Category: Writing

Revision

Wow, it’s been awhile! For the most part, that’s because my writing time has been devoted to working on the Omphalos manuscript. That means I get a free pass out of blog posting, right? No? Oh. Well then, I guess I’d better come up with something.

I’m hoping I’ll be ready to send Omphalos to beta readers by early August, or mid-August at the very latest. That’s later than I had originally intended, but I’d rather send off a piece worth reading than a half-polished mess.

In the spirit of expanding this blog post into something more than “hey, I’m still working on my novel,” I thought I’d talk a little bit about what my revision process entails. In broad strokes, anyway.

Spira Mirabilis by Isabel CP, on Flickr

Spira Mirabilis by Isabel CP, on Flickr

I’ve lost count of how many books and blog posts have championed the “just write!” philosophy of drafting a novel, but to be honest, that doesn’t work for me. Not only do I outline the first draft, but I take time between drafts to peel back the layers of story.

Once the first draft of a manuscript is complete but before I actually revise the text, I spend a long time– several weeks, usually– fleshing out each character arc, dissecting the plot, prospecting for plot holes and errors, pulling and pushing the setting into shape, creating scene cards, re-reading writing craft books, creating revision checklists, and so on. The work is both intensive and intuitive, as this is the stage at which sudden creative insights and revelations catapult the story forward.

I get to know my story and characters; I examine them as their therapist, family, and friend. I can’t adequately write scenes if I’m not intimately and acutely aware of each character’s motivation, their pathologies, the oblique details they notice, the cultural and technological subtleties of the world in which they live, the broader mechanics of the plot, allegory, etc. This is where I distill every scene down to its core elements to understand what I’m trying to achieve, what the inner and outer turning points are, and so forth. Most important is how it all ties together, how each story element influences every other.

Aelse #7 by josef.stuefer, on Flickr

Aelse #7 by josef.stuefer, on Flickr

Then I finally steep myself in the prose. I re-write each scene as needed, injecting the new elements, refining the old, and discarding stale artifacts from the first draft. Many scenes in the second draft are fresh; the story often changes dramatically at this stage. As I write, I print out each scene so I can edit and ask myself questions before I sculpt the prose.

When I’ve done this for the entire novel, I’ll go back through and fix anything that occurred to me as I was working. Little notes here and there– for example, if I’m working on Chapter 12, but an unforeseen change affects everything that happened prior, I’ll make a note to go back and fix these issues on the next pass.

Once major revisions and prose-polishing are finished, I do one final pass of the draft before handing it off to betas. At that point, I try not to look at it so I can attack the manuscript with fresh eyes when the comments start rolling in. I might write a short story or develop an idea for another novel in the meantime.

When I’ve received all the beta feedback, I print out the entire manuscript so I can analyze it and edit by hand as I read their comments. Then I work on subsequent drafts until it’s polished and ready to query.

What about you? How do you approach revisions and edits?

Why I Write Science Fiction

At first glance, my current work in progress, Omphalos, looks like fantasy. When you pass her on the street, you might think you feel her wings and talons brush against you. You might catch the faint scent of fire and burnt wood on her breath. Maybe she even winks at you with eyes that seem laced with magic. Her devices and creatures seem conjured from beyond the veil– from elsewhere.

But it isn’t fantasy. The exotic, whimsical elements in Omphalos are extrapolated from science and technology; of course, the reality of it within the context of the story unfolds as you read.

I have deep respect for all genres, but science fiction is where I make my home. It’s the borough in which I can recognize myself in the faces of my neighbors, and where the environment resonates with my worldview. It’s also where I find myself the most challenged and have the most potential to grow. It’s in my nature to speculate about the future of humanity using science as the vehicle of conjecture, and it shows in my stories.

From one of my favorite websites, the Symphony of Science, is a video that illustrates just a few of the reasons science moves me. If you enjoy it, I recommend checking out the rest of their musical tributes.

Why do you write and/or read in your chosen genre(s)?

