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Posts Tagged ‘how i do it’

It’s that time of book again . . . .

. . . when I cover my living room floor in paper.

That’s the entirety of Part One, laid out in itty-bitty type and no margins, so I can stare at it and see the whole shape at once.

It’s a bit depressing, seeing it shrunk that small. Though I take some satisfaction in knowing I had to stand on the couch to get a good picture of it all.

I also have index cards. And the beginnings of a soundtrack. I don’t outline, but I do sometimes convert the book to spatial or musical representation, the better to think about how it all fits together.

doing the math

The good news is, I don’t think I’ll have to completely replace every Dead Rick scene from Part One.

Just a bit more than half of them.

Seriously, I feel like a book or two ago, somebody sneaked in and replaced my writing process with another author’s. I used to write relatively clean first drafts; now I flounder through writing wrong scenes left and right, inventing Spanish nymphs that may not even show up in the final draft, and generally failing to figure out what one of the villains is doing. Some concerted effort on my part has at least begun to sort that last bit out, which is why my pessimistic guess of “all Dead Rick scenes” has been revised downward to “five of the nine, with revision on the rest,” but it’s still disheartening. (Oh yeah, and I’ll probably need to write at least one entirely new scene, aside from replacing half of those already there.)

I’m glad I noticed the growing pattern from Ashes and Star, and gave myself extra time for this book. Otherwise I’d be screeeeeeeeewed.

I’m also very glad that I figured out most of Eliza’s PII while in London, as it gives me something to do while I figure out where I went wrong on the Dead Rick end. If I can manage to do his scene replacements while moving forward on her part, I’ll be in good shape. But first I need to finish sorting out him and Nadrett — and figure out if La Madura’s staying in the book or not — so I know what to replace those scenes with.

slogging through tonight’s words

On the bright side? I’m saving my editor a lot of work. Because I’m pointing out to myself things like “it would be better to actually show Miss Kittering sooner than the 25K mark” and “if you don’t get Ailis in here somehow, she’ll come out of nowhere in Part Two” long before this manuscript comes anywhere near him.

Mind you, it leaves me in fear that this is going to be the most recursively-written novel I’ve ever produced — but since the recursion is at present adding to my wordcount rather than subtracting or replacing, I’m okay with that.

Back to the last hundred words. Then I get to sack out and watch TV.

15K! Still! Or rather, again!

Yesterday, when I sat down to write, my total wordcount was 15,085. When I stood up again, having written 1,092 words in the interim, my total wordcount was 15,085.

This has, with minor fluctuations in those last two digits, been my wordcount for the last five days. You see, the plan was this: I would write roughly 500 words a day throughout April, for an ending count of 15K, and then when May began I would kick it up to my regular pace of 1K.

But on May 1st, heading off to a friend’s concert, I finally had to face facts: I’d written the wrong beginning for Eliza. I was sitting there wondering what kind of plot complications I could think up to delay the event I wanted to end Part One with until the end of Part One, given that at present there was nothing stopping it from happening two scenes later, and nothing interesting to fill the intervening time with . . . and then it occurred to me that her immediate backstory had a number of complications that I’d just sort of skated over as a fait accompli. In part because one of those complications was something I didn’t have a detailed solution to, and it’s easier to get away with a non-detailed solution if you don’t show it onstage — but that was a pretty weak justification.

I had plot for Eliza. I’d just started her portion of the narrative after half of it was already done.

Now, the good news is that at least some of what I’ve already written for her might be salvageable. (I’ve already re-used one scene.) The rest will need heavy revision, since those scenes are full of the kind of establishing work that one puts into opening scenes, and that’s no longer needed; what’s left will probably be shorter, so I’ve still lost wordcount. And god knows it’s been frustrating to write a thousand words every day, then delete the obsolete scene and find I’m still at 15K.

But not nearly as frustrating as having to invent plot for Eliza because I skipped over the stuff I already had. So I cut the old scenes, and I write new ones, and the numbers look like I’m treading water — but they’ll start moving forward soon enough.

narrative space

Using my gaming icon for this post, for reasons that will shortly become obvious, but this is as much about writing as RPGs.

