I keep telling myself that editing and revising is easier than the actual writing, but I'm beginning to have serious doubts. What makes this stage so hard is that it's mostly technical work. Playtime is over, and now it's time to clean up. There are so many moments that I've stared at the same paragraph for an hour trying to rework it. What the reader doesn't see is the inflection points, where a dozen or so considerations converge into a tangled word puzzle. A lot can hinge on one or two sentences. These are the things no one will ever notice if you do them right, but it's important to pay special attention to them because often the smallest details are what really bring a story to life.
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I watched The Dead Don’t Die last night, and in spite of the mediocre reception, I thought it was very good. It’s a zombie movie with an experimental flair. There a ton of great characters and interesting plot choices. My only real complaint is that it’s not a series. There is so much going on, it was really too much to cram in under two hours. The way it’s structured, switching between the townsfolk, was an interesting choice, and it almost works. But it never quite fully lives up to its promises. For instance, the storyline involving the kids escaping a juvenile detention center was entirely unnecessary, while many of the characters who were killed abruptly could have benefited from more screen time. I’ve long been a fan of Jim Jarmusch, so I was prepared for his particular directorial style, but this is without question his most mainstream, accessible film, which is why the way it was pretty much universally panned surprises me. It never quite comes together as well as say Shaun of the Dead, but it’s clear that its ambitions were even greater. A dry-witted horror flick by one of the masters of independent cinema, The Dead Don’t Die is chock full of great ideas, and while most of them don’t get the chance to be fully fleshed out, there’s still a lot to like here.
I've given myself a little time now to catch up on a few other things and reboot before jumping into the first round of revisions on the next book. Like many writers suggest, I find it's good to take a little time out between drafts. The biggest benefit of which, in my experience, is having a chance to forget. If you can't remember every single line that's about to come, it makes it easier to be objective about what needs fixing and what doesn't. I figure for Space Junk, I went over the entire thing at least ten times. I'm hoping to cut that down now that I have some more experience under my belt, but I won't know until I get there. There are a lot of small story alterations I make as I go, but most of what I worry about is wording and flow, and then I repeat the clean-up process until I stop running into awkward passages. It can be tedious, but I can actually see my writing improving with each pass.
Say what you will about Episodes VIII, IX, and X. I highly enjoyed them if for no other reason than the sheer insanity of the story. It was like watching a live-action cartoon in its ambition. Some things worked, some didn't. But one thing that still strikes me is the audacity of Rian Johnson's writing.
SPOILERS AHEAD: Keeping in mind what came before and that Johnson would only helm one film in the series, The Last Jedi contains some of the most aggressive storytelling I've ever encountered. First, Leia is given an insane new force power to move through space for the sole purpose of saving her own life (and putting the next crew in the precarious position of figuring out what to do with the late Carrie Fisher's role). Then we find out that Rey's parents, the mysterious identities of whom had so far been built up as an integral part of the story, were nobodies. I actually laughed when Snoke was dispatched, at how sudden and unceremoniously such a seemingly significant character was killed off. Narratively speaking, nearly everything that had been built up in The Force Awakens was torn down. Don't get me wrong, I had a good time with TLJ, and I love that the people working on it had the guts to pursue such bonkers ideas. But taken together, I can't help but come to the conclusion that Johnson was purposely boxing the next writers into a corner, daring them to figure out a way to put the world's broken pieces back together. For the longest time, I was averse to any serious outlining. It seemed like a lot of unnecessary work, equivalent to actually writing the book or doing the report or whatever. I don't want to throw anyone under the bus, but I lay most of the blame with my early English teachers. What I was taught consisted of an indecipherable chart of branching circles and squares. There was supposedly some logic to the jumble of ideas that my snot-nosed peers seemed to have little trouble grasping, but to me it just looked like the mad organizings of an accountant. When I got serious about writing novels, I immediately realized I had to find a more tolerable way to accomplish this early-stage grunt work, and out of desperation I came up with a system that I think simplifies, and perhaps demystifies, the whole process.
