Transposing

So one of the techniques I frequently use when I revise my work is what I called "transposing."  Here's how it works.

Rather than take the draft I have now and revise it in the same computer file, I use it only as a guide.  With a hard copy of that draft beside me, I retype it from the beginning.  Only, as I go along, rather than type exactly what I had before–which would be nothing more than creating a second draft of the same thing–I leave myself open to whatever changes come to me, getting them down.       

In effect, I create entirely new drafts, which are almost always better than the old drafts.  The act of retyping the draft from the beginning forces you to see every word.  And forcing yourself to see every word means you'll be less likely to gloss over them, to think they're great or fine or whatever, simply because they're there, already in place.  In other words, transposing forces you to play a more active role in creating your work.       

Try this method if you like.  It might work for you.

Breaks

Chris's vacation time has not been good for my writing this summer.  Or maybe it has been. 

First, he had two and a half weeks off in August.  Then, after just three days back to work, he had another week and a half in September.  (I know.  Don't ask.)

Today, he returned to work, and so did I, on my novel.  And it turns out the break was a good one.

When I sat down to continue revisions on Chapter 22 and Chapter 23, Scenes 1 and 2, I saw these pieces as though I hadn't written them myself.  In other words, I saw them with clarity.  And ideas on changes I should make came easily and quickly, which I'm hopeful improved my writing overall.

So when professional writers recommend taking breaks from your writing–as long as possible–before continuing revisions, believe them.  They know what they're talking about.

All the time I've taken away from my writing this summer, because my partner Chris was on vacation, and I will never choose my writing over him, made a big difference.  I recommend it.

It turns out, break time from your writing is constructive time too. 

Extra Words

Sometimes, how we say something finds its way into our writing, and that may not always be for the best.      

My beta reader, RG, caught me using the verb "blurt out," when only blurt was needed.  To confirm he was right, I looked up the definition of "blurt."  Here's what I found:  "say (something) suddenly and without careful consideration."  "Out" wasn't needed at all to get across the meaning I intended.   

In a local newspaper, I found the following:  "Work is underway on fixing up the former Sleep Shop building…."  "On" and "up" aren't needed.  Doesn't "Work is underway fixing the former Sleep Shop building" sound better, more concise, clearer?

In a memoir I finished reading yesterday, I found this:  "I shivered and wrapped myself up in the towel and made my way back to my room."  See the opportunities for improvement?  Again, "up" isn't needed, along with the first "and."  With a little more revision, here's what this sentence could look like:  "I shivered, wrapped myself in the towel, and returned to my room." 

I realize I'm being picking, but, according to all the writing manuals, writing shouldn't contain even one more word than is necessary.  Our responsibility, then, is to ensure our writing is lean, while still keeping our meaning clear.  In most cases, eliminating unnecessary words has that exact result.  

Something to think about when revising.

Withholding

One of the greatest lessons I've learned about writing is that I don't have to spell out everything.  Period.

I go back to what Mrs. Cassidy taught me about creative writing in Grade Twelve.  Don't confuse the reader.  Tell him what you want him to know.  Write in plain English.

Okay, well some of that advice has done me well over the years.  But, the more I work on my novel, the more I realize I don't have to do it all the time.  If it serves my story, I can play around with it as much as I want to. 

Here are a few examples:

1).  Start a thought or concept in one scene, and finish it in another.  Just because I brought up a subject in Chapter 21, Scene 3 doesn't mean I have to finish it there.  I can finish it in Chapter 23, Scene 1 or Chapter 27, Scene 4, if that's what works best for the story.  Don't spill it all at once.  Hold off.  Create a little mystery, a little intrigue.  It won't hurt the reader one bit to wait to get a full sense of what you mean.  And by holding off, you may even motivate the reader to read on.   

2).  Sometimes, you don't have to say anything at all.  In other words, you don't have to be explicit.  By leaving it out, not mentioning it, the reader can take from that what you want him to know.  For example, at the time David dies, he doesn't have a partner.  I don't have to state that outright.  I can let his obit speak for me.  If the obit says nothing about David having a partner, then the reader can assume he doesn't.  Let the reader fill in the blanks.  He'll figure it out.   

On and Off

With Chris now back at work, after a week's vacation, I returned to my own work yesterday–specifically, in this case, reviewing the second round of feedback on Chapter One I received from my beta reader, RG.

As I reviewed all of his comments in detail, I came upon this reminder:

Arrive at the scene as late as possible;
leave the scene as soon as possible.

In other words, don't give the reader anything more than he needs.  

Go ahead and write big during the first draft.  In fact, the bigger, the better.  Unleash your imagination.

The first draft is your opportunity to get it all out on the page, everything that comes to you.  You never know when a simple thought or phrase, or even a word, will help you figure out what the scene should be. 