Tonight — presuming none of my players manage to contract ebola or something in the next eight hours — I’ll start running Once Upon a Time in the West, my oh-so-cleverly titled frontier Scion game. This is the second tabletop game I’ve run, with Memento being the first. (No, I don’t expect this one to turn into a novel, much less a series. Then again, I didn’t expect it with Memento, either. But this one will be more heavily based on game materials, so I’d say it’s unlikely.) As a result, I’ve been thinking about games and how I plot them.

I’ll take pity on your flists, since I was wordier than I expected.

wrong project, but oh well

Man, I don’t know what it is. All I have to do is decide, “I’m working on Thing X!,” and I will without fail come up with ideas for Thing Y instead.

In the current instance, that means I decided I would try to finish “The Unquiet Grave” by the end of the month, and promptly put down 1,022 words on “Mad Maudlin” instead. Not really complaining — I don’t care which short story I make progress on, so long as it’s one of them — but I really wish I could find a way to leverage this for novels. As I said on matociquala‘s LJ the other day, it seems to me like there should be a way to do it. Contract for Book A, write Book B instead; then contract for Book C, somehow convince yourself you’re working on that one for realz, whereupon you write Book A. Or something. But I fear deadlines might make that tough to wrangle.

Time to go think about “The Unquiet Grave” some more, in the hopes of finishing “Mad Maudlin” in the near future.

things I have a profound disagreement with

But before I get to the disagreeing: I’ve been so brain-deep in finishing A Star Shall Fall, I overlooked the fact that Podcastle’s audio of “A Heretic by Degrees” has gone live. So go, listen, enjoy.

***

Right, so, the disagreeing.

I find it interesting that Dean Wesley Smith begins this post with the assertion that “No writer is the same” — and then proceeds to make his point (on the topic of rewriting) with such vehemence and absolutism that it could easily be mistaken for divine, universal law. Which is a pity, because I think he has a good point to make; but the force behind it drives the point way deeper than I think it deserves to go, and as a result, people who find themselves disagreeing with the full version may miss the value of the reduced version.

I think he’s right that rewriting can hurt a story. It can polish the fire out, like focus-testing a product until it’s bland pablum that doesn’t offend anybody, but doesn’t interest them, either. Sometimes you get it right the first time.

But. He seems to be arguing (with the force of an evangelical preacher) that your critical brain will never be useful to you as a writer. This works because a particular rhetorical trick:

(more…)

different kinds of procrastination

The hardest thing is knowing when to push, and when not to.

Three hours ago I was sitting at my computer, trying to get started on the day’s revision and failing. There are two scenes that need total replacing today — one involving the Crow’s Head, one involving the British Museum — and I knew roughly what each one was going to do, but I just couldn’t get my brain in gear enough to produce a decent opening sentence for the first one.

Laziness? Or an actual block?

I went downstairs and played solitaire for a while. Told myself I really should get to work. Then remembered that I also need to write this part’s flashback scene, and maybe if I figured out exactly what that was doing I’d be more able to write the Crow’s Head bit, which is supposed to set up that flashback. So I called kniedzw into the room and we bounced ideas back and forth until I knew what to do with the flashback, and then I came back upstairs and wrote that and polished the bit that follows it, with Galen talking to Lune . . . then hit the wall again. Because the next scene after that is the British Museum one, which also needs replacing. And I wasn’t sure whether I should try to do that before I’ve replaced the previous scene or not. Grumble mutter smack into wall.

Back downstairs for more solitaire.

Ponder ponder. Is it too early to bring up a problem the characters run into later on? No — not if I rearrange the scenes. Put Galen’s conversation with Lune first; then the Crow’s Head scene can happen a couple of weeks later, much closer to the Museum thing, and oh hey Irrith has that favor she can call in, which I’ve been wondering what to do with — use that as setup for the Museum scene?

