I write. I’ve had a few short stories published. One of these was chosen for the “Best
American Mystery Stories 2015,” meaning it was deemed one of the 50 best
mystery/crime stories published in 2014.
Not bad; I’m very happy with that.
But, when it comes to writing, do I really know what the hell I’m
doing? Or at least think I know what I’m
doing? Quick answer: no.
Certainly, I’ve learned a lot these
past few years, since taking my writing seriously, and I know I’m a better
writer, but does that mean I know what I’m doing? Does that mean I can sit down and craft a
story that will elicit the emotion and demand the engagement of readers, in the
way that Hemingway could? Hell, no. When I sit down to write, I don’t have a clue
how to achieve the ends I’m seeking. I
still feel like I’m rowing upstream without a paddle (and that, maybe, I’m like
Wile E. Coyote and going up this stream even without a boat).
That said, I suppose it would be
disingenuous to state that I’m wholly lacking in ability. It’s just that I’m winging it, laying down
bricks without knowing if the cement I’m using is the right consistency. Which I don’t think is a bad thing. There are no rules—though there are plenty of
people willing to share their writing rules with you—and that’s where the
dynamism and excitement in a piece of prose can come from. It’s also what brings about this trepidation
and uncertainty I feel. But, I’d guess
many writers—even successful, working authors—would relate to this. So, let’s run with it.
I recently started draft one of a
new novel, which is probably where all this unease comes from. At this point, I still don’t know how to
write a novel and don’t even have a good approach for the writing of one. There are novelists who do a detailed
outline, and though they allow for some leeway within the parameters of this
framework, they adhere pretty strictly to it, so that they can be certain all
the pieces of this puzzle fit. (I am a
planner, and this use of an outline is something that appeals to me, but I’ve
yet to make it work for something as long as a novel) There are other novelists who prefer to make
it up as they go along. They may have a
general sense of where they are heading, with a few guideposts set out in the
wilderness they must reach, but all the interstitial stuff is unplanned. This approach affords these writers the
opportunity to be surprised by their characters and to remain enthused about
the work, which can be important when you give over months, or years, to a
single endeavor. There is also the added
expectation that, if the author is able to be surprised in the writing of the
novel, then readers will also be surprised.
(Though I’d prefer to have my map laid out before me, this is,
generally, what I’ve found myself doing, when writing longer works)
So, damn wordy preamble aside,
let’s get to the meat of this piece…
This new novel is a crime story
about friends, with rough childhoods, who grew up together, and all that
history, along with some of their poor choices in the present, come around to
bite them in a major way. I know a
handful of highlights within this narrative, and I have a fairly strong sense
of the main characters, but as far as a chapter by chapter basis—or even a scene by scene basis—I don’t know what’s
coming next. And working without a net
scares me. Will I be able to write something worthwhile and engaging if I don’t
even know what’s coming next and how I’m supposed to get to the “big scene?” Who knows?
But…
I do feel like I’m getting better
with this. My progress as a writer has
been a series of incremental steps, little things I’ve come to understand, come
to realize about the craft and about how I approach writing, that have proven,
to me, that maybe I am cut out for this.
It’s a long game, and I need to be in it for that long haul or I’ll
never make anything of it. One of the
major things I’ve become comfortable with is knowing my first draft will be
crap. I just spit it out onto the page, knowing
that I can fix all the bad stuff with revising.
That, as Greg Rucka has said, is where the real writing, the real work,
happens. This is good; it’s freed me up
to just let the first draft roll across my keyboard and be what it is, the
framework I was seeking from an outline, that can be tweaked and refined and improved.
I don’t think it’s a coincidence
that, concomitant my comfort with a horrific first draft has come my increasing
comfort with the idea of having no net.
Which does not mean I just dive into a new story without any type of a
plan. For this new novel, I had a general
idea of where the story was going and what I wanted to do with it. I also wrote a lot about the main characters,
long backstories that, for me, have been invaluable, because the childhood
experiences of these characters dictate the choices they’ve made as adults, and
the paths they will end up going down through this narrative. Without these backstories in place, I wouldn’t
have been able to start writing this book.
