Lost in C23S2

For the last hour and a half of my writing session today, this time back at home, I completely lost myself in Chapter 23, Scene 2.  I sat down to tinker, got taken up in what I was doing, and, an hour and a half later, realized I needed to stop and make dinner.   

That hour and a half felt like a few minutes. 

Getting lost in your writing is a magical experience.  Something overcomes you, you go into the zone, and lose all track of time.  There's nothing like this feeling–where you lose all awareness of everything around you.  There's only you and your work.  That's it.  (That's all there needs to be.)

Do I get lost in my work every time I sit down to do it?  Oh, I wish.  Not nearly often enough.  But, when it happens, there's no better feeling.  I can't imagine being anywhere else.

It's a special time.

Walter Mosley's Advice About Dialogue

Every time characters in your novel speak, they should be:  (1) telling us something about themselves; (2) conveying information that may well advance the story line and/or plot; (3) adding to the music or mood of the scene, story, or novel; (4) giving us a scene from a different POV (especially if the character who is speaking is not connected directly to the narrative voice); and/or (5) giving the novel a pedestrian feel.

(From This Year You Write Your Novel, by Walter Mosley, pp. 88-89.)

Where some writing books are long-winded, making writers work to find nuggets of information, Mosley's is short and filled with practical advice.  Check it out.    

Serendipity

Writing is a funny thing.

Last week, I started revisions on Chapter Twenty-Two.  The first draft I had of this chapter, which I wrote probably two or more years ago, was awful and had to be completely rewritten.

What did I have to work with?

Well, I had the basis of the conversation between the two main characters–that is, I knew what they need to talk about, and what needs to come out of that discussion.  I also had an opening line (which is more than I often have, allowing me to build a conversation, one line of dialogue naturally following the other).  And that's it. 

Last week, I crafted the conversation.  When I had that, I realized I didn't have a setting for the two main characters.  Where does this conversation take place?  And does where it takes place contribute more than just a setting to the story–in other words, does it add to, or enhance, the story in some way?

I took a look at a list of potential settings I recorded nearly five years ago, and identified all the ones I could use that I hadn't yet (because I don't want the characters in the same place all the time; that's too boring for the reader, and for me, as the writer).  There were four, and, for some reason, I chose Vancouver's West End, the two main characters walking down a street, on their way to a new condo building.

Why are these characters walking to this new condo building?  Because David, the secondary main character, is going to see the new condominium a gay couple has just bought.  David's previously told, Brian, the main character, that the gay couple are unhappy with a large cement column in the center of their condo, which breaks the sight line between the entrance and the view outside their window at the opposite end of the room.

When I selected this setting, I had no idea why.  But my subconscious has been working on it since.

Both Brian and David are gay men, who are desperate to find love.  But a bunch of obstacles stand in their way, not the least of which is their low self-esteem.

What Brian and David talk about on the way to seeing this condo is an experience Brian recently had with a young woman, Carla, who's a colleague of his (in fact, Brian supervises her).  The young woman is plain, overweight, and obsessively in love with Brian.  Carla is also afflicted with low self-esteem, which accounts, in part, for why she's fallen in love with a man she can never have.  (It's kind of complex, but hopefully I've revealed enough here for it to make sense.)

Here's how I wrote this in my journal:  "Brian's unusual experience with Carla figuratively removes the column in the way of Brian–and David–seeing why they haven't met the right men yet (their own low self-esteem is in the way).  The question is, will they see that?"

I don't know how writing turns out this way, but, over the time I've been working on my novel, it's happened time and again.  I bring together two elements that seem to have no relationship, only to realize later there's a serendipitous connection between them.  

So cool.

We have to trust our instincts when we write.  We don't always understand the choices we make, but we've made them for reasons.  Over time, those reasons will be revealed, if we stick with it and have faith.    

Get Down Something

Here's what I've found.

When I'm really struggling to figure out how to fix something in my writing, I write down something, anything, it doesn't matter what. 

I may be frustrated because I know what I wrote still isn't right.  But that doesn't matter.  Because the trick is that getting something down is better than getting nothing down at all.

And even if it's not right, it might suggest something that gets you closer to what is right.  If you leave it alone for now, you might come back to it later and see exactly what it should be.  All because you went with what suggested itself at the time, even though you knew it wasn't what you'd end up with. 

Sure it would be nice to find the right answer immediately.  But it doesn't always work like that.  Sometimes, you have to spend some time circling around it before you figure out what it should be.

Try it.

I hope it works for you too. 

An Experiment

I'm going to try something.  I don't know if it'll work, but I'm going to try it anyway.

