Aug 222011
 
scrivenerlogo

Over the weekend, I moved the current draft of the faerie novel back into Scrivener.

I loved Scrivener almost from the moment I first purchased it. The corkboard feature alone pretty much sells it for me, especially with my preference for writing without an outline, stopping half-way through in a panic because none of it makes sense, rearranging scenes in a whole new pattern that makes only slightly more sense than before, forging ahead again, retreating, wandering off sideways, pausing for some world history, and so on. But about a year ago, I had to give up using it because I needed to be able to work on my manuscript anywhere, including cross-platform. I knew Scrivener for Windows was in the pipeline, but I also needed to work on computers on which I had no administration rights, and I couldn't rely on SfW releasing a portable version. So back into MS Word I trudged.1

But last week I discovered that the current version of Scrivener syncs with simplenote, or with an external folder.

I have to admit, my first inclination was to shout at the whole internet: WHICH OF YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS, AND WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?

My second was to embark on an attempt to convert the pterosaur to the wonders of this software, even though he will have no earthly use for it in all his days. (He was very patient, and ooh'ed and aah'ed over the prettiness of the corkboard. I think mainly because he could see that was the best way to placate me and therefore escape.)

The worst thing is, I have the sneaking suspicion that this current version was released about a week or so after I moved back to Word. All this last year, labouring in Word, without a corkboard, when I didn't need to!

That'll teach me to read the release notes.2

  1. Actually, I don't hate MS Word. I kind of like it, if I'm going to be honest. But it does like to get in your way a little bit, and every install requires me to ruthlessly and rigorously train it out of autocorrecting and autosuggesting and generally being a nuisance. But I do hate outlining in it. Hate, loathe, stab it with a fork. []
  2. In my defence, they always pop up at me when I'm trying to do something else. []
Jul 292011
 
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Some days it takes every trick in the book to get up and sit down, even promising yourself that you don't have to write when you get there. (You're lying, and you know it. But you're counting on your inner perversity to carry that one through.)

Then there's days, like today, when you sleep through said every trick, and it takes more, it takes the panicked sting of adrenaline to get you going.

Then you find out your mother's flight has been cancelled. And she's arriving later. And you have time to spare now.

And you know this kind of 'reward' is only going to reinforce the bad behaviours.

Jul 252011
 
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Things that suck about being a writer:

  • You can never find (enough) time to write.
     
  • You can never find (enough) time to get anything done as thoroughly as you'd like.
     
  • You carry a vague and incessant guilt with you everywhere, for: stealing time to write; not writing every second you find you have spare; promising yourself you'd get three pages but only managing two, or one; neglecting the vacuuming; neglecting your friends; insert reason here.
     
  • You don't understand the phrase "time off".
     
  • People will think you're joking about not understanding the phrase "time off".
     
  • Remuneration. Even if you get some, chances are it's so small it redefines the term "pittance".
     
  • Remuneration. Even if it's not a (writer's version of a) pittance, nobody but you will see the years of work that went into earning that apparently-impressive amount which is, on a dollar per hour basis, a pittance.
     
  • You compare yourself to other people in unrealistic — not to mention unhealthy — ways.
     
  • You cannot, even if you do write fast, write fast enough.
     
  • Loved ones will urge you to put off today's writing "just this once", blithely unaware that they are not the only ones urging that on any given day. You will blame yourself for the discord caused by saying no to them.
     
  • You have those days when you doubt not just your stories, but your very self. Because you've taken such a huge gamble, and wandered so far out the branch beneath you has turned into a twig, those doubts are damn scary ones.
     
  • You watch writers get published and writers fail to get published, and there is no pattern, no clear line that puts the good ones in one camp and the mediocre in the other. This is both terrifying and comforting. But mostly terrifying.
     

Things that are awesome about being a writer:

  • You write. It's incomparable.
     

The funny thing, it's not like I've been toying lately with the idea of not writing. Far from it! Oh, I've had my flirtations with that thought, in my time, but not lately. Yet this is the list that poured out when I sat down to the blog today.

I guess I needed the reminder.

Jun 202011
 
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At last, I've bowed to the inevitable and taken up writing in the mornings again.

I've always written best(ish) in the mornings — by which I mean I like that I start the day knowing I have words on the manuscript, and I like that the manuscript gets first dibs on my attention. At that time of day it's more sleep-deprived than fresh, but at least it isn't drained by attending to the day's myriad needs into the bargain, which is generally my evening state of mind.