Bit by bit, it falls into place in my head, and a hell of a lot better than it would have if I’d made myself start writing the Crow’s Head stuff three hours ago. But it’s so hard to tell the difference: will delay improve anything? When you’re under a deadline, you can’t always err on the side of assuming that yes, it will. It was so very tempting to tell myself I could work on this part tomorrow . . . but that would put me a day behind. How can you know when that’s the right course of action, versus when you need to mush on?

At present, I’m writing a blog post about what I’ve figured out, instead of applying it to the book. I think that’s a pretty good sign that the useful procrastination is over and done with, and now it’s time to mush.

Happens every book.

Books have stages they go through, and after a while, you learn to recognize your own particular set.

Over here at Castle N, we’ve reached the stage of “All right, I really should sit down and get started on revising oh hey this hallway really needs vacuuming.”

(I have no cat to vacuum, alas.)

Fifty more to go. (Thereabouts.)

Word count: 91,133
LBR census: Some rather bloody rhetoric.
Authorial sadism: You’re the one who said it, Irrith. And you’ll remember that by the end of the book.

***

I may be semi-scarce for about the next month, and as I’ve said to a couple of people lately, I can sum up the reason why quite succinctly:

We’ve secretly replaced Marie Brennan’s usual novel-writing process with that of another author. Let’s see if she notices!

Why, yes. Yes, I have. >_<

I know plenty of writers who produce multiple drafts: first they write a vague, bumbling one full of plot hooks that don’t go anywhere and ideas that get jammed in willy-nilly two thirds of the way through, etc. Then, having figured out what the book is about, they go back and write a second draft (sometimes more), getting closer each time to the target. And that’s fine. It works great for them. It would probably even work great for me, so long as I did one very important thing: budgeted enough time before the deadline to allow for multiple drafts.

But I didn’t, because almost all of my previous ten novels* have conformed to my usual declaration, “I tend to write fairly clean first drafts.” Doppelganger, for example, underwent only three substantive changes on its way to publication: I deleted the opening scene, rearranged the early chapters so they cut between Miryo and Mirage more frequently, and unkilled a character for use in the sequel. Everything else was polishing.

This book . . . not so much. I could speculate for hours as to why that’s the case, but the upshot of it all is that I’m throwing out and replacing a much larger quantity of wordage than I’m accustomed to doing. My killfile, wherein I keep everything paragraph-sized or larger that’s been cut from the book, is twenty-five thousand words long. All of it deserves to be there; the sections and scenes I’m replacing them with are about 230% better than my first attempts. But that’s 25K of book I’ve written without getting any closer to the end.

So what I’ve been doing for a week and change, and will be doing for about another month, is kind of sort of writing my second draft while writing my first. That is, I’m slapping 1500 words minimum onto the back end of the book, heading just as fast as I can for the finish line, while also revising 4000 words minimum in the existing text. On the days when that means polishing, life’s good. On the days when it’s actually 2K of new scene plus 2K of polishing, life’s harder.

As you might imagine, this is a little tiring.

But hey, live and learn. I’ve gotten careless about leaving myself a margin of safety; if I’m intending to write a 140K book, then I give myself five months to do it and assume that’ll work out, probably with time to spare. I’ll know better for the Victorian book. I’ve already worked out my schedule for that one, and it involves a big honking overbudget of time just in case that one goes more like this book has. And in the meantime, I’ll just keep my nose to the grindstone, and pray I still have a brain left when all of this is done.

*The sole exception to the above rule was #4, where I wrote one draft that wasn’t so much vague and bumbling as Utter Crap, and then threw it out and wrote something radically different and thirty thousand words longer. But I wasn’t under a deadline then.

Sometimes you have to write a bad draft.

I’ve been working on “Chrysalis,” though forgetting to meter my progress, and I hate the fact that it’s a bad draft.

Other writers have experienced this before. You have to get what’s in your head out on the page, however broken it may be, before you can make it better; you can’t fix it in your head, so that the draft is better on the first try. In the case of this story, the twin challenges of researching setting details and making the covert structure come out right have pretty much crowded all other considerations from my mind. Prose? Is whatever words will pin the narrative down enough for the time being. Actual artistry need not apply, not yet. Same goes for characterization. And description. And all those other nice things that make the story not suck.

