Tag: writing process

While

While I looked out the window.

And studied the rainbow.

And thought about rainbows and the myths and science about them.

And admired its beauty.

While sleep was still being chased away.

And thoughts frolicked with dream remnants.

And the day’s planned activities opened in my mind like a hand of cards.

And I thought about making the first cup of coffee.

While I thought about what I was going to do today.

And what I needed to do.

I turned to my computer, and opened my file.

The file of the section of the novel in progress I’m working on.

And I typed.

A hundred words.

Five hundred.

One thousand.

Twelve hundred.

Fifteen hundred.

Then the scene was done.

And I reviewed what I’d written.

And closed the file.

And while I thought about what I’d just written.

And what was to be written.

And what it meant for what was already written.

I went to make my morning coffee.

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Lightning Strikes

Don’t you love it when you’re writing, and lightning strikes?

Yeah, me, too.

Happened yesterday. A writing lightning strike is when I assume the position to write, and dictation begins. My job is only to keep up with the typing.

I track word counts as an incidental measure of progress. These are *almost* like the miles being traveled while on a trip. In a car, I generally know exactly where I’m going and how much I have left because I travel across a well-measured and documented region. Detailed maps are available. I know how far I’ve gone, and what distance remains.

I’d love to have such a map for my novel writing. I don’t. Word counts present an idea of how far I’ve gone, but little idea of how much further I must travel in the novel. In the end, all that matters I’ve typed and written until I finally type “The End”.

Word counts help me gauge what’s normal and inject some minor reward and satisfaction. Yesterday, I ended up with twenty-six hundred more words on my novel journey. Some writers may poo-poo that amount – and I’m not pursuing N2WM – but it’s higher than my average. Best, though, I completed three chapters being concurrently developed. In essence, they were part of a sequence of events. I wrote them in order, but as details developed, I backtracked to modify and align details and the timeline. Best, number two, is that completing them left me with a starting location for today. Best, number three, is that satisfaction of bringing more to the story and moving toward the novel’s completion.

Will lightning strike twice? I offer the late Roy Sullivan as evidence it could. Roy, a park ranger, was struck by lightning and lived seven times, and is the Guinness World Records official record-holder for those categories.

Time to write like crazy, at least one…more…time.

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Weaving the Novel

I compared writing my novel to weaving a tapestry today. I was talking to myself as I walked and thought about the writing day ahead.

Then I laughed at myself.

Weaving as a way to describe novel writing can be apt, but it’s very limited. I don’t weave, so I’m not certain of its process. I always refer back to a meager elementary school introduction. Watching a weaving demonstration somewhere during a field trip, I recall shedding, picking, and battening, and the loom and the shuttle. I also remember being told about the warp and the weft.

(The Loom and the Shuttle could be a good pub name. I can imagine myself saying, “I’m going down to The Loom and the Shuttle for a pint. See you later.”)

(That also gives rise to the notion of drunken weaving.)

My vague youthful memories are not enough to go on. Thinking about weaving, I imagine the fates doing some spinning to create our existence and fates. I don’t know much about them, either. I’m seriously short of knowledge for this post.

Which is really the point. I claim, I’m weaving the tale because I go back and forth across the novel, adding, changing and deleting events, characters, and explanation. That’s what draws me to this comparison. Starting with small threads, I’m combining them into the fabric of a story.

These current chapters embrace that impression. “Bells,” “Destruction,” “Aftermath,” and “Change” are the chapters’ working titles. They might be the final titles. When I’m weaving new parts in the latest chapter, “Change,” I often go back to the three previous chapters and address details to maintain congruency. Although enjoyable, because it is fiction, which is terrific fun, it’s not my normal methodology. Normally, I pour some coffee into my mouth, address the keyboard, and start typing. I call this splash writing. It’s my favorite motif. I type like mad for a while, spinning out paragraph, scenes, dialogue, and chapters. Stopping, I go back and edit, refine, and polish the stuff.

BTW, when I address the keyboard, I’m like a rock star on a stage in an arena. “Are you ready to rock and write?” I shout at my keyboard. I do this in my head. I may be wrong, but I think that shouting that in the coffee shop may cause some untoward reactions. It’s a quiet place, the sort of silence you don’t want to interrupt with a fart, leave off a shout.

