My Editing Process

In the previous post, I wrote about returning to editing Chapter Eighteen.  I thought I'd write a few words about what the editing process looks like for me.  What, after editing the previous seventeen chapters, I've figured out is the best way to revise and rewrite, at least as far as I can tell.

So not having seen Chapter Eighteen in a very long time (years, in fact), I had to reread it in detail to become familiar with its contents again.

While the file containing my novel is in StoryMill–writing software I use, which I wrote about some months ago–when I'm editing anything, I prefer copying and pasting it in Pages, Apple's word processing software.  Yes, I could edit in StoryMill.  In fact, I know I should.  But, for me, I'd prefer to put the file I'm working on in a place where I can be as messy as I need to be to get the job done–and not worry about what it looks like.  That's just one of my idiosyncrasies.  All writers have them.

Okay.  So I copied Chapter Eighteen in StoryMill and pasted it in a new document in Pages.  Now what.

Chapter Eighteen has four scenes.  Psychologically, I feel more comfortable editing something if I think I'm working on a smaller project, like a short story, for example.  So, in the single Pages file, I broke up Chapter Eighteen into its four scenes (which could be considered like a short story each).  I began each scene on a new page, within the same file.  Now I was ready to get to work.

I started at the beginning of Scene One.  I believe it's easier to work on subsequent scenes if I know what's happening in the scene preceding it.  One is a continuation of the other, so that makes sense, right?  (Although, if starting in any of the four scenes would work better for you, go right ahead.)

The first step in editing for me is what I call "putting all the pieces in place."  At the time I wrote the first draft of the chapter, I may have thought it contained everything that needed to be there.  But I find that's not always the case.  Sometimes, I identify a piece of a scene that doesn't need to be there.  Then, I delete it.  (I've just remembered another reason why I cut a chapter out of StoryMill and paste it in a Pages file:  Because then I still have a copy of the original document, in case I need to go back and refer to what was there before I made a change in the Pages document.)  Sometimes, I realize I need to add something to the first draft of a scene.  I identify where to insert it and do it right away in the Pages document, while the idea is still fresh in my mind.

Often, I find that, by the time I get to the end of juggling the contents of a scene, I have a real mess on my hands.  I usually like to see what I have in front of me, rather than have to move a document up and down on a screen in order to find what I'm looking for.  So, that being the case, I print a copy of the scene after I've made the initial deletions and insertions.  That way, I can refer to it in subsequent rounds of edits.

And there will be lots and lots of those.  After those initial deletions and insertions, I look at the scene as a rough and rocky road.  Hopefully, I have all the content I want to include–although that might not be the case for some time to come.  In ongoing rounds of edits, I review the scene over and over and over and over and over again, forever making changes, initially large ones, then progressively smaller ones, in the process rounding things off, making things smoother, in the hope of eventually having a paved road on my hands.

It takes a long time to get there.  Some rounds of edits are more productive than others.  Sometimes, I really see what's on the page and make some significant improvements to my work.  Other times, I'm just not into it, and make only the odd improvement here and there.

Here's how I look at improvements.  Even if I review an eight to ten page scene, and make only a few changes, those few changes might be just what I need to see how I need to make even bigger changes the next time I look at the same scene.  I may not see the changes I need to make today, but, because they're there, and because I'm in a different mood or place when I look at them later, I might see something that I know will help me get closer to what I really want to say.    

And here's something else to consider about editing.  Let's say you have a paragraph you love.  You don't want to make any more changes to it…except for that one sentence in the very middle.  It just doesn't sit right with you, for some reason.  

During a round of editing, you might read that one sentence again and, finally, understand what's not working about it, what you need to do to make it better.  So you make the changes to it.  And you're thrilled with that sentence.  Why didn't you see the changes you should have made to it much sooner?