The problem is that I’m an idiot for writing this story right now. The sum total of fiction that exists in this setting at present is: “A Mask of Flesh,” four-fifths of a draft of “Chrysalis,” and 1070 words of a so-far-plotless story about Tlacuilo. And it’s a complicated setting, where nobody is human and all the castes are different kinds of creatures and oh yeah Mesoamerica isn’t exactly familiar material for most readers. So what in the name of all that is sensible am I doing writing a story that has to blitz through five different castes in (ideally) less than six thousand words? What am I doing dropping a xera motherfather into the middle of it, when I haven’t ever mentioned the motherfather thing before and it’s extra complicated with the xera because of that thing where they can be either male or female? How am I supposed to make this work when the back half of the story is trying to grow a political context to justify what Matzoloa’s doing and why? Just when do I think I’m going to explain that political context?

All that, and a philosophical lesson, too.

This is the kind of story that works best when you’ve got a dozen other pieces out there that establish all the different bits of the setting, so maybe you can get away with just presenting those bits in passing and hoping your readers remember enough to fill it in. It is not the kind of story you want to write when 95% of the material is new even to readers who read “A Mask of Flesh” five minutes ago, and 3% of the remainder isn’t like they expect because not all xera are crazy like Neniza was.

Yeah, I know, whine whine whine. Tonight I’ll make myself figure out what Matzoloa is doing, and then I’ll write her scene, and then I’ll have my bad draft. Then I can go away to VeriCon and let it compost, and when I come back I’ll decide whether I can polish it enough to inflict on my crit croup, or whether it needs to sit for six months while I do something else with my life.

Blerg. I’m going to go read The Three Musketeers.

Part the Third

I’m sure you’ve all been dying to know how the novel’s going.

The answer to that is complicated. Have I been getting work done? Yes, almost every day. How many words do I have? 96,224 — which is not so much, given that I was at 86K back on the 7th. But this discrepancy comes about because I’m doing something different from usual.

As I’ve said before, I’m structuring this book so that it cuts back and forth between long sections skipping forward through the years I’m covering, and days of the Great Fire. So I wrote Part One, then Part Two, and so on, with the intent of going back to write the Fire days once I finished Part Four. This is more or less what I’m doing, but I realized that a) given the massive revision Part One needed and b) the advisability of making sure each part flowed properly into each day, when I got near the end of Part Four, I went back and started revising Part One. I’m 13K+ through that and making good progress; you would have to see it to believe just how much less it’s sucking now. (I’ve lost all perspective as to whether it’s good, but it’s definitely better.) When I finish that, I’ll write the first day, then revise Part Two and write the second day, and so on to the end.

I haven’t quite finished Part Four; it needs maybe one or two scenes, which I will have to get done before I write any Fire stuff. (The night I was supposed to tackle those, I just didn’t know what I wanted to do with them, so I went back and started revising instead.)

Some of the revision has been polishing; some has been wholesale replacement of scenes. It helps that now I know, as I did not when I wrote this, that I don’t have to stay below 110K for the whole book. Antony’s got a series of three incredibly short scenes coming up, where I all too obviously am trying to keep my word-count in check, to the detriment of the story. So expansion of existing material is the third leg of this process, and possibly the most important; only a couple of scenes have been chucked out in their entirety.

I’ve become a moderately better writer over the years, but a substantially better reviser.

Mush!

AAL Book Report: Causes of the English Revolution 1529-1642, Lawrence Stone

Partway through reading this book, it occurred to me that reading a heavy-duty academic historical analysis of the causes of the English Revolution might not be the brightest idea for someone who hasn’t yet gotten a firm grasp on, oh, the chronology of the English Revolution.

