Agony

For me, writing is really an agony.

Alexandra Fuller

This is not the first time I've read that a writer thinks writing is an agony.  In fact, that word, as harsh as it is, seems to come up often within the context of how many writers see the writing process. 

I guess the question I've asked myself often enough is, if writing is such an agony, why do we do it?  Why do we continue to put ourselves through something that causes us pain?  Some writers would answer, because I have no choice.  Because not writing would be even more of an agony.  I'm not sure I agree with that entirely, but I understand how they might feel that way, particularly if I haven't had the opportunity to sit down and write for a long time. 

And let's be clear here:  Writing is not an agony in the same way as lying in the dirt, near death from starvation, gunfire going off overhead in some war torn country would be.  When I sit down to write, I'm pretty comfortable in my chair, in front of the table in my writing room, or at a desk in the Silent Study Room at the local public library, my belly full, not a gun in sight. 

But I understand only too well why writing can be an agony, in a creative and spiritual sense.  And I may even have some insight, going through what I am now on the five-thousandth rewrite of Chapter One, about what the cause of that agony is. 

For me, the agony of writing is a result of the difference between how I envision the finished product of what I'm writing, versus what I have on the screen in front of me.  That difference, between fantasy and reality, really, is often so wide, I find myself literally hurting inside, that I've thus far been incapable of taking my writing any closer to what I know it could be.

The agony of writing is also about knowing I have a problem with something I've written, but not knowing exactly what that problem is or how to fix it.  I can't tell you how many times I've sat at my writing table, stared at my MacBook, and wanted to throw my hands up in despair (or worse).  "I can't do this," I tell myself.  "I've done everything I can to figure it out, and I still haven't been able to do it."

In that sense, then, the agony associated with writing is also about having to face the possibility, nearly every time you sit down to write, that you might not be a writer, after all–or, more modestly, the writer you want to be.  If what you put on the page doesn't please you, and, in your mind at least, you feel incapable of getting it there, then how does one reconcile what one wants to produce, and what one actually produces?  

In the end, words are completely harmless.  You know that, and I know that.  It's not like any one of them has the ability to shoot us with a gun, or poke our eye out, or trip us on the way out the door.  Words can't cause physical agony.

But, let me tell you, there are times I've felt literally in physical agony, because I can't figure out what the hell I'm doing, and, no matter what I do or try, it still isn't enough.  And, even worse, I'm not sure it ever will be.

The trick, I suppose, is having enough faith in our ability, and in the process, to stand out of our way and let the writing happen.  That's when I find I'm most productive, when–dare I say it–I enjoy the process of writing to the extent that I feel elevated, like I'm soaring in the sky.  These sensations don't happen nearly often enough, but, when they do, it's usually the result of bringing no expectations to what I've written, and allowing myself to receive what I was meant to put down on the page that day.

I wish that's the way writing always was.  Maybe…maybe I have a hand in making it that.

Art

Jackson Pollock's "Eyes in the Heat"

I've long struggled with why the medium for my voice isn't painting, or drawing, or sculpting, or whatever–ANYTHING but writing.

I believe, probably erroneously, that creating just about anything is easier than what I'm doing.  I mean, for goodness sake, look at what passes for art these days.  All someone has to do is splash paint on a canvas, and, assuming someone influential, usually with lots and lots of cash, catches onto it (that is, buys lots of it), then it becomes art.  Jackson Pollock, I'm talking to you (even though he's been long dead, and I think his work is kind of cool).

Yesterday, in my reading, I came upon this, in Noah Lukeman's The First Five Pages: A Writer's Guide to staying Out of the Rejection Pile, and it sort of all made sense to me why I'm struggling so hard right now to make something of Chapter One of my novel:

Other art forms, such as music and painting, force the artist to jump right in and create, but writing has a sly ability to allow its practitioners to dodge the artistic.  This may be because writing has so many inartistic (or less artistic) manifestations, from legal writing to business writing to official memos to textbooks, where the main priority is not artistic expression but the conveyance of facts.  Of course, everything has its place: if it were your responsibility to write down the minutes of your weekly business meetings and as the writer you chose to dramatize these minutes, filling them with emotion, you'd probably get fired [p. 121].