But, the problem is, with those changes you made to that single sentence, all at once, the rest of the sentences in the paragraph–the ones you loved and didn't want to touch again–don't work anymore.  Or parts of them don't work.  The same word is repeated too many times.  Or one sentences no longer flows naturally into the other ones.  What that one sentence has done is change the context of all the sentences around it.

Unfortunately, this means you have to look at all the sentences in that paragraph again, and you have to make some changes to more of them so they all work together.  It's okay.  I say "unfortunately," but I really mean "fortunately."  Every change you make during the editing process, whether you keep the change permanently, or change it again and again and again, puts in increasingly closer to where you want your work to be.

So never become impatient with the editing process.  Never.  Give it all the time it needs.  Keep working until that rough road is smooth.  No time you put into editing is wasted.  You'll see what time and hard work will do to improve your writing.  And, in the end, you'll be grateful you put as much into it as you did.           

Worksheets

I've resumed rewrites where I left off on my novel, before I received feedback from my beta reader on a problematic Chapter One, and ended up devoting the following two and a half months making most of the changes he suggested.  That puts me back on Chapter Eighteen, and the four scenes that comprise it.   

I'm not sure when I wrote the first draft of Chapter Eighteen, but I'm guessing three or more years ago.  So, while I vaguely remember what happened in it, the first thing I needed to do was re-familiarize myself with its contents.  Then I had to figure out how what I'd written years ago fits in to what comes before it–if it still does at all.

This is where I want to introduce the concept of worksheets, which I've used throughout the process of writing my novel.

What is a worksheet?

Just what the term suggests.  If I have a problem with anything related to my novel, and I have to work through it for whatever reason–whether to satisfy myself about something or to better understand it–I prepare a worksheet.   

In the case of Chapter Eighteen, I had to understand (work through) what happens in the chapter in relation to how I want to tell it.  That is, I had to decide if a start to finish telling is the best way to go (may be a little dull for the reader), or if hopping around a bit, between the "present" action (which is actually the past) and flashbacks (if I do this, it might be a little confusing for the reader) is the right way to reveal the chapter.     

So here's what I did:

1.  I took out a letter-sized sheet of yellow, lined paper.
2.  I dated the sheet, because I like to keep track of when I work on things throughout my project.
3.  I titled the sheet "Chronology of Chapter 18, Grant."
4.  I listed all the events, in date order, that make up the basis of this chapter.  And finally,
5.  I identified when the best time was to begin the telling of this chapter in the overall chronology.   

Worksheets can be hand-written or typed, whichever you prefer.  Because I'm old-school–and because I spend enough time in front of my MacBook, typing away–I usually opt to hand-write my worksheets.  For me, there's still something more immediate in pushing a pen across a sheet of paper, recording the words that come to mind.  Somehow, I feel more connected to what I write.   

The beauty of worksheets, as I see it, is they can be used for any difficulty you're having with your novel.  Yes, you could just sit in your chair, stare into space, ponder the challenge before you, and figure out what you need to know–without writing down a word.  But that's not at all the same for me. 

Because I hand-write a daily journal, everything I write on a piece of paper has more significance, means something more than just deciding what to do and keeping that decision in my head.  Anything I hand-write is more tangible, and, later, I can refer to it again, when I've worked on many more things in the interim, and forgotten all the details of the conclusions I arrived at.   

Worksheets work for me.  They may or may not work for you.  If you're struggling to understand something important in your novel, and you want (or need) to get it clear in your mind before you move forward, preparing one or more worksheets just might do the trick.

Couldn't hurt to try them, right?

Figurative Writing

Dear Mrs. Cassidy.  Back in the late 1970s, when I took a creative writing class from her, she used to drill into her students that we needed to be clear and precise in our writing, to say exactly what we meant to say, so we wouldn't confuse the reader.  Obscurity was the enemy.  We had to avoid it, whatever we did.

I took her instruction to heart, because I accepted she knew what she was talking about.  For the better part of forty years, I've tried to make my writing as clear and concise as possible, hoping that whoever read it would understand it, as I intended for it to be understood.  Nothing wrong with that…except, what about figurative writing?  What about not being so direct?  What about art?