It's fair to say, though, I don't like getting up early. The bed is waaaaaaaaaarm. My eyeballs take twenty minutes to work up any moisture and come to something approximating a working agreement with my contact lenses, so I'm not exaggerating when I say the first hundred or so words are written literally blind. (Lucky I can touch-type.) Writing to a clock, because I have to stop in time to get to the dayjob, means I'm constantly interrupting myself to check the time. (I've set an alarm to keep track of the time for me, but it's a nervous tic. I'm hoping practice will help me relax and trust the alarm sooner or later.)

What I love, nay absolutely ADORE, about writing in the mornings is that I am the only person in the world. Sitting tucked up in the dark, with only myself and my laptop and my imagination, knowing the rest of the world is sleeping and no one, but no one, will disturb me … it's divine beyond words. Of course, I'd prefer that snug dark lonesomeness to be post-midnight, but that doesn't work so well with a dayjob. Pre-dawn is the next best thing.

Despite knowing from experience this was my best option, I fought it. Because it's cold in the mornings: I don't need more chillblains, and that kind of cold only exacerbates the aches in my back, neck, shoulders and wrists. Because it seemed like it would create more problems in my daily routine than it would solve, such as waking the pterosaur1 or making it impossible for me to get enough sleep. Because I wanted to try being more flexible and less routine-driven, like normal people.

But I tried flexible and less routine-driven, and all it gave me was less time than before, and a never-ending slew of last-minute errands which regularly swallowed any chance of writing that day. And I underestimated the pterosaur, who is simultaneously supportive and utterly unrousable in that he manages to lift the doona and help push me upright without actually waking himself. And as for the cold … I have a heater now!

Sometimes, taking time for your writing means admitting you need those routines that you think make you boring. And taking that time, and enforcing that routine, even though you risk some people thinking you're boring. Because the people that count will understand. (Although they will probably still think you're a little bit crazy. But everyone knew that bit already anyway.)

  1. I haven't mentioned the pterosaur overmuch on the blog, out of respect for his privacy, but suffice to say he's named for the noise he makes when he hiccoughs. It's totally the noise a flying dino would make if it had just spotted delicious (utterly deaf) prey. Startling stuff. []
Jun 032011
 
pensivepenguin

Complain that you hate your novel, and the internet gives you possible explanations.

First it was a post by Clarissa Draper on writer's block boredom, and coping therewith1 which made me realise I was bored. Oh, of COURSE. To be fair, I've never written to an outline before, precisely because every time I try I end up being bored, and I thought my current level of boredom was "just" because of the outline, not due to the trudgery, gotta-get-through-this-detail bit of the narrative.

To counter my boredom, I have decided to kill off a (very nice) priest, which is helping to liven things up a little.

After that, it was Rowena's post on narrative structure, linking to a discussion of linear and patterned structure by Jennifer Crusie, and that got me to wondering whether the faerie novel was supposed to be patterned rather than linear… (For the record, I don't think it is. At all, in fact. But at least it got me thinking, and I'm sure an awareness of the pattern and shape hanging above all this detail I'm currently trudging through can't hurt. And I have a feeling that, while I'm writing the bits I know linearly, I'm still going to be mulling over the larger structure for a while to come.) Like the pensive penguin I am.

Then I spent Saturday, in a random and unexpected turn of events, totally and utterly neglecting ignoring resting from my writing, including attending a party where all and sundry fondly chastised me for never taking weekends off and made me promise to schedule some downtime into my routine. I interpreted this as permission to spend Sunday totally and utterly resting from my writing. And it was glorious. And included chocolate-covered peanuts.

So. The internet/universe, it turns out, is listening. Even if it doesn't always look that way. Because the internet/universe is a bit creepy that way.

(Dear internet/universe, I would really appreciate it if my neck and shoulder muscles did not ache all. the. time. (And no fair just shifting the ache somewhere else.) Just putting that out there.)

(Also, while you're at it, I want a pterosaur of my very own. No particular rush.)

  1. I really have spent too long in the dayjob. The lawyers always put there before every preposition, whether it belongs or not, and I've fallen into the same habit because I have to argue back using their own language. Therewith. Thereto. Therein. Thereat. Therebetween. That last one doesn't even exist! Lawyers, do you SEE the perversions you make me practice upon the English language? I will never forgive you. []

chasing zen. again.

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Feb 042011
 

It's not often that I suffer from writer's block.

For me, it strikes when I have too much to say, and not enough time to say it. My head fills up with fragments of sentences and splinters of stories, none of it tied to any other piece or theme, just a great swirling structure-less tangle. All that mulch in my head is so busy growing such a multitude of different ideas that none of them can get a clear shot at the sunlight.