Even with that, though, there is
still a discovery process with the characters—not just finding their voices,
but also, still, finding out who they are.
Not until I actually started writing the first chapters did I realize
there was still more to learn about these people. It sounds odd, almost foolish, but I’ve heard
this from many writers, and the characters do take on a life of their own, once
the writing commences. It’s kind of
magical, but it can also stop the writing dead, because you end up with
characters you don’t know or scenarios you don’t believe you can write yourself
out of. One of the things I did, when I
found myself stuck only a few thousand words into the novel, was to write a
short story with two of the main characters, set in the past. This seems to have unlocked everything, and
has allowed me to forge ahead with the book.
Finally (sorry, jumping around
here, but it’s how my mind works, and this post—though ostensibly for public
consumption—is really about me working through ideas and practices and
approaches to writing, for my own self), one of the best bits of advice I’ve
found, in recent years, comes from Joe Hill.
He wrote on his blog, I believe, that he only writes one scene a
day. That scene could take up only six
lines or it could take six pages (or ten, or more). No matter what the length, he focuses on
completing that one scene. I’ve taken
that to heart, moving away from a word-count goal, and it has been
helpful.
Even when I’m working on a short
story (hundreds of which Harlan Ellison wrote overnight, or during the few
hours he sat in a bookstore window), this is an approach I take. It extends the time needed for me to complete
a short story, but I think it also makes the final product better. With only a scene to write each day, I can allow
myself time for other aspects of my life—like work, spending time with my
family, reading—but it also means I have all the rest of that time for my
subconscious to work on the next scene (or even to rework older scenes). It affords me the opportunity to make
connections that, I hope, will be enriching to those reading it.
The most recent example of this
comes with this crime novel I’m writing:
First, there were decisions made
prior to writing ---
- One character, KERRY, grew up rich, and, at the
point we start the novel, she has recently launched a campaign for State
Senator.
- Another character, DETECTIVE DESJARDINS, will
have a story arc dealing with her crumbling marriage.
Next, we had the introduction of the Detective. In order to give it some movement, some drama, some verisimilitude, I had Detective Desjardins’s superior, Lt. Glass, call her in to his office to talk about her recent trouble clearing cases and the change in her demeanor (all brought on by her knowledge—unknown to anyone else—of her husband’s infidelity ßone of the first connections made in the writing).
Now, Detective Desjardins will become important later when she investigates the murder of a couple of the main characters—one of whom is the aforementioned Kerry—but I wanted to intertwine these characters even before that. So, I had the Detective following up on a robbery report from Kerry and her husband, from a few weeks prior. Detective Desjardins does not believe some of what is in that report, and, being upset by her marriage issues, decides to confront Kerry’s husband, who made the report, about these problems. This gets two of my main characters together earlier than they might have and also lays groundwork for the main plot of the novel (this robbery report came up as I was writing, but the link to the main plot came to me after finish writing for the day ßsecond connection made).
Finally, while finishing up the current chapter, I was thinking ahead to subsequent ones. I knew what the next chapter would include, but wanted to consider the one after that. And, while listening to a podcast or reading or something other than focusing on the novel, it came to me. With the silver spoon mentality of Kerry, and the quid pro quo that can exist between civic entities and state legislators, it only made sense she would go to the police Lieutenant and complain about Detective Desjardins harassing her husband ßthird connection made in the writing. It’s a natural, and it provides the antagonism (between the detective and the Lt.) that helps infuse a scene with its dramatic tension and engage the readership.
I don’t think I would have been
able to make those narrative connections a few years back. I’m certain I would not have made those
connections without having the time between scenes to ponder what comes
next. And, if I’d had a set outline in
place that did not include these series of events, I don’t know that I would
have been able to find these connections and have them in the final narrative. It’s strange.
I’ve always been a planner. But
maybe I need to embrace writing without a net—which it appears, from setting
this down, I am working toward—and accept that it’s the best way for me to
write.
Sounds good.
-chris
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