So Lukeman draws a distinction between different types of writing, between writing that would be considered practical, and writing that would be considered art.

I don't know about you, but, in the writing of my novel, I'm aiming for more than the "conveyance of facts."  I'm aiming for art.  I can't aim for anything less.  I may fall short–in fact, I know I will, in relation to any writer who's considered an artist at what he or she does–but that doesn't mean I shouldn't try.

If I'm going to sit down every writing day, and put in all the hours and effort I do, I won't settle for everyday, practical, inartistic writing.  My life is worth more than that.  I will do everything I can to produce something to the best of my ability, something I'm proud of.

And, even if not one other person sees it or thinks I've created something worthwhile, I will know I have.  In the creation of any art, that's all that matters.  That's all we can hope for.

Despair

Here's a excerpt from my daily journal, dated Wednesday, February 11, 2015, which pretty much describes what I've been going through lately:

As I write this, I feel despair.  I feel like, if I were really meant to be a writer, if I really had any talent at all to write, I wouldn't be going through what I am with Chapter One, Scene One yet again.  You read about some reader-who-knows taking a look at some writer's work, and immediately recognizing in it undeniable talent, even greatness.  Well, I think it's safe to say, when my beta reader read the version of C1S1 that I knew had some problems, but was as good as I was able to write (I hasten to add, without someone providing detailed feedback on it), he probably didn't think I had undeniable talent.  And he sure as hell didn't think I had greatness–not with the number of changes he made.  So the despair I feel not is about thinking I'm wasting my time.  It's about acknowledging I've always had to work for every bloody thing I get, and the result was still far under what others might have achieved with much less effort.  And it's about wondering if I'll even finish my novel at this rate, let alone see it published.  Or is that even the purpose of all this?  Maybe I'm meant to go through this process for the journey, for what I'll learn about myself and life and the world.  But how I'd love to earn good money with my writing, so I can pay back Chris, for how good he's been to me, giving me the time to do this, showing such faith in me.

And, later, I wrote this:

I worry I've worked so hard on this, spent so many hours on it, that it's lost its freshness, all naturalness.  It's getting to the point where I'm not sure I want to do this anymore, or if I'm even capable of doing it.  What if I'm not?  What if I'm only fooling myself?  This isn't the first time I've thought working on a novel may not be my thing.  If I should be working on, for example, personal essays, which are much like blog posts, and much easier for me to write.  And if that's where any money I might earn in the future could come from, then why do I continue doing this to myself?  Is this potentially a five-year-long mistake, that I should have figured out long ago, so I didn't waste any more time, and really do what I'm supposed to?  

The Benefits of a Beta Reader

So my beta reader really came through for me, in a BIG WAY.  About two weeks ago, I sent him Chapter One–might as well start at the beginning, so he gets familiar with the characters, what happens to them, and my style of writing–and he sent it back three days ago, covered in red.  He warned me there was a lot of red, but I took that as a good thing.  He knew I was open to anything and everything he had to say.  Like I said in my response back to him, red means improvement. 

And, boy, does it ever.

My beta reader could not have dug into the three scenes of Chapter One in more depth.  He examined every paragraph, every sentence, and every word.  He asked me to send the file to him in Word format, and suggested we use the Track Changes feature so I could see everything he changed and every comment he made.  I use Pages, Apple's word-processing application, and I'd never used the Track Changes feature in Word.  So I've had to get up to speed with how it works.  But that's what Word for Dummies is for.  I found a copy in our local library, photocopied the relevant pages, and I was good to go.

Every single change my beta reader made–even removing a comma or period–showed up in a small window on the right-hand side of the page.  The twenty-or-so page document couldn't have been more covered in these windows, which I didn't look at as daunting at all.  I began reviewing each of his comments from the beginning, and spent a number of hours reading what I had originally written, comparing it to how his changes had improved my writing.  As much work as this was to do this, I found it inspiring.  I was thrilled my beta reader had put as much into this as I'd hoped he would, and what an opportunity for me to learn in the process, so I can take what he's shown me into the rest of my novel.