Blog posts and stories get tangled together, pairing off wrongly and spawning little mutant baby ideas, until my focus disintegrates and I find myself thinking re-tagging my mp3 library is a worthwhile use of my time right now.

I've never been at a loss for something to say, particularly, not when writing. I simply get choked by how much I want to say, or by how best to say it. (That last is easier to attack at least: write something appalling, and edit it mercilessly into something cogent, and call it done. (For some reason that tactic works much better on writing fiction than it does on writing a blog post, though.)) I want to write about silence, and breaking it; about conversations and confrontations; about the mechanics of a story, its structure and its heart; about innovation as opposed to invention; about people who can't give up and people who can. I want to finish that troublesome thorn girls story, and crank out some mileage on the faerie novel. I need to get that international report done for the dayjob, and prune back that tangle of further correspondence breeding in my in-tray faster than I can sterilise them.

Instead, so far, my mp3 library has sprouted a more comprehensive collection of cover art.

Oct 032010
 

There's an interview with Paolo Bacigalupi up at Techland and, quite apart from the fact that I am now livid with jealousy over what is apparently the coolest surname meaning EVER, towards the end of the interview Bacigalupi has some powerful things to say about writing:1

For me … having the raw ability … it was meaningless, ultimately. It was the willingness to write four novels and fuck them all up and keep going that was the definer … the willingness to accept failure and not let it stop you, and to not let that define you.

And I feel like it doesn't get talked about, that idea that nobody accidentally gets published. You don't accidentally fall into writing a novel. Just the process of actually writing a novel is too damn hard for anybody to accidentally fall into it. And if somebody says, "yeah I just did it," they're probably lying. They wanted it and they went after it is what they did.

…Discipline comes from within, not from without. I think of it as being, there are those people who are waiting for the thing to arrive, and then there's people who are going out and making it. I think about it as almost theft. You almost have to steal the book from the rest of your life. There's so few things that are going to support you in the process of writing a book. There's always more child care. There's always some emergency that has to happen. There's always some reason why, you know, you have a deadline at your regular job and so you have to stay up late, and you can't get your writing done. If you're going to write it's always stolen from somebody else's time, or some other responsibility.

Life's been a bit hectic lately, complicated by such fun things as being stalked by RSI and productivity targets at the dayjob, not to mention a ludicrous quantity of errands, and it's been stealing my writing time and energy. Worse, I've been letting that happen — because the stories I have at hand are being uncooperative, and procrastinating on them is far easier than wrangling them into submission.2

Carving time out of your day and life to write is a lesson I've already learnt — but it's also one of those lessons I continually have to re-learn and re-affirm. It can be a hard fight, to carve out that time for myself and my stories, but the hardest fight is to do it consistently and incessantly, every day. Life lets me steal a pocket out of any given day without too much trouble — but when I try to steal a pocket out of every single day, life fights back. Sooner or later, life lands a suckerpunch, and I'll miss a day. That's when the slide starts, and I find myself skipping two days and promising myself if I just have the rest of the week off from writing to knock over all these errands I'll be able to start again on Saturday with a clear head.

Finding time to write, it seems, is one endless game of snakes and ladders. Only without the ladders.

Today I'm going to dodge those pesky snakes, though.

  1. And/or investing in the creative process, since it has a far wider application than simply writing []
  2. Well, okay, to be fair to me: calling life a bit hectic lately is a touch of an understatement. But still. []
Mar 122010
 

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.

Oct 112009
 

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. []
Oct 012009
 

Can you believe it's only Thursday morning? This has been the longest week known to mankind. Ever. No, really.

Perhaps it's because the weekend is staring me in the face, my already-double-booked weekend with no days to myself, and I am pre-emptively weary.

More likely it's the fact that the faerie novel hates me — no, wait, I hate it. We hate each other!

I've hit the patch in the alpha draft where it's all just an enormous muddle in my head, and I feel like I can't possibly wade forward with the words until I actually see if there's a cohesive story structure hidden beneath the detritus that is the draft so far. On the other hand, if I stop, and attempt to find said cohesive story structure, I know I'll either find myself convinced there is no story, or else convinced there is a story and if I just START AGAIN I'll find it. Or even both, which is not a marvellous headspace in the least, and I don't recommend it. At all.

I tried, on Sunday, to "quickly" scan through what I'd written so far. Not stopping, not plotting, just a read-through to jog my memory as to what happens in each scene so I know what's been set up (or failed to be set up) and what needs teasing out and what needs wrapping up. And, yup, sure enough: I want to simultaneously push onwards and FINISH THIS SUCKA and also go back to the start and write something, I don't know, SALVAGEABLE.

The solution to this dilemma would be ever so much easier if I had any idea what to write next.