Then, when you get into the serious editing, delete all the introductory and concluding material that sets up and summarizes but really contributes nothing new or important.  

Get your characters on stage doing something important to the story as soon as possible.  And, when they're done, get them off the stage.

A good reminder, RG.  Thanks. 

Information Dumps

This past Saturday, I received Chapter One back from my beta reader, RG.  This was the second time he'd taken a look at it–I believe the most problematic one of the entire novel so far–and, again, he'd spent a crazy amount of time going through it, providing more detailed feedback than I have a right to hope for.  Yet, it's clear he's taking this task seriously, and I'm forever grateful to him for that.

Thus far, I've only had the opportunity to review his comments in passing; once Chris is back at work–he's on vacation now until June 1–I will go through RG's comments in detail, and learn from them. 

But I noticed one thing that didn't get my back up so much as disappointed me.  It relates to the following paragraph, which occurs in Chapter One, Scene Three: 

A low, cream-colored sofa stood against the wall to my right, book-ended by two tall, thin lamps with cloth shades on small, matching tables.  A brass-framed, glass-topped coffee table sat in front of the sofa, while, at the other end of the long room, a black-lacquered, square table, surrounded by four, black, high-backed leather chairs, dominated the dining area.

Here was RG's comment affixed to this paragraph:

I'm not sure the point of this paragraph of description.  It feels more like a writer's exercise.  What in the room matters?  The seating options, for sure, as Brian must plan where he'd like to sit when David comes with the drinks.  Perhaps there's a mirror where Brian can quickly glimpse himself to check out his hair or ensure there are no dinner remnants between his teeth.  Lamps and tables?  Not relevant.

My initial reaction was, Wow!  Two sentences.  And two sentences I worked so hard on.  Two I felt really good about, actually.  I knew I didn't want the description of one of my major character's furnishing to go on forever–and I would never have allowed that to happen–but couldn't I have two sentences?  Just two?

Since I read RG's comment late Saturday evening, my subconscious has been working on it.  And, today, I had another epiphany–that is, I connected his comment to something I'd read in the past, and saw how it applies directly to me.

RG is right.  First, the description stops the action cold.  Second, what's really critical for the reader to know?  Honestly?  Nothing in this paragraph.  Not a word.  As I think through the remainder of the novel, the reader doesn't need anything I included here (no matter how succinctly, or beautifully, I may have written it).

This is called an information dump, and, according to Don McNair, in Editor-Proof Your Writing: 21 Steps to Clear Prose Publishers and Agents Crave, they should be avoided.  Here's what McNair has to say about information dumps:

Information dumps are like ornaments bunched together on a Christmas tree. 

And, if necessary, Work the information into the story.  Make facts a part of the action.

So here's what I need to do. 

I need to be sure none of what I described in this paragraph is necessary to the telling of the story.  If any of it is, I need to work it into the action.  If those two tall, thin lamps suddenly become critical to the telling of my characters's stories, one of them has to turn them on, perhaps while saying something to the other.  As RG put it, I need to make them relevant.

If they are never relevant, they need to go.  (Sniff.)

When In Doubt, Leave It Out

Many years ago, when I sat down to help a colleague write performance reviews for people I had supervised, and that she then supervised, there were occasions when I thought something should be said about their performance, but I couldn't figure out the best way to say it, or I couldn't fit it in to what had already been said.  

After we'd struggled particularly hard with one person's review, exasperated, my colleague looked at me and said, "When in doubt, leave it out."

Fast forward to last week.

There I was revising my novel, and I found myself in the same situation:  I had three paragraphs I really liked.  I thought what they said was important to the story, and I really wanted them to work.  But I kept going over and over the same section, trying like hell to make these three paragraphs fit in.  And I still couldn't make them work. 

Then I remembered my former colleague's advice:  "When in doubt, leave it out."

If I have to struggle that hard to work something into my story, and I just can't make it happen, then if that isn't a sign to delete it and move on, I don't know what is.

Which is exactly what I did.  Gone.  The three paragraphs in question.

And you know what?  It turns out they weren't needed, after all.  After I deleted them, I read the section they came from and realized, by adjusting a few words, the reader would have no idea they had once been there and were now missing.

And, not only that, but also I realized what those three paragraphs said was stated elsewhere.  Maybe not in three easy paragraphs, but in different places, suggested, hinted at.  Removing them gave the reader the chance to put the pieces together himself.  I didn't have to spell out anything for him.  If he had been engaged in the story to that point, he would have everything he needed to get what the three deleted paragraphs told him.

In other words, I didn't have to summarize anything for the reader.  And I didn't have to hit him over the head with what I wanted him to get, either.

So my best advice for today is, "When in doubt, leave it out."

Or, "When you can't fit it in, get rid of it."  Chances are you don't need it, anyway.

