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

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

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?

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)?

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?

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?

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.

I am raw, bleeding marrow and heart, when I speak of my husband, my dog, my writing– that which shapes my days. I whisper, as if the words might lacerate my mouth; I’m afraid to scare them away. Sometimes the richness of joy rends flesh from rib because we walk on gossamer, bound and blindfolded, when we love. That’s my truth. My sincerity.

It doesn’t look like much, but it’s helpful when I need to perform surgery on the plot during revisions. And yes, feel free to make fun of my pink and purple lights.

Omphalos is going well; I’m still hoping to finish the first draft by next Tuesday and complete the first full revision by June so I can then pass it along to my fantastic beta readers.

This novel lives at the intersection of science and philosophy, at least in my own head. These characters, this world, this story– they’re the playgrounds in which I get to swing from speculation to speculation, and I love it.

But don’t get me wrong; for me, Story will always be Monarch, and philosophy is but its loyal subject.

That’s one reason I love exploring what I consider important questions with fiction. I tell a story about characters who are hopefully engaging enough to care about, but the readers will decide what meaning they extract from the novel– what they want to take away from it. I’m not in the business of proselytizing or persuading. As Philip Pullman said, I’m in the business of once upon a time.

I’ll talk more about my thoughts on this novel and the process of writing it in the months to come. Right now, I have a conference to prepare for and a novel to finish. How about another cute photo in the meantime? My dog, pouting in her crate, surely the result of some culinary injustice. Photo by Laura Vasilion.

Some of this is inherent in the writing. For example, I’m sure you can conjure a number of images when you think of Stephen King, from setting and characters to mood and theme. For me, the first thing that comes to mind when I hear an author’s name is their writing voice. China Miéville, Neil Gaiman, and yes, Stephen King, are among my favorite authors, and they all have strong, distinct voices.

I’m still working on getting my writing out there; one of the best things one can do at this stage is just keep writing, improve, and seek growth. Challenge yourself. So, I do. I write every day, and I push myself with every piece.

That said, I’ve recently started asking myself, “What more can I do to create an author brand?” After all, it’s not just about the work we produce, but who we are as writers, as people. Most writers will tell you the two are inextricably linked (because they are). Time and again I’ve read about how important it is to think about these issues well before publication, providing one’s writing isn’t falling by the wayside to make room for marketing.

Right now, I have my Twitter and Facebook accounts, and I have this website. Awhile back, I designed that simple crescent moon in the logo you see at the top. Believe it or not, a lot of thought went into that. Again, simplicity was key, and I wanted something that would communicate a lot about my writing in one image– genre, style, mood, theme. For example, I’m intrigued by the idea of illuminating the dark and hidden spaces of reality, and many of my stories explore perception and subjective reality by focusing on characters whose perspectives are severely skewed.

In other words, the crescent moon image evokes ideas and questions about the unknown, and that’s the kind of brand I feel is suitable for me and my writing. I thought I’d keep it simple and use the crescent moon design for my contact cards as well. With the Pikes Peak Writers Conference coming up in April, I wanted something to hand out to other writers as a quick way to exchange information. Business cards, in other words.

(Sorry about the big blurry spots. I didn’t want my phone number hanging out on the internet.)

My career is still in its very early stages, but I plan to think more about my brand and what I can do over time to make it distinct in my readers’ minds. Writers, do you think about your author brand? If so, what have you done to develop it? Where do you see your career going? Readers, are there any writers whose author brands stand out in your mind?

Today I start one of the best phases of writing a novel: I open a blank document and type the first words. I’ve done my preliminary research and outlining, and I know my characters as well as I’m going to know them until we spend more time together in Omphalos.

I see the city, mapped out and sitting quietly on my desk, waiting for its citizens to fill its streets and consecrate their hands with its earth.

Time to flip that switch.

1. What If?

What if there’s a school for witches and wizards, and it’s part of a magical world hidden from view? What if you could extract dinosaur DNA from mosquitos embedded in amber? What if a spaceship broke down over South Africa and the government had to house the extraterrestrials?

My stories all start with this kind of broad, high-concept question. I love learning; I love reading about bizarre theories and scientific breakthroughs. I like pondering ideas about sociology and culture and the extreme possibilities thereof, and that’s what I think about when I’m taking a shower or walking my dog. I’ve been this way since I was a child– I learn something new, and then I extrapolate a wild “what if?” question anchored in an extreme situation.