In writing, there's what I call narrative and action.

In narrative, the writer stops the action and describes or explains something.

In action, the writer shows the characters doing or saying something.

Invariably, readers want to see characters do or say something.  When characters do or say something, they involve the reader.  When the action stops, readers lose interest in the story.  Then you, the writer, have a problem.

I love to explain.  In the first draft (and subsequent drafts) of my novel, I stop the action all the time and explain something.  The something I stop to explain may relate to the action, but sometimes it may not.  For pages at a time, the action flags.  I get bored reading all the narrative, and I'm the writer.  Imagine how bored the reader would get–if my writing ever made it to a reader. 

So what do I want to try?

When I'm rewriting, I want to eliminate virtually all of the narrative.  I want to continuously show the characters doing or saying something.  And, if I really need the reader to know something–only so he doesn't get lost–I want whatever the characters do or say to reveal it.  

The experiment will be to see if I lose my beta reader in the process.  He's very perceptive.  He's a smart guy.  He'll be able to fill in the blanks I don't provide.  And, if he can't fill them in, then he'll let me know something's missing.  That will be my cue to add a bit of narrative. 

But only a bit.

See, that's my problem.  When I start explaining, there's no end to it.

Overwriting

I'm going to share with you some examples of overwriting in my writing, that I hope will help you recognize them in yours.  

Believe me, I'm not proud of any of these.  What can I say?  I'm an over-writer.  I believe I have to spell out everything for the reader so he gets it all.  And, not only do I have to spell it out, but also I have to repeat it.  If you don't get it the first time, you better get it the second. 

Ugh!

If I could only figure out how not to do this in first drafts.  I'd be able to save myself so much time.  

At least I found some of these before my beta reader did.

Here we go:

Example #1:

Overwriting:  "I'm in love," David announced.  I looked at him.  He was ready to burst.

Better:  "I'm in love," David announced.  He looked ready to burst. 

If the protagonist could see David was ready to burst, then, obviously, he was already looking at him.

Example #2:

Overwriting:  I heard the quiver in my voice.

Better:  My voice quivered.

Why tell the reader your character heard himself.  Just have the character do it.

Example #3:

Overwriting:  He extended his arms above his head in a stretch.

Better:  He stretched.

So unnecessarily wordy.  Does the reader really want to read all that, when he could get the same idea with two words?
Example #4:

Overwriting:  "Living here's been easier than living in Vagina–I mean Regina."  He corrected himself, then chuckled.

Better:  "Living here's been easier than living in Vagina–I mean Regina."  He chuckled.

The character corrects himself in what he says.  No need to tell the reader he did it.

Example #5:

Overwriting:  Where we talked, laughed, and enjoyed ourselves.

Better:  Where we talked and laughed.

If the characters are talking and laughing, they're probably enjoying themselves.

The Ongoing Struggle with Show and Tell

If I recall correctly, show and tell was easy when I was a kid.  I'd bring something to school, dazzle everyone with what it was, and dazzle them further with what I told everyone about it (come to think of it, I don't remember show and tell at all, but this is what I imagine it was).

Not so in writing.

I continue to struggle with when to tell and when to show in my writing (which I've already written several posts about here).

And then I found this in Alice LaPlante's The Making of a Story: A Norton Guide to Creative Writing:

…Show the important stuff.  Important behaviors, important interactions, important speeches, conversations….  Anything that changes the situation of the story, novel, or essay in a significant way should happen in "eyewitness" mode [p. 213].

And this:

…Often we can tell something more efficiently, elegantly, beautifully, or subtly than we could hope to do if dramatizing it.  In such cases, we should eliminate the dramatization, or scene, in favor of narration [p. 216].

I hope this helps.  If you're struggling with the same thing, I believe what LaPlante has to say about it makes a lot of sense.

Happy writing.

Boredom #2

I haven't yet figured out how, one day, I can look at a piece of writing I've worked on a thousand times before and be so bored, I nearly fall off my chair.  Yet, the next day, I can work on the very same piece of writing again, and be thoroughly engaged in it.

If I figure out the difference between the two, I'll let you know.

I hate wasting a good writing session because I'm bored out of my tree, yet it seems to be unavoidable.

If you have any ideas–beyond getting up, doing a few stretches, or even going for a short walk in the fresh air–on how to solve this problem, please let me and my readers know.

Writing Classes

Who needs writing classes when virtually every book we pick up is a potential class in how, or how not, to write–if we look at them that way?  That was my motivation a few weeks ago behind picking up a copy of Toni Morrison's Home at the local public library.

A little history about my experience with Toni Morrison's writing. 

