote in some places, old enough to marry, depending upon where you live, and not old enough to drink in some areas, the century brings to mind Alice Cooper’s song, “I’m Eighteen.”
I got a Baby’s brain and an old man’s heart
Took eighteen years to get this far
Don’t always know what I’m talkin’ about
Feels like I’m livin in the middle of doubt
Cause I’m Eighteen
I get confused every day
Eighteen
I just don’t know what to say
Eighteen
I gotta get away
h/t to Genius.com
Sure sounds like this year and century, doesn’t it?
I sometimes feel that I’m eighteen as I go through my writing processes. Each writing session offers its own challenges and rewards. When I measure it all, I hope the results are worth it, but there are times, man, there are times when confused, disparaging whispers echo in the chasms of my mind.
I prevail, in the same fashion as most writers, by venting, raging, sulking, drinking, reading, shrugging, and writing, and then writing more. I often wonder what I’d be like had I not heard the writing call, but then, I wonder about that with every area of my life. What if I’d not married the woman that I did, or what if I hadn’t joined the military, and so on, as billions upon billions of people have done.
In the end, August of 2018 feels a lot like January of 2018, a hopeful period that also looks daunting.
Time to write like it’s 1999.
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.
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.
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.
More of the Kinks today, courtesy of nothing but the random firing of neurons that develop my neural stream.
In retrospect, I think I can track a rough, macro line of the neurons firing from a dream about kinetic energy to brainstorming about kinetic time (and imaginary- and anti-time), Chi-particles (and there most certainly must be anti-Chi-particles) and the arrows of time, to writing like crazy, to sitting back and thinking about the series in progress (Incomplete States) (and novel in progress (Good-bye, Hello)) to imagining people’s reaction upon reading the series that I must be ignorant and crazy. From there, I jump to fantasy, (because, I imagine them saying, “He’s living in a fantasy world, writing that stuff,”) and, voilà, I hear the Kinks’ recording of “A Rock ‘n Roll Fantasy”.
From the Misfits album of 1978, here’s “A Rock ‘n Roll Fantasy”
Michael Seidel, writer 