i am this close to declaring to-do-list bankruptcy

Since the old routine was proving difficult to groove back into, post-Mongolia, I've been trying out a new routine. It's not quite working yet.

Previously I'd been landing early at the dayjob, and writing after I clocked off. This has the benefit of my morning tram not being a peak hour one, and the library, where I'm sure not to be interrupted, is open for my writing session. But the library is in the wrong direction, away from home, and errands tend to be scheduled in my writing time. All of which means it tends to vanish before I get to it.

So I've taken to writing before I clock on. It means I get to keep my non-peak-hour tram, I get to work more "normal" hours, and I get at least one hour's writing time that won't be eaten by errands. Sadly, libraries are not early-risers, so while my writing time isn't being eaten by errands, it's not sans interruptions. Decidedly not.

I've been thinking, this weekend, about what I can do to fix that.

There are a couple of external options — writing in a cafe, for example — but maybe what I really need to change is my mind-set.

Writing used to be easier and swifter than I find it now. Partly that's because I'm more conscious of the craft, and trying to exercise finer control over it; a slower pace is a natural consequence. But maybe it's also partly because I have a habit of pushing myself too hard.

Because pretty much all this year I've been caught in a vicious cycle. I'm tired, from working long hours, which means I don't hit even the modest wordcount I'm aiming for, so I push myself harder the next day and work all weekend to catch up, which means I'm tired from working long hours with no break, so I don't hit even the modest wordcount I'm aiming for…

From now on I'll be taking at minimum one day off a week — and that day is going to be a weekend, so it's a proper rest from all forms of work.

And in the meantime I'm going to practise being more in the now,1 so that when I am interrupted it doesn't take me 20 minutes to get back into my train of thought. Or so that when I'm writing, my mind is working — not on how many words I've written or revised (and oh no I only have 20 minutes left before I have to clock on) — but instead on how I'm going to fix this next sentence, this next paragraph, this next scene.

  1. Oh, and also, I am going to get to all those emails and phonecalls currently waiting on me to return them. Just, yanno, when I can. []

writing is such a chaotic sport

Justine Musk (who always has amazingly clever things to say on the topic of wordsmithery) talks about outlining, and why outlines change:

This is what took me way too long (and three published novels) to figure out about plot:

Plot is a process.

…the outline informs the novel but the growing novel also informs the outline.

…What this process requires, however, is a tolerance for ambiguity. For what I described in an earlier blog post as “the muck and murk of writing”: the sense that you’re slogging through a dark swamp with no exit in sight.

We like to have a plan in place, we like to move through an orderly and predictable checklist, but creativity doesn’t sequence so easily. The process works off itself. You show up, you see what you already have, you descend into the muck and the murk, and let the process take you further along.

And she's just absolutely NAILED why outlines have never worked for me. I've been treating it as an either/or approach: writing with an inviolate plan, or without one.

Now, I know writers who outline, and they've always told me they never stick slavishly to said outline, that it evolves even as the story does — which I admit to never quite grasping, probably because my brain runs to extremes.

I'm thoroughly accustomed to a "tolerance for ambiguity" when writing without an outline: wading into a story knowing nothing more than a character's name, sometimes not even that, doesn't distress me in the least. I need to interact with the story and the characters in order for it to evolve, and progress, and grow into a narrative.

I know how to do that when there's no outline in place — but whenever I have attempted an outline, I've then expected it to be my checklist. I've expected it to do away with all that muck and murk of the process. How foolish was I?1

One day I will learn that just because my head and thought patterns lend themselves to BLACK! or WHITE!, no grey or middle paths allowed, that not everything in the world — actually nothing in the world — follows suit.

  1. Doubtless there are writers whose outlines do work that way. I presume those writers have tested and discarded ideas and dug deeply during the outlining process itself, and done an awful lot of thinking and evolving of the narrative prior to writing. I think I can safely say I will never be one of those writers. []

seagull singing status: not yet

So far, the proofs have taught me three things (or at least, three things which come immediately to mind).

First, a "brace" is a pair of something. Did you all know this? I did not. I was in fact under the impression that it denoted decidedly more than two. Dear proof-reader, thank you for questioning.

Second, enjoy those easy pages which have no mark-up, because sooner or later you're going to hit a page with one tiny little question that makes you realise you have previously farked up the plot in a rather horrifying way, and fixing it elegantly (which you must do, it being proofs stage and nobody therefore wanting to add too much more bulk to the book) takes a good four hours. To produce a paragraph. Oy vey. (I fixed it. But now I am not ahead on my target. Boo.)