I made it through, though, in large part because of the organization and focus of this book. Stone divides his causes up into three (admittedly fuzzy) categories of preconditions, precipitants, and triggers, each operating on a successively shorter time scale. The preconditions occupied the bulk of that essay (there are four essays in here, but the titular one is huge), and the preconditions, in his view, ran from about 1529 to 1629. In other words, from the Reformation in England and Henry VIII’s seizure of Church property to the dissolution of Parliament and beginning of Personal Rule/the Eleven Years’ Tyranny. That latter term is a new one by me — see the above statement about not really knowing the seventeenth century yet — but the Tudor parts of the preconditions, I can deal with just fine. So when Stone talked about how the redistribution of Church property changed the balance of economic and political power among the monarchy, the aristocracy, and the gentry, or how early Elizabethan neglect of the episcopacy led to a loss of status for Anglican bishops, I can follow him well enough. And I can definitely see how the policies that kept Elizabeth afloat left James in a nigh-untenable position.

The precipitants and the triggers, respectively, he links to the periods 1629-1639 and 1640-1642. That is to say, he’s looking at long-range, middle-range, and short-range causes. And writing from a perspective shortly after sociology apparently rammed into history at high speed, so he’s attempting the admittedly difficult hat trick of bringing in causes from Parliament and the monarchy and the merchants in London and the Puritans everywhere and the Church and the wars England was fighting and social mobility and anything else you can think of. The result? Is a hella dense book. (And regrettably saturated with the passive voice.) But a good one nonetheless, that goes a long way toward making sure I don’t leap straight from 1590 to 1640 or whenever AAL will start, without thinking through the intervening decades.

***

If the structural difficulty with MNC was deciding what year to place it in (since the changeover of interesting historical personnel was so high in the decade to either side), the structural difficulty here is how not to smear this book across forty years or more, to the point where it gets way too distant and boring. There are two ways I can see to do that. One is to turn it into the sort of 300,000-word historical brick that comes with free complimentary LOLcat caption saying “I R SERIOUS BOOK” . . . but that, alas, is not what we’re after here.

The other, of course, is to give up on covering everything happening in that forty years, and to find the perfect turning moments to show more closely. (And probably to pull in the edges. But I honestly don’t think I can reduce this to less than twenty-six years — from the reconvening of Parliament in 1640 to the Great Fire in 1666.) Picking the turning moments, naturally, is far easier said than done.

But the next step in that is probably, y’know, learning what went on in the seventeenth century. It isn’t a good sign when I’m reading this book going, “what happened in 1640? What are you talking about? Huh? The government collapsed? What the hell?”

Time to go find myself a more basic chronological history. Any suggestions?

rebooting

I’m finally getting around to the post I was going to make on Friday, except that I decided it would be better not to bump the signature contest down peoples’ flists.

So, that YA I’m working on. I wrote steadily through January, and even managed to keep it up while at VeriCon, which is little short of a miracle; it required me to be up and working at 3:30 in the morning when I had a panel in seven hours, but hey. I got the words down.

But I came back from the con and that Monday got handed a stack of student stories to grade, which came as something of a rude awakening; I’d seriously underestimated the time each one would demand from me. That might have been fine, except that the sudden increase in workload happened to coincide with a realization about the story: that I was about to step into the endgame, and I was very much not ready. I could have kept plunging ahead, but after eight books I’m developing a sense of when delay is the better part of valor; I needed to step back and get my ducks in a row, or whatever I wrote was just going to be useless crap anyway.

That turned, unfortunately, into a week and a half long hiatus. Which tends to be a bad thing, right before the end of a book. I ultimately had to go back and re-read everything I had so far, but at least it had the salutary effect of convincing me the entire thing doesn’t suck; certainly it has its weak points, but the middle is decently solid. Then I embarked on an incredibly tedious task, namely, plotting the book out scene by scene, one per index card — from multiple points of view. Val’s the only narrator the book has, but it’s long occurred to me that I could probably make my plots more well-knitted if I took the time to think through the story as it’s seen by different characters. What do they think is going on in particular scenes? What are they doing when they’re off-stage? I ended up cheesing out and only noting four other characters on the cards (it should have been six), but that was enough. The last one gave me the reason I needed for why the next thing was going to happen, and that was what had been stalling me.