These questions alone aren’t stories, of course. They’re ideas, and ideas are a dime a dozen. So what next?

2. Who and Where?

Where can I place the idea? What time period? In other words, what’s the milieu? Place, socio-cultural context, political climate. These considerations bring me directly to the most important aspect of the new story: The character. From the “what if?” question come more specific questions about individuals who would be affected by the “what if?” Specifically, people who would be affected so much that they’re compelled to act. Or something happens to them that compels them to act.

Notice that the character acts. Their predicament doesn’t just toss them around from situation to situation as they passively react to the story. They create the story. Their actions shape the events to come. They have motivations. What are they trying to achieve? In my stories, this relates directly to the “what if?”

3.Why, How, and So What?

At this point I have at least a rough sketch of a character, but in order to flesh out a coherent plot, I need to answer three primary questions: Why, How, and So What? Why does the character want to achieve X? Their motivation, in other words. How are they going to achieve X? And most important of all, what happens if they fail to achieve X? What are the stakes? Cultivating both inner and outer stakes is, in my opinion, crucial to creating a character people will care about. This will create inner and outer conflict, and that’s what keeps readers turning the page.

Keep in mind, this isn’t just for the main character. Sure, I start there, but what about the antagonist? They too need a Why, How, and So What. As do any side characters. That is, if I want my readers to believe the story and care about the outcome. I want to create tension, so the antagonist’s Why, How, and So What should be at odds with the protagonist’s.

Answering “how” is often the most time-consuming for me, because it’s not just a matter of, “Character goes here, finds this, and takes it to so-and-so.” Refining the “how” is a matter of crafting the entire plot, because there should be pitfalls and failures and setbacks in addition to successes on the character’s path to achieving their ultimate goal. The conflicts should illuminate the characters’ strengths and weaknesses and ultimately transform them.

4. Outline and Query

Yes, I’m an outliner. This doesn’t necessarily mean I have to outline every last plot point down to the finest detail, but it does mean that I like to know the beginning, middle, and end of my novel before I write the first words, and I want to know how my characters are going to maneuver through the story. I want to know what the conflicts will be and all the major twists and turns. If I know where I’m going, in other words, I’ll have a better idea of how to get there.

As for the querying part– no, I don’t actually query agents at this stage, rest assured. However, I do write a query. This helps me hone the primary conflict and make sure I’ve adequately answered those three questions I mentioned above– Why, How, and So What? If there are plot holes or weaknesses, I’ll identify them by writing a query.

5. Character Development and Worldbuilding

I do develop my characters and setting as I’m answering the above questions, but I also set aside time to specifically address details. I want both my characters and setting to come alive. In fact, in most of my stories, the setting is one of the main characters. The psychology, background, beliefs, and values of the characters are part of their motivation, part of that Why, How, and So What. The milieu contributes to this.

6. Write!

Now it’s time to piece it all together, to use language to craft a novel that breathes, moves, and grows.

What’s your creative process? Do you just sit down and wing it, or do you outline? Do you have specific questions you want to answer before you’re ready to go, or do you hit the ground running?

I had a few requests to post my piece on my blog, so here you go. Remember, both are available in the first voice experiment post.

Hers were the only footprints winding over the otherwise pristine winter vista as she stamped her humanity onto naked land. She leaned into white winds and pressed on toward the mountains, resenting them for being stone, for being inviolable, when she was so soft and raw.

When she looked over her shoulder, her eyes ignored the hills and leafless trees. She saw only the negative space where his tracks should have been. How much does it take for the afterimage of marriage to fade? Nine months? Nine years? Obviously not nine letters scrawled on divorce papers.

Snow-laced wind cut across her face. She pulled her scarf tight around her mouth and shoved her wool-covered hands back into her pockets. Even walking weighed heavily. Simple things loom large when two pairs of hands dwindle to one. Gone were the hands that covered her pink, frozen cheeks and soothed her chattering jaw. His heat became hers; their skin had luxuriated in the laws of the universe. Thermodynamics. Gravity. God.

The last time she had come here, they stumbled into their home, boots wet, a tangle of limbs and fingers and hair, too lust-addled to care about shoe prints or unopened bills. Melted snow pooled around their discarded soles.

Now he was nine months gone, warming someone else’s skin in a stale apartment, and that was that. She wondered if he wore his shoes inside.

Her pen was quicksilver. She was an alchemist; with a few strokes of her wild, illegible script, she transmuted vows into solitude. Only her own snow prints melted in the foyer, and it would have to be enough.