Third, I do NOT, resolutely NOT, need a smaller desk. In fact, I may well need a much, much larger desk.

I have this pine monstrosity I've been thinking of getting rid of, it being too high for a short person such as myself, and I admit I've been toying with the thought of going all minimalist. A just-barely-enough work surface, which I would naturally keep sparse and clean. But the proofs have reminded me that such a wish is utter, utter folly.

Any desk I own will need to have a work surface large enough to contain the laptop, lamp and scanner (its normal accessories), plus room for the stack of pages I'm working on, the stack of pages I'm yet to go through, the stack of pages I've been through but may need to go back to or at least refer to, a notepad for "thinking out loud" or experimenting with the words I want before committing them to the page in question, and somewhere to put the scads of reference material such as maps, lists of names, issues to fix, &c. That's a whole lot of stacks of paper, and my pine desk is, despite being to my mind too large, not up to the task. I currently have drawers pulled open on either side of me acting as ad-hoc surfaces for supporting the reference material.

On the plus side, this means I don't have to find money for a new teeny desk any time soon. (And a new larger desk is not going to happen. If I have to I'll resort to the floor.)

I'm planning on putting that money I just "saved" towards the purchase of a new camera, so I can taunt you with pictures of Mongolia.

and they're all (well, mostly all) cousins

The proofs for Shadow Bound landed today. The fourteen-day forecast is therefore for sudden squalls of insanity, the occasional seagull impersonation, an inability to discuss any topic that does not immediately relate to (for example) the placement of commas, and a general air of abstraction and sleeplessness.

Although, the proof reader has won my undying love for the following comment in her cover letter:

This was a thoroughly absorbing read. Lots of urst (please cast Viggo Mortensen or Hugh Jackman as Dieter), tension and complexities.

Heh. Heheh. I think it was only a couple of months ago I finally figured out what URST stood for,1 and now apparently I've written a book with sufficient URST to make at least one person think of Viggo.

I can live with that.

This evening, along with getting started on the proofs, I also wrote up the dedication and acknowledgements. My next task, concurrent with the edits, is to whip up some kind of character/house/tribe glossary — which I think is no bad idea, given that no less than 40-odd character and house names are mentioned in the first 60 pages. And this is a novel with actually not that many characters!

It's all starting to take shape people. Book!

  1. I'm slow on the uptake. But I know there's at least one person who also doesn't know what it means, so just for you, Mum: UnResolved Sexual Tension. []

ONE DAY I WILL HAVE TIME FOR EVERYTHING. EVEN YOU. ESPECIALLY YOU.

So the short story currently stands at 12,000+ words. And thus the short story is not short at all, particularly given the fact that there are great, enormous gaping holes all throughout the narrative. And thus the short story, in addition to not being short, is not actually a story (yet) either. (Two criteria, and it hasn't achieved either. Poor story is currently suffering a quite severe existential crisis.)

Normally, I'm of the "write, keep writing, don't stop 'til you get enough finish a first draft" school of thought. Because otherwise I'd have a perfectly polished paragraph which may or may not be the beginning and nothing to hang off any side of it. But there's always a tipping point, a point where I abandon the not-draft I'm working on and call it finished enough and start revising said not-draft into a proper first draft. And two days ago I hit that tipping point because I don't think I can fill in those narrative holes without actually knowing, well, the narrative. So back to the start it is for me.

Those of you who've been around for a while will know that my normal routine is to write sans outline, but also sans narrative order. I write a scene, or half a scene, or even just a line of dialogue, and figure out where it fits in the entire story only once I have the entire story. I even write scenes and paragraphs this way — leaving a couple of blank lines and just pouring sentence fragments onto the page, and then I go back and start writing up to and around them. (Writing paragraphs this way is actually probably approaching normal – it's just my way of both editing as I go and at the same time avoiding the "can't write because my brain is trying to edit it!" dilemma. Writing scenes this way gets a little trickier, but it's not so bad because a scene is small enough to keep the whole thing in your head at once. Short stories and novels, not so much.)

Which is why Tessa, for one, gets a wild and panicked look in her eye whenever we discuss this scattershot/jigsaw habit of mine, as if I've just confessed I've decided to take up juggling pissy cobras and I don't need to practice with inanimate objects first, really, how hard can it be? She's right, really. So much to go wrong! So much does go wrong! My first attempt, the not-draft, is appalling. It's basically one big tangle of continuity errors, ambience at the expense of narrative, characters with no names, clues about what the story hinges on that my subconscious has oh-so-conveniently dropped rather than just, yanno, telling me outright, and notes in the margin. (Normally the latter are of the FUCK FUCK FUCK I DON'T KNOW WHAT? variety. Or sometimes the equally amusing, ER, REALLY? variety.) Seriously, those tangential illogical outlines that pour out of a fevered brain at 2am in an illegible scrawl are cohesive in comparison to the not-draft. Hence the tipping point.