It's all around us, figurative writing is.  It makes the language in novels sing.  It accounts for some of the most beautiful lyrics in songs we love and never forget.  And it hits us in the gut, makes us feel something.  It references experiences we're all familiar with, that we all relate to.

The thing about figurative writing is, maybe we don't always need to be so direct.  Maybe we can hint at what we intend to say.  Suggest it.  Maybe we shouldn't be obscure, but maybe we don't need to necessarily spell out everything, either.  Maybe we should make the reader think.  Make him work a bit.  Allow him to experience what we've written for himself.  

Here's what I'm talking about from one of my current favorite songs, "Rather Be" by Clean Bandit.

Instead of saying, we're going through a difficult time, feeling anxious, confused, fearful, the song says, "We're a thousand miles from comfort." A more colorful way of saying the same thing, right?  And who among us doesn't know that feeling?

And instead of saying, we've been through a lot (a rather dull way of putting it), the song says, "We have traveled land and sea."

Now, it's possible whoever wrote this song meant for the lyrics to be taken literally:  We are a thousand miles from home and feeling uncomfortable, and we have traveled a long distance, over continents and oceans.  But I'd like to think these lines are figurative, suggesting more than what the words say.

And that is the beauty of figurative writing.  Simple statements can be taken literally, but they can also mean so much more.  And they say it in more colorful, and thought-provoking, language.  So whether you take them literally or figuratively, you'll understand and enjoy them.

For me, figurative writing comes back to showing instead of telling.  When you sit down to write, think about what you're feeling, or what your characters are feelings.  Then, instead of stating those feelings outright, translate them into some sort of action, something that could happen in the real world.  By doing that, you'll put the reader where you are, and you'll make him feel the same thing.

To experience "Rather Be," click here.

Editing

Here's the thing about editing:  Every time you sit down to edit your work, you'd like to think you're fully engaged in what you're doing.  But there's a good chance you're not.  I've found this, anyway.

You know how I know that?  Because, as I've worked on editing the three scenes of Chapter One–using feedback my beta reader provided–sometimes the words register, and sometimes they don't.  Too often, they don't.  Not to the degree I wish they did.   

Then I get a day like this past Wednesday.  To use an old cliche, it's like I'm firing on all cylinders.  I read the words I've written, and it's as if I've seen them for the first time.  Really.  At least in the way I need to see them.

The meaning of each word is perfectly clear, as is the meaning of the phrases and sentences the words make up.  A word or phrase, I thought said exactly what I wanted it to, falls short.  Doesn't quite get there.  Another word, or another construction of a phrase comes to me, and I know, for a fact, I've finally gotten there. 

That's usually when I sit back and wonder, why didn't I see that before?  Why did I read it a dozen, two dozen, six dozen times or more, and not see it?  Because I was so used to what I'd written, so sure it was right, that, when I read it, it didn't fully register.  I wasn't in it.  I wasn't there, seeing the action unfold as I'd written it. 

The trick, then, is not to accept anything you've written–not to become complacent–until you know for sure that it's exactly right.  A tough thing to do, because it's tough to stop our lives from going on around us, even for a short time, and to focus only on that one piece of writing.  But that's what we must try to do, every time we sit down to work.

You'll know when you finally get it right.  Not only will your head tell you it's right, but your heart will too.  When you know in your heart that the words you've captured on the page ring as true as they possibly can, make the image you've created stand up and seem as if three-dimensional…well, then, you'll know you finally have it.

And there's no better feeling.  Especially to a writer.       

Crafting

A quick word about crafting today.

Last week, as I worked on Chapter One, Scene Three, reviewing the comments (once again) that my beta reader had sent me and trying to find the best way to write what I wanted to say, the word crafting came into my head.  I realized I was crafting my story, in the same way a painter crafts his painting, a sculptor crafts his sculpture, or a drawer crafts his drawing.

