Getting through the muck

Writing means reading. A lot. Write a scene; then revise it. Revise it again. Figure out where it fits chronologically (because I never write from beginning to end; I tend to hop around the timeline), then rewrite it to fit. Then revise it.

This involves a lot of reading of the story; which, when the scene I'm reading isn't all that great, means suffering through what can be (and sometimes is) some pretty bad writing.

It's the process, I know, by which bad writing becomes good writing, but sometimes it's tedious, and sometimes it's boring.

Then there's the other side of the coin. There are the parts I read that I haven't read in weeks or months; parts written well, which draw me to the story like they were someone else's words. An action scene that has me on the edge of my seat, or an emotional scene between two people that makes my heart skip a beat. This doesn't happen often, but when it does, it's a major thrill. Especially when I'm in the middle of an especially tough case of writer's block. I read a scene like this and find myself in a state of disbelief; I can write like this? Since when?

It's a boost to the ego, a shot of adrenaline I desperately need when slogging through oceanic levels of mud. Because if I've written well before, it only stands to reason that I can do it again, right?

Right?

Like I said, it doesn't happen often, but when it does, it's a thrill, and though it's not why I write, it certainly helps keep me going.

Just a thought.

 

--Cris

 

PS – Writing also means inevitable Microsoft Word crashes. Save your work, kids. Save often.

*whooooooooooooosh*

I'm writing at the café in Powell's Books in downtown Portland, OR. This place is awesome. 5 floors of wall-to-wall books, a café with free wi-fi, and reading material that you're not required to buy.

But I didn't come here for the tea or the ambiance (which is nevertheless quite enjoyable). I came here to write, yet the muse, undependable wretch that it (he? she?) is, is nowhere to be found. Thus the name of today's blog, which refers to the air blowing through my empty, uninspired, cavernous head.

Well, that's okay. It's half past noon, and this place won't close for hours. I have nowhere to be, and nothing more important to do than to sit here and crank out at least two thousand words.

"Establish a time and place," Stephen King said. "Make an appointment, and eventually, the muse will show up."

I'm paraphrasing, of course.

 

Wish me luck.

 

--Cris

 

Imagine my surprise…

I've been doing a lot of reviewing, lately. Writing, as well, but the ratio weighs heavily towards going through what I have, and altering it. Creating new material is a small fraction of what I've done the past week or so.

So imagine my surprise when I discover not only that, in my manuscript, I reach a page titled "END OF PART ONE", but that I agree with it.

It's been a long time since I've read through the whole story. Mostly, I've been focusing on the beginning chapters, because I believe that to continue into the rest of the story, you need a foundation for the story to stand on. This foundation doesn't need to be rock-solid, but it should hold up to passing scrutiny, which means getting rid of plot holes or inconsistency, spelling and grammar mistakes, (all of which can nag at me, and casts an unfavorable pall on the entire project), and have it bear some resemblance to the story I want told. So, imagine my surprise when I discovered that I've done just that. I have 125 pages of story that, while imperfect, I'm reasonably happy with.

And it only took a year and a half.

Next, PART TWO! Of SIX! Woo!!!

 
 

Wish me luck.

 
 

Cris.

Writing in a public place…

I'm at the public library; I've heard extolled the virtues of writing in public places. People whose work I respect (not all writers, but many) say that it's a good way to shock the system, to change your environment, and maybe pull yourself out of a slump. Maybe. Previous times I've tried this, I've done so with pencil and paper, not a computer. It has worked, in past times, but the process has also been hindered by not being able to view parts of my story I couldn't carry on me (because I'm not about to print a 260-page document just so I can reference it now and then when most of the document will be altered or deleted). Now, I have every bit of the story with me (it's on my laptop), but I also have the following: TV shows; music; movies; THE INTERNET (with games, forums, and more TV shows, music and movies to be found)… so, obviously, there are downsides to carrying your entire workstation around with you.

But I'm a strong-willed lad (that's not true), and I have a pretty good work ethic (also false), and I know how to allocate my time effectively between work and play (BIG false). I'm fairly confident (false) that I can, in my hour or two here, accomplish more work than I could have at home (false).

Before I get to work, I'm just gonna check up on a few things online (read: gonna surf mindlessly for the next hour), then I'm gonna write. (Maybe.)

  
 Wish me luck. 
 

Cris.

 

 

Edit: Well, I'm back home. I'd forgotten the library closes at 5 on Sundays, but even so, it wasn't time wasted. I've edited a good 10-15 pages (including clarifying some scenes that confused even me), and wrote another two or three.

Being back home, the challenge is now to keep going, even though it feels like the entire house is a black hole for creativity.

As with all things, though, the more you write, the easier it gets, so I'm gonna see if I can't continue, even though the muse (and the mood) seem to have vanished.

Wish me luck.

Can’t make up my mind, it seems

Though I've decided to focus on Scamper, I find myself thinking of Ethan and Laran more and more. One scene in particular fascinates me: Ethan and Laran are walking through the dark jungle; they come upon a meadow, and wander into the tall grass. Ethan looks up and sees something in the night sky; it freaks him out. He runs up a hill, looks to the valley below, and sees a portion of present-day suburbia, dropped in the middle of the jungle. What he'd seen in the sky was light pollution from the city; it had sparked a dormant memory (he's an amnesiac, remember) and when he realized what it was, the implication terrified him.

It's a herald of larger things; just the imagery of it makes me want to write, but so far, it's all I have. It needs a lot of work; the whole story does, but every time I sit down to write, it's like trying to draw water from a dry well.

Which won't stop me, of course. It's just another hurdle to get over.

Just keep going, and don't stop until you're done. Worry later whether or not it makes any sense.

At least, that's the plan.

 
 

-- Cris