My beta reader didn't go easy on me.  Here are just a few of the comments he made that called me on some of the things I'd done, or hadn't done, as the case may be:

He may be startled, but I would think there would still be an air of expectation. He seems focused, even desperate, to find love. Even after a week, I envision this guy still hoping for that phone to ring. Hope springs eternal. By establishing this at the outset, it makes David’s ultimate rejection all the more crushing for the reader as well as the main character.

Consider printing the [personal] ad here. You refer to pieces of it in the coming paragraphs but this is an example of show, don’t tell. Let the reader see this key piece of original material.

Here, I’d add more of that negative thinking we tend to go to so quickly when we feel rejected—quick thoughts about why Brian could be so easily dismissed. It will amuse the reader but also be something they relate to. Any obscure self-criticism will help define your character.

Let’s assume the reader knows this. The parenthetical is condescending. Otherwise, opt for a better known hairy reference—a Jane Goodall observation subject, Big Foot, or BJ’s buddy in BJ and the Bear. 

Show don’t tell again. That campiness should come out in specific phone dialogue. Let the reader in on more of this first conversation. I’d rather hear it than hear about it. Brian can then cringe over each campy reference, then brace for the next one. It will break up all the supposed laughter in the conversation, creating a slight reservation despite the laughter and the evolving connection. 

And this comment I really appreciated, because he was right:

To be honest, you’re taking the easy way out here. Telling, not showing. You keep referring to all this laughter without giving us a taste. It’s hard to write funny, but it’s essential here. Let the reader really see some promise based on David’s wit…enough to overcome the fact Brian was ready to write the guy off.

My beta reader spent so much time and effort into critiquing my work, it's as though the manuscript was his own novel.  As beta readers go, you can't ask for anything more than that. 

Over the past few days, I've worked hard to understand what my beta reader did, and to, at least ninety-eight percent of the time, approve every change he made.  The fresh set of eyes on my writing has improved it markedly.  I still have a long way to go to work through everything he brought to my attention, but, already, I see how his suggestions have elevated my work far higher than I could have done on my own.

I could not have asked for a better beta reader.  As you proceed on your journey to write your novel, I hope you find one as good too.  They are critical to the success of our work.

*

For my original post on beta readers, please click here.

Trust the Process

Searching through some files today, I discovered I started working on my novel in early 2010.  Which means I've been at it now five years, not the three I mentioned in an earlier post.  Five years.  Ugh!  You'll excuse me if I feel frustrated over how long this is taking. 

Then I read this in the February 2015 issue of Writer's Digest, from Tom Cooper, writer of The Marauders, in the section titled "Breaking In":

Trust the [writing] process.  It's soul-crushingly slow, but the process is slow for a reason.  Writing a decent book takes time. [p. 18].

Where was that advice in the past, when I was in despair over how much time writing my novel was taking me?  I could have used it then, as I know I'll use it many times to come, before I'm finished.  

Take heart.  If writing your novel is taking far longer than you ever thought it would, you are not alone.  Many, many writers out there, including me, are exactly in the same place you are–sitting at their desks, typing words on their keyboards, and hoping all of it will amount to something, someday. The problem is, we're just not sure when.

But, as Tom Cooper's success at publishing his book proves, it will arrive.  We just have to keep at it, have faith, and believe.

Remember, you are not alone.  And you'll get through it.

[As an aside, if you are not a subscriber to Writer's Digest, well, then I don't know what you're doing.  WD is at the top of its game since Jessica Strawser took over as editor.  Every article is more relevant to writing and publishing today than ever before.  Check it out.  You won't regret it.  Worth every penny.  Do it today.]  

Boredom

If someone had told me…  Never mind.  That's a cliche.   

What I need to say is this:  Sometimes, writing is boring as hell.

I had no idea.  I've wanted to write since I was a little boy.  I used to think, if I ever get the chance to do what I really wanted, I'll have it made.  I'll be inspired all the time.  Every day will be a fresh new experience.  I'll never want to do anything else.

Sometimes, that's the way it is.  But, sometimes, it's not.  Like several periods last week. 