I've just looked up the definition of crafting:  exercising skill in making something.

But, for me, it goes much further than that.

I love when I read a review of a book, and it says the writer crafted his story.  What a compliment.  What a beautiful thing to say.

That tells me the writer focused on the details, searched for just the right word, played with the order of words and phrases and sentences and even paragraphs, tried as many options as were necessary to find just the right way to put something.  Never giving up, until he knew he couldn't get any closer to what he needed to say.

That tells me he spent the time with it.

It's easy to dash off any piece of writing.  It's easy to get a series of words on the page and call it done.  What's not so easy is working with it, shaping it, molding it, caressing it, turning and twisting it.  Why?  Because all of that takes time.  Lots and lots of time.

And patience too.  We want everything right now.  Even writers.  Especially writers.  We want to finish this project, so we can move on to the next one. 

But, sometimes, what we're working on deserves so much more.  Sometimes, what we're working on can be so much more–if we just have the patience, if we put the time into it–however long that might be–and if we craft it, in the process becoming a better writers.

Work on crafting your writing.  It'll be time well-spent.  You'll be more pleased with your work, and you'll grow as a writer, more than you know.     

Adverbs

So we all know adverbs should be kept to an absolute minimum, right?  You do know that?

Well, then, how did I think I'd get away with this sentence from Chapter One, Scene Three of my novel?

David resembled a little old lady behind the steering wheel, gingerly maneuvering out of the tight parallel parking spot near the restaurant, carefully negotiating busy intersections on city streets, and consistently obeying the speed limit to a fault. 

Bless my beta reader for letting me get away with this sentence.  In the second round of edits, of this same sentence I planned to refer to my beta reader, I'd even written a comment, asking him if it was "acceptable" to use so many adverbs–in a single sentence.

But I already knew the answer.  Every time I read this overloaded–and, need I say, vague thing–I stopped, knowing it was wrong, but not knowing how to fix it.

Then, a couple days ago, I figured it out.  And it was a lot easier to figure out than I thought it would be.

In general, adverbs–words ending in "ly"–signify lazy writing.  They let the writer off the hook, is what they do.  They allow him to skim the surface of what he really wants to say.

If I'm a reader, what do the verbs maneuver, negotiate, and obey really tell me?  Not a whole hell of a lot.  They sort of hint at the meaning of what I, the writer, want to say, but they don't go deep enough.

When I sat in my chair, looked at this sentence, and asked myself "What is David really doing?", I had to figure out how David would maneuver out of this tight parallel parking spot.  What would he physically do?  In other words, what's the real action, in the real world, here?  And I did the same for the other two phrases.

Finally, here's what I came up with, including a few other edits to eliminate unnecessary words and to strengthen this sentence:  

Sitting behind the steering wheel, David reminded me of a little old lady, edging out of the tight parallel parking spot near the restaurant, peering in each direction before passing through busy intersections, and driving at or below the speed limit.

See the difference?

Instead of writing David "gingerly maneuvered," he "edged".
Instead of "carefully negotiating," he "peered."
Instead of "consistently obeying," he "drove." 

Edged, peered, and drove are all actions words.  They are actions each of us does nearly every day when we get into our cars and go places in them.  In a piece of writing, they also tell the reader what your character is doing.  Because of their specificity, they allow the reader to relate exactly to the actions the character takes. 

So what have we learned here?

We've learned that, to rid your writing of most–or all?–adverbs, ask yourself, what, in the real world, is my character doing here?  What could he do, in the here and now, that would allow him to do what I need him to do?

The easiest way to do this is to put yourself in the position of your character.  You're in that tight parking spot.  Like David, you're a cautious driver, driving, in this case, a 1959 Pontiac Bonneville convertible, in excellent condition.  What would you do to get your prized car home?

Sit in your chair and think about it.  Don't give up until you figure it out.  Your writing will be the stronger for it, believe me.