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.   

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.

Play

When in doubt, play.

As I sat at Starbucks today, working on an extensive rewrite of Chapter 23, Scene 1, I had no idea what to do with it.  Should it be this, or should it be that?  Should I tell, or should I show?  I stared into space, watched people come and go, and left myself open to whatever happened.

Before long, I had a sentence.  And another.  And another.

At some point, the sentences no longer came.  So I went back to my first sentence–because I knew it was better than what I had before but still not right–and I played around with it.  I changed the order of items in it, that word here and that word there.  Then I moved on to the next sentence and did the same.

By the time I got to the third sentence, I sensed I should break it out into a separate paragraph and elaborate on the idea.  I wrote several more new sentences, all related to the opening one.

I kept going, this time getting not only as far as the first time, but a little further, with another sentence suggesting itself to me.  I knew it wasn't quite right, but I wrote it down anyway.  Having something down is better than having nothing down at all.  Gives me more to play with.

Once again, the new sentences stopped coming, and I went back over what I had to that point, changing what I still didn't like, the structure of what I had so far.  From past experience, I knew reviewing everything again might take me into yet more uncharted territory.

And it did.

This is what I call playing.

Playing is a lot of fun–but only if you take the time, only if you're patient, and only if you have no expectations of what might come out of it.

When in doubt, play.  Be that child again.  Let what happens, happen.  Get out of your own way and, most important, have fun.  That's what it should be.

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.    

Voice

Whenever I feel insecure about my writing, I ask myself this:  How is my voice any less worth listening to than anyone else's?

All the greats took that first step.  They were not fully-formed and amazing from the start.  They believed they had something worth saying, and they had the courage to follow through on that belief. 

So too must all the rest of us.

Our voice is worth hearing.

What we have to say is worth listening to.   

A Helpful Quote

Here's a quote I hope you'll find helpful from Complete Write a Novel Course, by Will Buckingham:

A novelist's job is to raise questions, 

but there is no obligation to fully answer 

these questions [p. 162].