Instead of bubbles and squares, I open a blank Excel file, and in one or two sentences, I type any chapter ideas I already have into separate cells in the first column. This way I get a visual of the structure of the book and can easily rearrange chapters. I find that once I have a few figured out, the rest start filling themselves in, either from inspiration or narrative necessity. When I'm done, I have a couple sentences detailing every plot element that needs to be in each chapter of the first "part" (third, quarter, or however I'm structuring it). I list character details and stray ideas below, but I leave most of the subsequent parts blank to begin with so that the story has room to roam. This gives me some direction but leaves me free to explore the details as I go. It's just one particular way of doing things, which happens to work for me. I think it's a quick and easy way to get started and stay organized, but the point is that you should do things in the way that is going to make it easiest for you to get from the first word to the last, whatever that may be. It’s been another long, long journey full of highs and Loises, but over the course of a little more than six hallucinatory months, I’ve finished the first draft of book two. To give some perspective for anyone out there struggling to write, that’s an average of about 750 words per workday. On my best days, I got out about 1500 words and on my worst about 100.
I feel some relief having the most difficult portion completed, but even as I approached the end of this draft, multiple books in, I still felt anxiety sitting down to a blank page. It’s scary not knowing where you’re going next, but it’s also the place where a lot of the best ideas are found. There were many days that were agonizing, as I was unable to get into the right headspace. But almost without exception, after four hours trying to crack one paragraph, something would snap, and the words would start to flow. Part of what makes writing so hard is the incremental progress. It requires a certain degree of faith that your small daily effort will yield something worthy of all that accumulated time and struggle. One thing that helps is to remind myself that those six months are going to pass whether I put the work in or not, and the idea of not having taken full advantage of the time I have available to do the thing I really want to be doing scares the space hell out of me. I guess what I’m saying is, be afraid, be very afraid. But use that fear to propel rather than paralyze you. I’m going to work to update this page more regularly now that a little bit of the pressure is off. So, if you’re interested in the writing process, check back soon for more posts delving into the re-writing, editing, and self-publishing processes. I'm now a month into serious work on the next book, and it has been brutal and rewarding. I still find it very difficult to find balance when I'm on a strict writing schedule. I tend to think about the work any time I'm awake. But I'm holding it together so far and have seen some small, unexpected successes.
I like to keep a regular reading schedule while I'm working, as I think it assists the writing, and since I began this book, I've been charging through A Dance With Dragons, the fifth and still latest installment in George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series. Reading his stuff is simultaneously really inspiring and really discouraging. I'm thoroughly enjoying the whole experience, but the flow of his writing is something to behold. The words could almost be gibberish, and I'd still be enthralled. And the depth of his world is hard to wrap my head around. But now that we're nearly nine years from its publication, it is encouraging to know that he has such a difficult time getting the words out, because I would never guess it and would otherwise have assumed he possessed the powers of some sort of superhuman word wizard. Even if you're not into fantasy, I highly recommend checking out the series, if only as a reference for extraordinarily detailed and engaging writing. I just noticed a great example in Back to the Future of how to subtly flesh out a story beyond the page. or in this case the screen. Marty has just been hit by his grandfather's car, when his grandfather yells,
"Hey wait, wait a minute, who are you? Stella, another one of these damn kids jumped in front of my car. Come on out here, help me take him in the house." This line could have just as easily been something like, "Stella, some kid jumped in front of my car," which conveys the same direct meaning about what's happening in the scene but nothing about what's not happening. Instead, we learn important things about Marty's grandfather, the neighborhood, and the world as a whole. The line tells us that Marty's grandfather may not be the most careful driver, since he has somehow hit more than one kid, but he's also caring enough to take a stranger in for dinner. We're also led to understand that the neighborhood and to some extent the world is a place in which kids often jump out at cars and people help each other when they need it. These are the types of details that might seem trivial at first glance but that contribute a lot of depth and realism to a story. I've just been informed that Taco Bell is now selling full bottles of baja sauce in grocery stores. Quite possibly the best sauce the Bell has ever offered, I wholeheartedly endorse this decision.
I'm sometimes very disconcerted by reality. I mean, what is this, really? Everything is held aloft by nothing. It's not so obvious that anything makes sense. Yes, science confirms some consistency, but that's all. It's like simultaneously everything and nothing matters. What are you supposed to do with that? It's almost like we are meaning machines, as if that's the only difference between us and animals - the ability to ascribe meaning. Is this just some pretentious rambling? Probably. I doubt I would be very concerned with meaning if I were any less sure of where my next meal or drink was coming from. So what the fuss?
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