I'll be sitting, for example, at a desk in the Silent Study Room at our local public library, and I'll be working away when I start to yawn.  That's often the first sign.  Then I'll feel my attention wane.  I'll be more interested in the people coming and going outside the Silent Study Room, or the librarian shelving books.  I'll check emails, once too often.  I'll find just about anything else to do except what's in front of me (like browsing in a bookI have on the table beside me, or checking out a new website, or whatever). 

In short, whatever's on my computer screen no longer engages me.  I'll sit up straighter in my chair, give my head a little shake, move closer to my screen.  But none of it helps.  My head becomes foggy, my eyes don't see what's in front of me, and all I want to do is close them.

Sometimes, I do close them, and, sitting up in the chair, I feel myself falling asleep.  More than anything, I want to put my head down and rest, like other people in the Silent Study Room do from time to time (some of them even fall asleep and snore).  But I try to fight it.  I open my eyes again, look at what's on my screen, and ask myself, what the hell's wrong with you?  You need to do this.  You need to get reconnected to what you're doing.  You don't have all day to get this work done.

Before I know it, my writing session will be over, and I'll have wasted it, closing my eyes, and wishing I could fall asleep.  It's a horrible feeling.  I want to be there.  I want to work on my writing so badly.  But I'm just not in the right frame of mind to do it that day.

Or, more likely, I'm not working on something that stimulates me. 

That's the trick, I've found.  Sometimes, I'm just bored with what I'm working on.  That doesn't mean I'll always be bored with it.  It just means it doesn't excite me enough at that particular time to keep working on it, to make some headway with it.  The best thing to do, then, is leave it alone.  Work on something else.  Instead of working on Chapter Six, Scene Three, work on Chapter Seven, Scene One.  Work on something, anything, you haven't looked at in a while.  Work on something that fires you up at that moment.

Working on the same thing when you're utterly bored with it usually isn't productive at all.  By the time my head is full of mush, and all I want to do is close my eyes and go to sleep, I'm pretty much done for the day.  It takes a lot of work to get past that while still working on the same thing.  It can be done, as I've proven to myself from time to time, but it's tough to get inspired by something that's putting you to sleep. 

So here's what I do, if I remember to, or if I'm not so determined to get one piece of work done, I keep working on it despite knowing I'm probably wasting my time.  

I take a short break.  I get up and go for a walk.  Around the house.  Around the block.  I get some fresh air.  I reinvigorate my body by getting my mind off that and putting it on something else.  I exercise.  I do jumping jacks to get my circulation going again. 

But, if you take my advice and do any of these, make sure you come back to your desk.  It's easy to take what you think will be a short break, get involved in something else, and not return to your work that day.  Don't do that.  Writing time is always brief.  Too brief.  You need to get back to it as soon as possible.  But, sometimes, even a short break away from it will allow you to be much more productive than if you hadn't taken the break at all.

Then, when you return to your desk, work on something else.  Have multiple things going at one time.  If editing that scene isn't working, then transpose another scene.  Or work on a logic problem somewhere else.  Or on better understanding your protagonist's reason for doing that.  Or edit another scene altogether.  You get the idea.

A novel involves all different kinds of work.  All of it has to be done at one time or another.  Doesn't mean you have to do that piece of it right now. 

Yes, maybe it would be nice if you could get it done now, so you could comfortably move on to something else.  But it doesn't always work that way.  If you're utterly bored with it, you're wasting your time.  And the job you're doing won't be all that good.  That piece of your novel deserves better than that.  You can't afford to be shoddy on that piece of work, just so you can move on to this other one.  How about moving on to that one right away, the one that fires you up, and returning to the other one later, when you're fired up by it once again, when you have other ideas you want to try, or when your head is really clear, and you know you'll do a good job because you feel it?

Everything will get done eventually.  A boss isn't leaning over you to make sure you get that piece of work done today, even though you're thoroughly bored with it.  When you're a writer, working on your novel, your passion, the love-of-your-life–you're the boss.  And you can work on whatever you damn well please, when you damn well please.  Use that flexibility.  Go easy on yourself.  Do what inspires you today.  Sooner or later, it'll all get done.

Make writing fun.  Don't let it become drudgery.  And fight the boredom any way you can.