When Oprah selected several of Morrison's novels for her book club years ago, well, like everyone else, I bought them and started reading with every good intention.  Then, when the reading got tough–I mean really tough–the weak (that's me, and apparently many others) gave up.  What the hell is Morrison talking about?  I had no idea. 

And, while Morrison told Oprah, after several viewers criticized Oprah's book club choices because they were difficult to understand and took a lot of work, that that's called reading, I didn't agree.  There are too damn many good books out there to read, understand, and enjoy, without having to struggle unnecessarily with the odd one or two. 

Time to move on to the reading experience I'm looking for.   

After that little excursion, I didn't think I'd pick up another Morrison book.  Ever. 

And then I saw Home sitting on the library shelf.  And it was short, blessedly short–just 147 pages.  Surely, I told myself, I can get through that.  Surely, I can understand what goes on in 147 pages–if I break it all down, work through one section at a time before moving on to the next.  Even the laziest reader can do that.   

And let's not forget, to some people, Morrison is a great writer.  Very great.  Some readers await the release of her new books.  And there's that thing about her winning a Nobel Prize for Literature in 1993.  If I could just get through one of Morrison's books, admittedly, perhaps one of her less ambitious novels–maybe even one of her less popular ones–I might learn something as a writer.  I might learn something that helps me on the long and arduous journey of completing my own novel. 

Maybe.

I hoped so, anyway. 

So…I got through it.  All of it.  Yes, I did.  

And what did I learn?

Well, yes, I learned Morrison is a terrific storyteller.  Yes, she says a lot in a very short space.  And, yes, there are things about the African-American experience I didn't know about.  

But I also learned other things.

Like Morrison uses cliches. 

And she uses adverbs (sparingly). 

And she does a lot of telling instead of showing.

And she uses "was" all the time.

Morrison even used a current expression in a context I found both jarring and inappropriate.  For me, that expression broke the spell of the story, drawing attention to the writing itself.  Couldn't she have said it in another, better, way?    

In other words, Toni Morrison is a human being like anyone else.  And she's a writer like any other writer.   

Perhaps the greatest lesson I learned from reading Toni Morrison's Home is that it's okay to do some of the things we're told, as writers, we can't or shouldn't.  That, when it comes to writing, there really are no rules.  It's what works best for the story we're telling.         

I realize Toni Morrison is Toni Morrison; she can get away with a hell of a lot more than I can. 

But reading Home showed me I don't have to be as hard on myself as I have been, I can relax a bit.  Using the odd adverb isn't going to ruin my writing.  It really is okay to tell sometimes rather than to show.  The world isn't going to end because I broke a rule here and there.    

In other words, you really can go easier on yourself and still do a respectable job.  Toni Morrison proves that in Home.

Getting Closer to Understanding Show, Don't Tell

I had an epiphany the other day while watching a program on TV.

A character said of another character, "She was a troublemaker."

Hmm.

Not only was there a "was" in the spoken sentence (a word I've written a previous post about here, saying it should be avoided wherever possible), but I saw the trick to eliminating it, and how showing could do the job. 

"She was a troublemaker" is a lame sentence.  It tells us something, for sure, but not much.  It shows us nothing about how she was a troublemaker.  What she did for someone to call her that.

So, specifically, what did she do?  (This is where, as writers, we need to go to work, do our jobs.)

Well, she liked to poke her nose in other people's business.

She fabricated stories about them. 

She gossiped, telling as many people as she could what she'd made up. 

You get the idea.

So, instead of saying, "She was a troublemaker," we could write something like:  "She poked her nose in other people's business, fabricated stories about them, and gossiped to whoever would listen."  From that, readers should figure out she was a troublemaker. 

"Was" is removed as the verb in the original sentence.  It's replaced with such such vivid action words as "poked," "fabricated," and "gossiped."  As a reader, wouldn't you rather read words like these than "was"?  Wouldn't your experience of that story be more interesting and rewarding? 

Often, when we use the word was, we're telling the reader something.  We're not involving the reader at all.  We're just dropping information.  And that makes the experience of the story passive for the reader–a far less rewarding experience.  

And when should we show and not tell?

This can be tricky, but, the more I look into it and experiment in my own writing, the more it makes sense.

Some things should be told.  Things that are mostly minor details that are needed for clarification.  That is, if the reader didn't know them, he might not get what you really want him to know.

But when significant things happen to your character, things that change the story for him, those should be shown.

For example, in the novel I'm working on now, Character 1 wants Character 2 badly.  1 thinks 2 is single, lonely, and available, just like he is.  Turns out 2 is actually in a relationship already, but the relationship is not going well, and 2 and 3 have decided to take some time away from each other to see what happens.