The not-draft, being so very appalling, does then present serious difficulties when it comes to revision time. It's basically like doing a jigsaw — one where some of the snippets have been jammed together incorrectly and need to be undone in order to be put together correctly, where some of the pieces are missing entirely, and where some of the pieces may, in point of fact, belong to your Aunt Mildred's puzzle depicting a vase of gladioli and she's been wondering where that got to, thank you dear. Thankfully, I've gotten a little better at this jigsaw revision process, so that the official first draft doesn't (always) look like I've pieced together bits of the cat's vomit.

Part of this improvement is learning just how ruthless and brutal to be. Answer: exceedingly.

I've spent the past two nights — two weary, post-dayjob-wrung-out sort of nights — painstakingly massaging this one particular scene, getting the words just right. And last night, as I fell asleep, I realised that this one particular scene has to go. In its entirety. Because it's the second scene, and a giggle in a doorway, while important, is not enough to justify an entire scene, particularly the second scene in a story that should have started by now. Fuckit.

All of which is a very long way of saying Note to Self: Every scene and paragraph and sentence must accomplish more than one important something. Kill your darlings. YOU KNOW THIS ALREADY.

So tonight I'm going to spend my evening excising that painstakingly-revised scene out of the story, leaving no traces behind. I'll scavenge some of the passages, and weave them in among the rest of the story as appropriate, so the work (and the time spent on it) is not lost entirely. And any work that gets you to realising precisely what you need to do to fix or improve a story is never lost.

But it FEELS like lost and wasted time.

strange kind of day to discover

Right this very second, I'm supposed to be writing.

And my body is doing its damnedest to convince me we're not capable of sitting still1 or (horror of all horrors) dragging words out of the murky recesses of my consciousness and slapping them down in some laughable approximation of narrative order. My eyes are sagging in their sockets, my shoulders are starting to climb up around my ears, and my legs keep attempting mutiny by standing. Get up, my mind is whispering. Give it up. Do something easy. Like watching TV. Or reading — there's that juicy book you're in the middle of, just waiting for you. Or what about scrubbing the bathtub? ANYTHING BUT THIS.

All because I'm not quite sure what happens next in this short story, and apparently DECIDING is too much to ask.

Honestly, some days I think if you just accomplish staying in the chair, you've won an epic battle.2

  1. at the desk — apparently lying still on the couch or the bed, reading, we're definitely capable of :???: []
  2. Although words and/or plot wouldn't go astray right now. Any second now. Whenever you're ready, words, plot. No, really, take your time. []

who puts a christmas party on a thursday, anyway?

So you know what I did, carrying that decidedly not-large-by-fantasy-novel-standards manuscript home on Monday?

Yup: I wrenched my back, bad enough to spend the next day rather sparky and blurry-eyed courtesy of nurofen. Writing! It's DANGEROUS, people.

Thanks to christmas shenanigans courtesy of the dayjob, I haven't managed to spend as much time as I'd like on the edits this week.1 But I did have to laugh at one comment in the edit letter proper.

Those of you who remember the edits of Shadow Queen will remember that the manuscript I handed in had 10(ish) chapters, and the final published book had over 30 — because with every pass my editor kept patiently requesting "Shorter chapters, please. No, shorter still!"

Well, it appears I learned my lesson rather too well, because the edit letter for Pledged has a note that some of the chapters shouldn't be chapters at all and should be run on to the end of the previous chapter. And in looking through I discovered the manuscript I handed in had over 50 chapters.

Yeah. I run to extremes.

The only other "fun" facts to come out of the edits so far is that my characters are apparently (just a touch) too fond of glancing, looking, gazing, and even occasionally various rarer permutations thereof. Apparently my characters were engaged in some kind of staring competition while I was off busily trying to concoct a plot. Damn them, anyway.

  1. Said shenanigans have left me with some intriguing text messages in my phone. Such as the following: The only reason I have not declared outright vendetta is that this chewie is surprisingly good. You're lucky. This time. []

we are ugly, but we have the music

I think my cup of tea is giving me hayfever. Can you develop a sudden and inexplicable allergy to tea? Oh farkit, if I'm now allergic to tea that's it, it's all over.

Go on without me! I'm done for! Save yourselves!

Ahem.