I’ve gotten nearly six thousand words in the last three days, and at this point, quotas are going out the window. It’s a dead push; I’ll be writing everything I know every day that I can, because I think I can only figure out the next bits by putting down the ones I have. I’m near the end, certainly — 53K on the ms so far, and I’m aiming for something just over the 60K line. I just need to figure out what kind of confrontation we’re going to end with, then work back from there to get the next few paragraphs after where I stopped last night. If I can get that some time today, I should be clear to the end.

It’s tough going. Maybe I shouldn’t novel at this time of year. But having gotten myself into it, the only way out is through.

things you don’t think about

One of the changes I’ve noticed with Warner turning into Orbit is that now my CEM and page proofs come with cover sheets that explain those parts of the process in more detail. (Page proofs arrived yesterday.) I always knew changes at this stage were expensive, and that if I made too many I’d have to pay for them myself, but this time around I’ve got concrete info: the allowance for author changes is generally somewhere between $200 and $800 dollars, depending on the book, and changes cost about $1.50 a line.

Which led to me noticing something. Thanks to the way I chose to structure it, MNC has a grand total of (I think) seven hard page breaks in the text. Things like the act openings with their epigraphs get their own pages, but the narrative itself leaves white space at the end of a page only seven times — at the end of each act, plus the prologue and epilogue.

Why does this matter? Because changing at the page-proof stage has a ripple effect. If the alteration I’d like to make in the first para of the prologue shortens it by one line, that will pull a line from page 2 onto page 1, and so on back until you hit a hard page break.

Of which there are only seven in the entire book.

There are many reasons to ponder things like chapter structure — how many, how long, etc — but this is a new one by me. Building the book this way means I have to be even more economical with my page-proof-stage changes, or next thing I know they’ll have to reset the entirety of Act Four. So I’m very glad I made myself read the entire CEM out loud, to catch as many verbal infelicities as possible; now is not the time to fix broken sentences. But even so, I find myself wanting to delete two words from the first paragraph, and I have to be really careful about that.

Note to self: chapter breaks are your friend.

Nearly 2500 words on the YA today. I’m starting to get into a groove with these scenes, but man am I sucking the beginnings and endings of them. I can has good transitions plz? Apparently not.

A voice in the back of my head is singing “Tonight I’m gonna write like it’s 1999.” Because it really does feel like I’m writing my first novel all over again, facing all the same hurdles I did then. They’re both first person, too, which I don’t normally do for more than a short story at a time. I wonder if that’s why my transitions are sucking so hard.

But earlier today I read Paul Graham’s essay “How to Do What You Love,” which is an excellent reminder of why I’m in the right field. “You have to like what you do enough that the concept of ‘spare time’ seems mistaken” — indeed. If you decide to forgo a movie or hanging out because you’d rather be writing — not all the time, but if it happens — then you’re doing something right.

And, as he points out, it’s good to try the thing you think you’d rather be doing, and see if you really do like it and can be productive on it. To that end, I should mention that is starting up a new round January 1st. It’s 750 words a day — a much saner pace than NaNoWriMo’s 1500+ — for 90 days, for a total of 67,500 words, which need not (and depending on your genre, should not) be the entirety of your book. I’ll be there, since I’m noveling anyway, and so will any number of other writers ranging from rank newbies to experienced pros. If you’re minded to try writing a novel, and external motivation is something that works for you, it’s a good place to go.

milestone

Ten thousand words of YA book is rather different from ten thousand words of adult book. I have to keep reminding myself I might be as much as a sixth of the way done already. And that I need to plan accordingly.

Used to be, I would decide that a certain thing needed to happen at (say) the 20K point in the book. With that staked down a little way in my future, I’d find stuff to fill the intervening space. But as you might imagine, that led to padding, scenes going on too long or existing when they didn’t need to simply because, in my mind, it wasn’t time yet for that important thing to happen.

This wasn’t good, of course, but it was a useful learning stage in my early novel-writing days. And to some extent, I’ve made the obvious change of just getting to the good stuff sooner, rather than postponing it to some semi-arbitrary future point. (That happened very distinctly at the end of Act Two in MNC, for example.) But more often, what I find myself doing is focusing on that in-between stuff. Okay, if for pacing reasons thus-and-such needs to happen at the one-third mark in the book, and I’m aiming for about 120K of book, then what kind of meat can I pack into that first 40K?