In my original draft, I covered all this material in a couple of narrative paragraphs.  But I told it instead of showed it.  That 2 is already in a relationship is significant for 1, so I realized I needed to show it, through dialogue, through how 1 and 2 react to each other during that dialogue.  When I changed it, I saw how much, as a writer, I was drawn into what happened.  And, if I was drawn in, I knew the reader would be too.   

Creative Suffering

As I work to revise Chapter Eighteen (where I'm at with my first beta reader) and Chapter Two (where I'm at with my second beta reader), a few questions keep circulating in my mind:

1).  Does a writer have to suffer for his writing to be good?

2).  Does the degree to which a writer suffers determine the quality of his work?  (In other words, if a writer suffers more, is his writing going to be necessarily better?)

Of course, I'm not talking about suffering in the same way as the poor people of Nepal are suffering right now, after the devastating 7.8 earthquake that hit there last Saturday.  That's another type of suffering altogether, one related to the very survival of human beings.  Nothing about the experience of suffering in the writing process comes close to that.   

What I'm talking about is the agony that some writers feel when they're creating something.  In my case, the agony is the difference between what I know my writing could be, what it actually is, and the enormous amount of work involved in trying to bridge that gap.  Many times, I doubt I have the talent, ability, or patience to get it there.  That's the source of my frustration and agony.

Some people love the writing process and don't seem to suffer at all.  I know a fellow blogger who appears to love everything about writing.  I've never heard him complain once about any aspect of it–from creating that first draft out of nothing, to rewriting and editing, to working with a professional editor to take his writing to a publishable level (by the way, he is a published writer).  He inspires me with his attitude, not to mention his ability and talent.  He is a truly gifted writer. 

I wonder, then, how much of the agony some writers experience has to do with their attitudes toward their writing.  If my blogger friend has such a positive attitude toward writing, and, therefore, finds himself enjoying the process of writing, do all I have to do is follow his example?  If I approach my writing with fewer expectations and leave myself more open to the magic and beauty of it, am I more likely to experience writing as a magical and beautiful experience?

In other words, if I were more positive about writing, would I lessen my creative suffering and enjoy the process more?

I'm going to give that a try.  It couldn't hurt.

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.

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.

Was

So before I sent Chapter One, Scene Two to my beta reader for his feedback, I completed one full round of edits on the scene focusing only on the word "was."  My goal?  To delete as many wases as I could.  The reason?  Because, in general, the word was weakens writing.

Here's an example:

I was walking to school the other day, when I saw a homeless person rooting around in a dumpster.

Technically, nothing wrong with it.  In fact, most of us talk like that all the time.  But how we talk doesn't necessarily translate well to how we should write.

Consider this instead: 

I walked to school the other day and saw a homeless person, rooting around in a dumpster.

I don't know about you, but, when I remove the word was from my writing, my sentences are stronger.  There's no word between the subject and what the subject is doing.  In the case above, nothing comes between me (I) and the action (walked).   The writing sounds not only stronger but clearer.  Why include an extra word when you don't have to?  Writing should be pared down to the absolute minimum, still allowing you to get your meaning across (paring it down as much as you can usually allows for clearer meaning).

Did I delete every was?  No, I didn't.  There were occasions when, if I deleted it, my sentences sounded stiff, stilted, formal.  Sometimes, to maintain that conversational tone–if that's what you're aiming for–you want to keep your language a little looser.  In those cases, you keep constructions that include words you might not otherwise use.

But, in general, I find, just by focusing on eliminating the word was as many times as I can, my writing sounds better, more assertive, even more exciting.  Entire scenes are literally transformed, just by doing something as simple as that.  The difference is between writing that sounds droopy, and writing that snaps.  

Who wants droopy when you can snap?

Clarity

I'm back to work.  Back to work writing, that is.

Sometimes, real life intervenes.  Sometimes, you can't ignore the signs anymore, and you find yourself drawn in an unexpected direction.  That's what happened about a week and a half ago, when, after my partner, Chris, had bugged me for six years to get a job done in the house, I finally decided to do it.  Problem is, that job led to another one, which led to another one, and…well, you see where this is going. 

I didn't think so at the time–in fact, I was resentful of it–but taking a break away from my writing was a blessing.  I'd been working so long and so hard on the feedback I'd received from my beta reader–on how to improve a difficult and lacking Chapter One–that all I wanted to do was get it over with, so I could resume edits on Chapter Sixteen (or wherever I was at the time I received the feedback from my beta reader).  But that wasn't the right attitude at all.  Why rush through something, and probably do a bad job, just to get it done?  What I needed to do was take a break, as it turns out, not just from Chapter One, but from writing altogether.  Get out there, do something different, give myself some breathing space.    