I have been meaning to post for a couple of days now, but I've also been trying to get my days' words before posting. This hasn't been going all that well, of late. I don't know what's up with the book (or my brain, or some no man's land where the two are attempting to meet), but it's like pulling teeth. Deep-rooted teeth. Bones of the world type teeth.

So today I come bearing writerly links. Given that it's NaNoWriMo, the internet is full of them! The theme appears to be outlining, the reason for which will doubtless become clear if it's not already.

Justine talks about the book in her head vs the book she wrote, which post came as a bit of an epiphany for me.

When I first started trying to write novels that process really bothered me. It drove me nuts that I couldn’t capture what I’d been imagining on the page. I thought it meant I was a terrible writer. But now I know it’s just part of the process and I enjoy it.

I've been obsessed with outlining and planning in advance, lately — a mindset into which I routinely sink any time the current alpha draft hits a snag and I can't figure out what's hobbling me. If only I had planned it out first! If only I were more efficient as a writer! Next novel, I'm definitely doing an outline! If only this, if only that. I need to remember that outliners face inefficiencies too (different ones, obviously) and comparing the two when I only really have experience of the one is foolish at best. Give me however long it takes me to push through this current phase of the blahs, and I'll start another novel without an outline.1 I'm incurable like that.

Glenda Larke explains how she writes a novel:

People ask me how many revisions I do – honestly, I dunno. Some parts that don't work well have too many rewrites to count. Other scenes hardly change at all from the moment I wrote them. One thing I can tell you – for me, writing is not easy. Nor quick. And everybody is different.

I like this post, because it's very similar to my process — and there's nothing I like more, particularly when I'm not happy with the way I'm working, than to hear that my process is not singular. Although I don't, as a rule, go back and read what I've written — because if I do that, I invariably get caught up in revising.

Diana Peterfreund talks about the four-act structure:

I am a fan of the four act structure. I think envisioning your story like that is one of the easiest ways to avoid the “sagging middle.” Even if you do it naturally, going back and making sure that this is what you have done can often help you avoid later complications from bad planning. (I’m a big planner, by the way. BIG.)

And another link from Diana, which I discovered when I stumbled across her post on the four-act structure: plot boards.

That last link is actually to a category page, rather than a single post, but there's a wealth of material in there. The idea of the plot board appeals to me: it's outlining, but it's outlining AFTER the alpha draft, which is about the only time I can do any detailed outlining. Plus, all those post-it notes and bright colours speak right to my stationery-loving, obsessive-compulsive soul. This is one of the reasons I wanted Scrivener, back when I didn't have a Mac, because the corkboard feature lends itself beautifully to this. The faerie novel isn't up to a full plot board yet, obviously, but I'm trying to be virtuous and fill out those little plot cards as I go. It's going to make starting those revisions so much easier!

And, if you have any links on outlining you think might help me in my efforts to procrastinate from the darn faerie novel ;) share away!

  1. Although I do have a nebulous idea of what the story will involve in my head before I start, and I usually develop a nebulous approximation of an outline during the writing of the alpha draft. []

mad concentration skills, i — ooh! shiny!

For the past couple of days, prompted by the fact that Glenda Larke is racing to write 30,000 words in 15 days, and finding it inspiring, I've been pondering all the ways we trick ourselves into writing, and staying focussed thereon.

And I've come to the conclusion that lately, my bag o'tricks is empty and my focus is shot entirely to hell.

So, tell me: how do you keep at it? What lies do you tell yourself, what rewards do you promise yourself?

outlining, damselfly-style. (with footnotes.)

I don't talk about my writing process overly much, or with a great deal of specificity when I do — mainly because every time I contemplate the topic, I always trip over the "what (barely, if at all) works for me won't necessarily work for anyone else" hurdle; and if I manage to make it past that one there's always the "I'm hardly an expert!"

But it occurs to me I should, mainly because I like hearing about how other writers work. So, you know, share and share about and all that.

So, given I've been whinging so much lately about the plot (or apparent lack thereof) of the faerie novel, I thought perhaps I should share how I currently1 approach outlining.

My first novel2 I wrote out of order, and without any outline at all. Literally scattershot. I wrote 350,000 words worth of novel, and then wrote a summary of each scene on an index card, and only then did I put the scenes in order. It was inefficient, and messy, and led to a whole lot of continuity errors. But that's okay: at the time, I was writing solely for myself, without any guidance or practice, to see if I could not only start a novel but finish one.

I'm not quite that inefficient any more — although I've not progressed far along the spectrum yet.