Post-Conference Revisions

This is what happens to your manuscript after attending a Donald Maass workshop:

Notes

For quite some time now, I’d been under the impression my Unidentified manuscript was finished. And as far as I understood at the time, it was. I’d written it, revised it several times over, edited it, received critiques, revised again, edited again, received more critiques, and so on. It was polished and ready to go.

Then came the Pikes Peak Writers Conference. Several workshops made me re-think a few aspects of the manuscript, but they were quick fixes. And truthfully, it wasn’t really a matter of “fixing” per se– I didn’t think of anything as broken. It was a matter of making shifts, of evolving the story by multiplying its strengths. I don’t believe perfect manuscripts exist; there’s always room for improvement.

Much like writers.

Then I attended the Donald Maass add-on workshop, The Fire in Fiction. And, well… you see what happened. Clearly, there was more room than I’d thought!

I still feel my manuscript was polished before the workshop. My beta readers loved it (and no, my beta readers aren’t related to me. ;) ), and I was happy with it. But now the manuscript is even better because the story itself has evolved, along with my main character, Elizabeth.

A few of the things I did while my manuscript and I were huddled in our chrysalis:

  • Increased emotional conflict. It wasn’t absent before by any means, but I’ve excavated more of the emotional subtleties and put them on the page.
  • Ramped up some of the dialogue. If there’s anything I’m hypercritical of in literature, it’s dialogue, so of course I want mine to feel authentic.
  • This is a multiple-POV novel, but I demoted one of the characters to non-POV. I realized the scenes I least liked working on were his. I know, I know. What bigger red flag is there? The story was definitely strengthened by this decision.
  • I’ve been far crueler to my main character. I’m sorry, Elizabeth! But the added struggles have incited an evolution in her, a transformation that was far greater than what she experienced in the previous incarnation of the manuscript.
  • Altered the ending in light of those transformations.

To be honest, some of these changes were ideas I’d had well over a year ago, but I didn’t want to implement them because I thought it might be “too much”. I didn’t want to be that torturous to my main character, to cause that much pain. I thought readers might feel overwhelmed or alienated in the face of so much darkness. I didn’t want them to throw the novel across the room in frustration.

But a few of the things said during the workshop just made it click for me. I’m paraphrasing here, but he advised us to pay attention to internal resistance when we think about turning points that could cause great suffering for our characters. It was then that I seriously considered doing what I was resisting. I thought about it. Slept on it. Talked to a few people about it.

I realized it’s absolutely true. Internal resistance has turned into a compass for me.

As writers, we can’t be afraid to push our characters to their limits. And sometimes, that means causing an existential dilemma by removing what matters most.

Do you push your characters as far as you can? Is there something more you could do to push them? Why haven’t you done it?

Pass The Poultry

This is a post about chicken fingers.

No, really.

Okay, not really. But close. See, when I was in Colorado Springs for PPWC, I was exhausted on Thursday night. My eyes hurt, and my throbbing head was full of pitch advice. So, I curled up in the hotel bed and watched television, something I don’t actually do very often.

I caught an episode of Community. It was about chicken fingers.

I need to preface this by saying I’m a bit of a health nut. That doesn’t mean I don’t indulge in pizza every now and then, but by and large, I pay attention to what goes into my body. But by the end of this Community episode, I wanted chicken fingers in the worst way. Breaded, fried, dipped in ranch dressing.

Was it because the show was practically spliced with photos of chicken fingers every few frames? Was it seeing those tender poultry bits stacked like gold coins?

Chicken Fingers

No. It was all in the characters. The main characters started a racket to contend with the shortage of chicken fingers on their school campus. Students lined up with ravenous, saliva-drenched expressions, desperate for a piece of that deep-fried poultry action.

I craved chicken fingers for days. And no matter how silly this example might be, my point is this: it’s how you “show” in fiction. Make the reader (or viewer, in this case) believe the characters want something so badly they’re willing to manipulate, lie, throw others under the bus. Make us believe they might do something drastic to achieve their goals. Make us feel what they feel, not through description alone, but through emotion. Preferably conflicting emotion (in this case, the desire for power– or chicken fingers– vs. the deterioration of their social group).

If your characters are willing to throw the planet out of orbit for a platter of chicken tenders, even your health-nut readers will drool on the page.