Yesterday, I returned to Chapter One, Scene Two for about an hour and a half.  I still had a few jobs to do around the house, and that's all the time I had to give my writing.  But today (Thursday), I was back to my usual routine.  And, on both days, despite having worked on Chapter One, Scene Two for weeks, looking at it again felt new, like I hadn't worked on it before.   Like it was someone else's writing, which is exactly what you want when you're editing.

And, what's more, I not only saw the problems I identified before, but also I knew what to do to improve them.  Do you know how many times, before I took a break, I looked at those pieces and had no idea what to do with them?  Do you know how frustrating that was?  Yesterday and today, I felt no frustration at all.  Rather, I felt refreshed.  And I have no doubt what I did with my work as a result was a hell of a lot better than it would have been if I hadn't taken a break, and if I'd continued to struggle when the answers weren't there for me yet.

Don't be scared to take a break from your writing.  Don't be scared to live a little life outside of your story.  It'll all be waiting for you when you get back.  Chances are, you'll be eager to get back.  And you'll see your work in a whole new way. 

Qualifiers

I like to qualify everything.  My writing is littered with this stuff, in one form or another. 

Here's an extreme example:

He walked through the garden sort of like he didn't want to be there.

Okay, a bad sentence overall.  And certainly not an example from my novel.  But I use it for a reason.

Qualifiers show your insecurity as a writer.  They're about you taking the easy way, because you don't want to offend the reader.  They're about not making a decision about what this character is doing, leaving your options open.  And they come across wishy-washy.  They soften your writing, instead of make it definite and sharp.

If you're going to write something, be bold.  Make a decision and state it as simply and straightforwardly as you can. 

Consider this:

He walked through the garden like he didn't want to be there.  

You've taken a stand.  Your character is walking through the garden.  And he doesn't want to be there.  No question in your mind, or in the mind of your reader.  

This is more effective writing.  Don't be afraid to assert yourself.  It's your story, after all.  It can be any damn thing you want it to be. 

Process versus Outcome

After a frustrating writing week last week, during which the progress on editing Chapter One, Scene Two still didn't feel like it was enough, and the results were not what I wanted them to be, I finally came to my senses.

See, if you're like me, the reason why you get frustrated with your writing is because you have expectations–expectations around what your writing will look and sound like, but especially expectations around how long you'll spend working on something before it's finally finished.

The reality is, getting something right in your writing takes as long as it takes.  You might get it right immediately, and you might need to work on it for days, weeks, even months before you're finally happy with it, before you know it's what it should be.

So the moral of this story?  Focus on the process and not the outcome.  As long as I focus on completing something by a specific time, I invite frustration, because, chances are, I won't achieve my goal.  But if I focus on what I'm doing right now, without telling myself that, by the time I'm done today, this piece will be right, then I give myself over to the process.  And I open myself up to whatever the process has to teach me, as well as the pleasures it holds.

We live a a time when we want everything right now.  But some things are worth waiting for.  One of them is seeing your writing turn into the best it can be, through your patience and hard work.

Copying

If you're planning to study another writer's writing, in order to learn how to be a better writer–which I highly recommend you do–you might want to go one step further than simply reading the words on the page–even if you plan to read them over and over again.  What I do is find a scene I like a lot, one that's a great example of that writer's writing that I want to understand better, in terms of how it was constructed using only words, and type it out, word for word (for this reason, it might be a good idea to choose a shorter scene, although there's the potential to learn more from a longer one).  

The act of typing out every word in the scene forces you to pay attention to each one, how each one relates to those around it, how a string of them forms a strong sentence, and how several sentences, constructed in the same way, forms a powerful paragraph.  You'd be surprised how doing this puts you in the shoes of the writer, making the decisions he did when he recorded each word, in the order he recorded them, what he was thinking at the time, why he used that word instead of another one, why he used that punctuation (or none at all), why his writing works, why it comes alive for you, why you think he's a great writer.   

Your greatest teachers are other writers.  And everywhere you look, there are books available to provide you with a master class of how to write (and, in some cases, how not to write).  All you have to do is pick one up, particularly one from a cherished writer, and figure out what he did, not by reading what he did, but by copying it.  I use this technique all the time, and I promise it works.

(And, if you want to go one step further, write out the scene, word for word, in long hand.  If that doesn't slow you down to ponder the magic of each word, nothing will.  Again, a technique I use often.)