Having written all these words about weaving these chapters, I feel my inner earth trembling. A splash scene is building within. It’s ready to explode onto the pages. (This, unfortunately, reminds me of a tale my wife related to me about a juvenile male whale masturbating against the aquarium glass while elementary school children watched. I haven’t vetted the story, but that doesn’t stop it from being memorable.)

Okay, time to weave like crazy, write like made, splash on the page. Whatever.

Time to write.

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Chapter Length

Serendipity is useful. I’d just been pondering a chapter’s length yesterday. At thirty-six hundred words, I felt it lengthy. No, the reader within thought it lengthy, and was suggesting breaking it up into three chapters.

“Why three?” I asked the reader.

“That chapter has a lot going on in it. Breaking it up let your readers breath.”

“But three?”

“The way I see it, you have three natural breaks in the action.”

The reader, having read a lot, typically offers some good insights, so I considered what he said. As I did, a Reedsy article about chapter length was discovered in my inbox.

The article, “Chapter Length Matters. Here’s Why,” and its comments, gave me more substance for my thinking, so I thought I’d pass it on to other writers.

What of you, writers? Is there an ideal chapter length, or do you have specific guidelines, rules, or suggestions to share?

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The Character and Me

I often develop relationships with my characters when I’m writing a novel. It’s not surprising for them to be with me at a movie. Sometimes, as I respond to something, I always think about how they would respond, as an exercise to better understand them.

This arrangement leads the characters to be vocal about what’s going on. When I struggle through a scene, it’s not surprising to discover that the character is doing something that they believe is contrary to what the would do. It’s an odd, true north alignment. I created, or discovered them; I believe I know them best. Yet, they will reject a path that they feel is wrong for them. Their rejection is displayed through a work slowdown.

That’s not what transpired this week. I was writing, and going along fine. Yet, several things that the character did or said bothered me. The writing didn’t suffer. It flowed with no problem or stoppages.

I considered this today while I was walking. Although I was surprised, and I shouldn’t be, the character explained why he wasn’t bothered by what was happening. His explanation opened an entire rue of thinking about the situation. I’d been thinking about that situation in terms of plot, story arc, and activity. The character has been reacting to how it affected him. 

I was pretty astonished and pleased. His explanation to me opened a new paragraph and facets of him and the situation that I’d overlooked. It’s exciting and stimulating.

Here we go. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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How It Goes

I’m standing down from my writing session.

I was writing an intense scene. I had to build up to it. Kanrin and some of his team are down on Kyrios. He has one hundred team members. They’re divided into five platoons, which is the corporate standard. He doesn’t take them all down at the same time. No, he was taking three platoons, so he can rotate platoons in and out. They’re coping with not having their nanosystems and standard technology, which forces them to live in a primitive manner.

Getting to the point that I was ready to write this scene took a lot of set-up. I had to determine which three platoons were down there. Some members were sick; which? They’ve built a small fort with one main tower, and four perimeter towers. (They were built on the starship, Epitome, and then ferried down in sections and put together.) Each tower is manned with two people; I wanted to know who was in each one. Then came the details of what was happening, what happened to whom, and who said what.

Besides that, their resupply vessel, with the replacement platoon, is overdue. A storm strikes; some are killed. Who? What do they do with the bodies? It’s emotional for them, too. They’re accustomed to people dying and then being resurrected/resuscitated/regenerated, and back among them in less than a day. It’s a black scene that’s the beginning of a dark period. So much of it is visible to me, but I have to endure the tedious business of writing it, word by word, comma by comma, period by — well, you get it. Then, whatever happens to each character must be documented in the bible, so I can easily reference these facts and keep true and logical.

Twenty-five hundred words were written, a decent session, but I’m spent. My typing posture working on the coffee shop’s table was poor; I was hunkered over in concentration, and I feel it in my neck muscles.

Time to stop writing like crazy, at least for now, although the writer knows, I’m going to continue writing in my head. That’s just how it goes.

 

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A Pivotal Moment

Chapters finished, scenes drained out of me, I come to the next piece, the what happens next part of our show. This, for me, involves sipping coffee, reviewing notes, and staring fixedly at inanimate objects as I draw down the world, shut it out, and tune myself to the writers inside, waiting for one of them to clear their throat and begin telling me what happens next.