Shadow Queen I wrote without an outline, and without any planning in advance, but at least this time I wrote the story linearly, meaning I started at Chapter One and plugged right on through to Chapter Eleven.3 With Pledged, thanks to it being a continuation of the story, I had an idea of the turning points that needed to happen4 to get the story to the end I had envisioned back when I started writing The Binding books — which gave me some leeway to write not-entirely-linearly without messing up the continuity too much. (Heh. Two distinct skills, having an outline and writing in order. I can't do either one particularly thoroughly on its own; I definitely don't like to do both together, apparently.)

I've tried outlining up-front, using various approaches, from loose character sketches and a few key plot points, to the uber-detailed snowflake method. Ultimately, though, none of those tricks work for me unless I've written at least some of the alpha draft already. And by some I mean at least a good third of the draft.

At that point I know the world and the characters well enough to know where the story I started is heading.

To assess that, I use the four-act structure. It's a narrative structure I picked up from the Crusie Mayer blog (which no longer appears to be available online, so this is from the notes I made at the time and may have skewed from the original that Jenny Crusie presented):

  1. Inciting Event: the first conflict, which starts Act I
  2. Turning Point 1: the protagonist makes a decision they wouldn't have at the start of the story, thus ending Act I and kicking Act II into gear
  3. Turning Point 2: at the midpoint, the protagonist makes a decision which demonstrates how utterly they've changed from the story's outset, thus ending Act II and ushering in Act III
  4. Turning Point 3: the dark moment, at the end of Act III, when the protagonist is all but defeated
  5. Climax: the end of Act IV, and only one of the combatants is coming out a winner

Jenny Crusie had approximate wordcounts by which each of these turning points should occur, but I forget them. For my purposes, I find a "not quite quarters" approach works nicely for me: the fourth act needs to be shorter, for pacing reasons, whereas the second and third acts can stand to carry a little more weight.

It's all arbitrary, anyway — I for one have seen plenty of other-act structures out there, from the 3-act5 to the 9-act. I find 4 works for my brain because there's enough turning points to hang the story on, but not so many that I get lost and frustrated in the agonising process of trying to figure out the story without writing it first.

Usually, because I've written about a third of the draft, I've either written the first turning point, or I'm not far off it — so it's simply a matter of figuring out two more turning points and the climax to resolve everything. And because my characters are invariably capable of having an argument in white space which lasts a good 10,000 words, having from 20-50,000 words between turning points isn't too daunting and in fact can sometimes feel a bit rushed.

I'll also sometimes write a blurb or (usually incomplete) synopsis at this point, because that captures the mood of the story better than turning points, and knowing the mood I want to evoke is just as important as knowing what happens. One of my friends makes word-lists (brine in preference to salt, for example) to make sure she can pin the mood to the page, and sometimes I'll do something similar. Theme and symbolism might also get a few quick notes at this point, too.

The Binding books, being first-person, had only the one set of turning points, as the other characters' storylines played a very definite second fiddle to Matilde's. The faerie novel, on the other hand, has two protagonists, who are not always working together, so I have two sets of turning points happening, sometimes coinciding and sometimes in counterpoint. Here's hoping I can make that work.

I do find that with each book I attempt I'm wanting slightly more outlining up-front, so who knows? Maybe one day I'll end up being uber-detailed, outlining every beat of every scene of every chapter before I even write a word.

Although that would be a world gone topsy-turvy.6

  1. Processes change with time, of course, but also with books. I'd heard writers saying before that every book is written differently, demands to be written differently. Every book is a first book in the sense that you never learn how to write books, you only ever learn how to write the book you are currently writing. Before I'd actually hit the magical =30= on my first novel, I didn't disbelieve them, but neither did I entirely understand. Surely tricks learnt in writing a previous book would stand an author in good stead in writing the next book? Yes, in the sense that the author now knows those tricks and will try them, but no in the sense that the tricks in question may not help wrest the book out of the head and onto paper, and then the author is back to square one: whatever works. []
  2. Not Shadow Queen, that's my first published novel []
  3. Which, in the published version, roughly align with Chapters, oh, about 2 to um…however many chapters there ended up being. Thirty-odd, from memory. I don't have a copy of the book to hand to check, and I am too lazy to walk into the other room to find one. []
  4. Ooh look! that almost sounds like a bona fide outline — for very loose and nebulous interpretations of the word outline []
  5. Which is generally the same, Act II of the 3-act structure being equivalent to Acts II & III of the 4-act structure []
  6. As evidenced by this very post. Most people can explain their outlining process in a sentence or two, or a quick concise list. Me? Over a thousand rambling words. I sigh in a resigned fashion. []