You can find that story here
That really was not a fully fleshed out piece of fiction. So, I've returned to it in order to expand it and make it ready for publication, hopefully. I did a second draft and let it sit on the hard drive for a few months. But recently, I finally pulled it up to get back to it.
This is the first short section of the new iteration:
The call of the sea was urgent in his ears. As long as he could remember, Jared had known that uneven sway beneath his feet, the rolling passage of the lobster boat over the Atlantic.
But Jared Ames was also a dreamer. How else to explain his going off to high school? That rarely happened on the “Ledge,” particularly for the boys. The one-room schoolhouse elicited visions of Laura Ingalls and Little House on the Prairie, attracting many first-year teachers from the mainland, the closest point to the island nearly twenty miles away. But there was little encouragement for children to go much beyond what was offered here. Ledge Island was a fishing island – every man either had his own boat and traps or was a sternman. Even the postman and the honorary mayor (at eighty-two, the oldest resident of the fifty who called the island home year-round) went lobstering on a regular basis. It was understood that the boys were just biding their time until they would become full-time lobstermen.
This was just the way things were. Which is why it had been a surprise to see Jared head to the mainland and Andrews Academy///, a private school in SOMEWHERE. It was his mother’s wish. And, with Jared’s father gone when he was six and his younger brother not yet one, there had been no counter-argument to be made.
Which did not mean that Jared gave up lobstering. Like most boys from Ledge Island, and the clusters of islands along Maine’s coast, he was a natural, which is to say that it was something he became familiar with at a young age. His father taught Jared about trapping lobsters before the boy even began school. And when Harold Ames left, others on the island took the place of teacher. They took young Jared, and his brother Eric, out on their boats most weekends and many afternoons. It was exciting, and every chance growing up Jared was hauling traps.
A month into his junior year at Andrews Academy///, Jared’s mother was diagnosed with cancer. She hadn’t been well for a while, though she’d hidden it well. But when she collapsed in the post office one afternoon, Susan Richmond (for she’d taken back her maiden name when Jared’s father left) had relented and flown to Fairhaven, the one island large enough and close enough to the mainland to have its own hospital. The doctor didn’t take long to view the x-rays before proclaiming that Susan only had a month to live.
Stephen King and Greg Rucka have both said that the first draft of any story - for them - is all about getting the ideas on the page. The first draft is the quick burn. And I've taken this to heart.
When writing that initial draft, I speed through as fast as I can, my fingers trying to keep up with the ideas and dialogue in my brain. If I can't find a word or come up with a name for a place or a person, I just fill it in with the closest thing I can come to. These I denote either with a few slashes (///) after the word, or by substituting the word with a simple descriptive placeholder in all caps. These are the places where the minutiae of the piece faltered, and I just needed to keep going or lose the ideas coming to me. You can see examples of this bolded in the above selection.
But these are just the parts I know I need to fix when coming back to revise. There's so much more that has to change when I'm editing subsequent drafts. I need to make sure I'm using the same tense throughout (something I never fully understood until I began writing seriously a few years back). I have to watch for continuity errors and internal consistency. I need to make sure the words flow and that I'm not repeating the same words over and over in a small space. And I need to make sure it's "good."
Below is the second (or third, if you like) draft of the previous section, by way of example.
The call of the sea was urgent in his ears.
As long as he could remember, Jared had known/// that uneven sway beneath his feet, the rolling passage of the lobster boat over the Atlantic.
Like most seaman, Jared Ames was a dreamer, but all his dreams did not reside on the water. He wanted something more and realized/// leaving the island for high school was necessary///. And so, when he graduated eighth grade, Jared set off for the mainland, to board with relatives he’d met once when he was seven. It was an occasion of note, something that rarely happened on the “Ledge”.
The one-room schoolhouse in the middle of the island elicited visions of Laura Ingalls and Little House on the Prairie, attracting a procession of first-year teachers from the mainland///. But despite the teachers’ best efforts, there was little encouragement for children to go much beyond what was offered in this tiny village twenty miles off the Maine coast. Ledge Island was a fishing island – every man either owned a boat or worked on one. Even the postman and the honorary mayor (at eighty-two, the oldest of the fifty year-round residents) went lobstering on a regular basis. There was a tacit understanding that the boys were just biding their time until they would become full-time lobstermen.
This was just the way things were. Which is why it had been a surprise for everyone to watch Jared head to the mainland and Andrews Academy///, a private school in SOMEWHERE. It was his mother’s wish, and with his father gone since Jared was six and his younger brother not yet one, there had been no counter-argument to be made.
This didn’t mean Jared gave up lobstering. Like most boys from Ledge Island – and the clusters of islands along Maine’s coast – he was a natural, which is to say it was something Jared became familiar with at a young age. His father introduced Jared to lobstering before the boy was four. And when Harold Ames left, others on the island took the place of teacher. Most weekends Jared, along with his brother Eric, could be seen racing across the Atlantic in one boat or another.
A month into his junior year at Andrews Academy/// Jared’s mother was diagnosed with cancer. She hadn’t been well for a while, though she’d been able to hide it. But when she collapsed in the post office one afternoon, Susan Richmond (for she’d taken back her maiden name when Jared’s father left) relented/// and was flown to Fairhaven, the one island large enough to have its own hospital. The doctor didn’t take long to view the x-rays before proclaiming that Susan only had a month to live.
It still has some unfinished bits and markers where I need to go back and really think about the phrasing or about a name or maybe do a bit of research, but it's starting to gel now. The next pass I do should include minor changes and amendments unlike this first overhaul. But, we'll see.
Which means, my later drafts often read very differently than the early ones. I've had my wife read a first draft, tell me that large sections DID NOT WORK, and then have her appreciate the new dialogue of a later draft. As Greg Rucka said, the writing isn't the first draft, the writing is the revising and polishing and working at making a story something to which others can relate. It's hard work, but it's one of the most fun things I get to do during my day. That's why I schedule, in my head, the late evenings for writing. And why I stay up past my bedtime to do it.
chris
No comments:
Post a Comment