After review, I know where I stand, and where the novel stands, and where I’m next heading. I’m now pivoting to essentially part two of this section. This section begins with the genesis of this entire aspect of this volume. I’d created it August 4. I’d last modified it on August 8. It was a piece that came out of the darkness and rolled over me. As these things do, the piece created multiple questions about the setting, characters, plot, and situation.

To answer those questions, I began writing, and finished writing twenty-four chapters, one hundred eighty pages. Now, a little over two months later, I’m ready to pivot back to that first scene, and continue writing the story.

Of interest probably only to me, that first scene that I wrote has been deleted. It’s saved in another document. It was deleted because, within four days, I realized I was writing from the wrong character’s point of view. Another character had been created after that one, and they took over, demoting the original character to a minor role in the background. The original character didn’t put up a fight, but accepted the reduced role without a problem.

This is how I often work, not just in writing, but in almost every activity. My organization is strangely chaotic. Solutions and ideas leap at me, and I embrace them. But they usually reflect the end result desired, or some epiphany about what needs to happen within the project to enable the rest. Fortunately, generally, my mind works amazingly fast, especially when dealing with abstract matters. Yes, I’m being immodest, but it’s one of my favorite, and most dependable, traits. On the other end, it’s not unusual for people to write me off as a little crazy. I accept that, because I work with what I have, and what’s proven successful for me.

This is a pivotal moment. Action is moving the ship, the Epitome, and everything set up, down to the planet, Kyrios. The Kyrios action is grittier and darker. It’s complex. I’m intimidated with what’s planned for this section. As far as I know, it’s the second third of this volume. Parts of the end have already been written, serving as a light at the tunnel’s end.

Deep breath, and another gulp of coffee, and it’s time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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The Writing Day

Yesterday was one of those ass-kicking writing sessions that probably released a liter of dopamine in me, reinforcing my addiction to my writing practices.

I began by writing summaries of my dark writing episode’s reveals. I then wove them into the two documents I keep to track of the novel. For this novel, the two documents are “Incomplete States Thinking” and “Epiphanies.”

The first is basically a compendium that includes the characters’ names and sexes, and other materials that I add to the novel. It’s the bible I refer back to for reminders about locations and relationships. It summarizes the concept and various arcs, and includes reminders about what I’ve decided at certain plot points. This novel is science-fiction, so a dictionary of terms, species, ships, and planets is also included.

“Epiphanies” is a much briefer summary of realizations that come to me. As an organic writer, I’ll often have no fucking idea where I’m going. I’m following paths through dark woods, at night, with a candle, during a storm, asking, “Okay, why did that happen? What happens next? Where the hell am I?”

I’ll go off to do other things that divert energy and attention from writing. Without warning, ideas answering those queries will sledgehammer me. They’re generally broader and more ‘strategic’ than where I’m at in the novel’s writing process. So, to capture them, I add them into a document. I later address them in the thinking document at a ‘tactical’ level, and then develop them into events, scenes, and chapters. Many times, I’ll write these, and determine where they go in the novel, and then add a bridge to get from where I am to where I’ve gone and where I’m going.

To give more insight into the two documents and their relationships, the thinking document is thirty-four pages, and just under twelve thousand words. Nothing is ever deleted from it; I’ll line through something that changes, and then add an elaborating note.

The other document, “Epiphanies,” is three pages and six hundred words. It has twelve bullets in it, with sub-bullets. I add to it to capture the gist. More detail is added to these ideas in the thinking document.

It probably all seems over-organized and tedious to others. It’s not a process that I planned, but a method that I learned to keep me on track and moving forward. I accept the process, with all its encumbrances, because it does let me finish novels. In theory, instead of creating an outline and writing the novel, I begin writing the novel, and create the outline as I go.

Additionally, when I write those events, scenes, and chapters, I generally create them in their own document. At the beginning of the document, I include a prelude to explain the document’s genesis, and how it’s fit with everything else. Once I complete its first draft, it’s put into the document. The prelude is not put into the novel, and its not deleted, but highlighted and marked so I know, at a glance, that it’s not meant as part of the novel. I write to capture the critical elements initially, so the original document is typically fifteen hundred to twenty-five hundred words. Once it’s added into the novel-in-progress, further editing, refinement, and expansion is conducted to improve its coherency, logic, details, pacing, language, and style. I generally have several main characters, with one prime main character. While the novel has an over-arching tone, each character has their own tone, which is conveyed by ‘their’ style.