Take it out, read it through, and see if I'm not right.

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.           

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.       

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.

Beta Reader

An alpha reader or beta reader…, also pre-reader or critiquer, is a non-professional reader who reads a written work, generally fiction, with the intent of looking over the material to find and improve elements such as grammar and spelling, as well as suggestions to improve the story, its characters, or its setting. Beta reading is typically done before the story is released for public consumption. Beta readers are not explicitly proofreaders or editors, but can serve in that context.

Elements highlighted by beta readers encompass things such as plot holes, problems with continuity, characterization or believability; in fiction and non-fiction, the beta might also assist the author with fact-checking.

(From Wikipedia)

I first heard the term "beta reader" at a once-a-month meeting of the Golden Ears Writing Group, when a guest speaker–a woman I confess not liking much, because of her pretentious fist-bumping and overall arrogance–suggested to all writers in attendance that, if they didn't have a beta reader, they better get one, or two, or six, before submitting their work for publication anywhere.

Fortunately, I was way ahead of her.  For the previous year or so, Jeanette and I have been meeting via Skype, on an irregular but consistent basis, so she can provide feedback on anything and everything she sees in my scenes and chapters that's wrong or doesn't work for her.  I graduated from high school in June 1977 with Jeanette; in fact, she was my escort to our graduation ceremony.  Over the years, we've stayed in touch, and I knew, because of how much I trust her and her honesty, that she'd make a great beta reader.  That she has.  I look forward to meeting with her for an hour or so once in a while, to go over my work, and I value her opinion.

But–on this point, the speaker at the writing group and I agree–one beta reader isn't enough.

So, recently, I asked someone else if he'd ever considered being a beta reader.  The curious thing is, I've never met him in person.  But, in this age of connecting with people online, and learning more about them there, through their blogs, for example, than you might if you'd been close friends for years, I thought he'd make a perfect beta reader.  Actually, I thought he'd be a perfect beta reader for a number of reasons:  He's a fellow writer, I've read everything he's written on his blog for years, I love his style of writing, I respect and trust him, and I know he'll be honest in what he says and improve my writing markedly.  And you know what?  He said he was flattered to be asked, and he'd like to give it a try.

Yesterday morning, I sat down to write him a very long email, to bring him up to speed on my novel: at a base level, what it's about, who the characters are, what I'm looking for from him, that sort of thing.  At the end of my email, I asked if he wanted to receive a piece of my writing, to make sure he didn't find so much wrong with it that it would require a major commitment in time and effort on his part to take on the role of a beta reader.  He's been following my blog for years too, so he already knows my style of writing, and he seems to have no problem with it.  Still, taking on the load of a beta reader might be a lot, and I want to give him the option of bowing out if necessary, for whatever reason.  I hope that won't be the case.  I can't tell you how excited I am to work with him.

To that end, I took out Chapter One, yet again, and put more polish on it, so I can send it to my new beta reader.  While Jeanette and I are working on Chapter Sixteen, my new beta reader needs to begin at the beginning, so he gets a sense of the story at the outset, and so he understands the continuity of it.

Plus, from my perspective, Chapter One is still the most problematic.  I can't tell you how many times I've gone over it, how much time I've devoted to it over the months, restructuring and rewording everything.  Chapter One, after all, is the door into my novel, as it is to any novel.  Of all the writing in the book, it has to be the best.  Those first few pages are critical in admitting the reader into the story, and making him want to stay there and root around for a while. 

I can't wait for my new beta reader to see Chapter One, and to receive his feedback, whatever form it takes.  I know he'll help my writing be the best it can be, and that's an exciting prospect.

Happy writing.

Go Deeper

So, today, after cleaning up and reorganizing myself like I wrote about in yesterday's post, I completed three rounds of edits on Chapter 5 and two rounds of edits on Chapter 9.  Remember, these two chapters used to be the first two scenes of what was going to be Chapter 12–until I decided they needed to be split up and placed elsewhere in my narrative.

Editing is a funny thing.  You get to the point in a piece when you think the editing is mostly done.  You read what you have, sit back, satisfied that your writing sounds pretty good, and feel the impulse to move on to something else. 

But don't.  Because, over and over again, I've learned that, when you think the editing of a piece is done, it really isn't.  In fact, that's the time to go deeper, to really see what's on the page, to visualize what the characters are doing, and to fine tune exactly what you want to say. 

Here are some of the questions I asked myself during my editing session today:

1.  Am I making the reader feel what's going on?
2.  Am I attending to all the details that make writing, and the story, come alive?
3.  Have I taken enough risks to stretch myself as a writer, and to take my writing to places it wouldn't otherwise go? 

I suspect these are the questions we should always ask ourselves as we edit our work.

No better opportunity exists to make your writing sing than through editing.  Use it, fully.

Happy editing.