Yesterday’s session ended with twenty-five hundred new words added to the novel. Most of these were in one chapter, of three scenes. It was a two hour session, and included summarizing the thinking and epiphany documents. I’m pleased when I reach over two thousand words in a session; I’m not a fast writer.

I don’t pursue word counts. I did when I first began the effort to establish a disciplined approach to writing. Since then, I don’t need word counts, but tend to stop after a certain number. Part of this, I think, is conditioning from the early days, but some of it can be attributed to how writing fits into my life. I like writing in the late morning to early afternoon, but then I need to do things outside of writing.

I could have continued writing yesterday. More material was available from the dark writing session. Time wasn’t on my side. I had other obligations. That’s life. I wasn’t worried, though, because I knew I would come back today, pick it up again, and continue. My writing output and processes tend to follow their own cycles of waves and troughs. Understanding that helps me cope with the rise and fall inherent in my process.

Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

 

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Dark Writing

I read, somewhere, sometime, that every book conceived comes into existence somewhere else. Our struggle, as writers, is to bring it into the conscious life that we’re leading.

That’s certainly how it feels when dark writing commencing.

Dark writing happens to me at night, in the dark. Something triggers me awake, and all the writing neurons become energetic kittens, wanting to romp and play.

And they do. They toy with strings of thought, batting and chasing ideas around like they’re balls and toy mice. Then, as they settle, the writer starts reading to me.

Again, that’s how it feels.

It feels like the writer within takes up the book I’m writing in that other existence, and reads it to me. Scenes are read. Dialogue. Reveals. Page after page is turned. I can’t put the book down.

Two hours later, the book is finally closed. The dark writing subsides. I’ve been enriched with writing material. The challenge now goes back to that ongoing struggle, to remember all these words that were read to me, and bring this book into the conscious life that I’m leading.

There is coherency to this writing process, but there’s also chaos. The reveals and scenes thrill me. But then I ask, where does this go? The question prompts the dark writer to transport me a bunch of chapters ahead. Landing there leads to more bewildered questions about all those chapters he jumped over, all the material already written and ordered, and how these reveals fit into the greater cosmos of this novel.

I wish I could more easily capture this dark writing. I suspect each writer has their own version of dark writing, the process of finding the book in their minds, hunting the details, and getting it a form where it can be read. It’s an exciting, but also frustrating, and yet, hopeful, process. I see where I’m at in the novel, and I see what can be. I just need to bridge those two visions. Easy, right?

It’ll be an interesting day of writing like crazy.

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The Writing – Wait

On normal days, I sit down, and take a few sips of coffee. Then I turn on the writing mode and brace myself. Sights and sounds pummel me. Smells come last.

Seeing the scenes happen, hearing them, and smelling it, I struggle to keep up. I can’t type as fast as it comes. I barely think fast enough to keep up with what’s streaming into me. It’s more like a movie, with smells. I’m more like a man with a hammer, chisel, and stone table.

I begin with a stream of consciousness form to capture it all. My writing frustrates me, though, correcting me, and suggesting changes, improvements, and elaboration even as I still try to type what was already given. The replay is wonky, so it needs to be caught the first time. Sometimes there are leaps into other avenues that are to come, like coming attractions, or previews. Those are most exciting, the spur that digs in to sit down and repeat this process.

Not much time is consumed during my writing sessions. I’ll typically write forty-five to ninety minutes. I’d like to extend my writing period to a three hours in the afternoon. I envy those who can pace themselves, handle the onslaught, and pump out five thousand words in a day’s work. I’m below half that, and feel spent when I stop. Worse in this process, though, is that I’ll finish typing for the day, the writing mode doesn’t get turned off. So I walk, and remember what I’ve written, and what needs to be written. Sometimes a flash of a scene comes to me, and I remember, “Oh, yeah, I need to go in and add that.”

This methodology always prompts wonder in me about how others work. Please share, if you’re willing.

Now, time to turn on the writing mode. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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