I still end up with some fluff. But increasingly I’m ending up with a more complicated story, because I have to invent subplots and complications to justify 40K of book before That Thing happens.

Only in this case, I’m not aiming for 120K. Or even a hundred. I want 60-75K, and that means I have to keep a close eye on how many threads I’m flinging out there in the early part of this story. Too many, and I’m going to end up with more book than I can fit into my allotted space. But too few, and it will feel flimsy. And the last thing I want is to write a flimsy book just because I’m aiming at a younger audience.

So far it feels flimsy. But I know I want to backtrack and put in more Brian stuff, and more family stuff, so they’ll have a real presence in the story. And I think that will help a lot.

But man, it feels like I’m having to learn how to do this stuff all over again.

permission to suck

One of the pieces advices new writers get is that you have to give yourself permission to suck.

The logic behind this is not that sucking is okay; rather, sucking right now is okay. Too many people get paralyzed the moment they set finger to key, thinking that if what comes out right then isn’t brilliant, they might as well not bother. So you tell them it’s okay to suck: that’s what second drafts and revisions are for. Much easier to fix an existing story that sucks than one that doesn’t even exist.

I never really had to go that route, not because I never sucked, but because I did most of my suckage before I got self-conscious about it. When you’re twelve, fourteen, sixteen, it’s easy to get lost in the fun of it and not worry about the flaws. I was just self-critical enough to improve, not enough to paralyze. So I’ve never had much personal use for that advice.

Now, for the first time, I’m having to embrace it.

I’ve got this thing, the Sooper Sekrit YA Urban Fantasy Project, and I’ve spent quite a bit of time pondering ways to start it off that won’t look like every other YA urban fantasy I’ve read (having devoured half a dozen or so recently, as research). Finally the other night I said, screw it. Let’s go ahead with the standard opening, and start getting this thing on the page. Maybe it will suck. Maybe I don’t quite have the voice yet, maybe I’m going to have to radically revise the thing later to fix its pacing, because I have no idea how to structure a 60K-word novel instead of a 100K or 120K one. Maybe I don’t yet know how to get Brian and Ethan into that fight, and what I’m about to put in for that will be kind of dumb and useless.

It’s okay. I’ve given myself permission to suck.

I’ve also given myself permission to write out of order, though I know most of the bits I’m scribbling down are actually long-form notes, not the scenes themselves. In fact, I think I’m throwing much of my process out the window, here. It may be an experiment doomed to failure; we’ll have to see. But this is a spec project, something I’m doing on my own time because I want to, and because I don’t have any other book I should be writing just now. The Victorian novel has to wait for the summer because if Midnight Never Come is any example, it will eat my head, and I can’t do that while I’m also teaching.

This, I hope I can do. Maybe I’m right. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’ll produce the crappiest first draft since Sunlight and Storm, or realize that my process is a good one after all and I should go back to it. But for the first time since July of 2003, I’m tackling a novel without any deadlines on it I haven’t imposed myself.

If it sucks, nobody will ever have to know.

And besides, that’s what revisions and second drafts are for.

The Miniscript

This is one of those working habits that probably isn’t a good idea. But it’s how I work; Midnight Never Come is the eighth iteration of this approach. I’m used to it. And it has its benefits.

When I finished writing my first novel, I took a little time off, and then I started editing. Step one, of course, was to read through the novel, at which stage I marked it up with the major changes that needed to be made: continuity errors, bits that needed tightening, awkward sections, things I had to mention earlier or not drop later. This is, in my head, the “chainsaw edit” — the stage at which I take a chainsaw to the story. I mark it up with a red pen, and the goal is to make it look like I bled on the printout. If a page gets by clean, I feel like I’m not trying hard enough.

But what you have to bear in mind is that a page, in this situation, is not a standard manuscript formatted page of novel. It’s a miniscript page.

The miniscript is the part that’s probably a bad idea, but it has historical justification. The Harvard Band was going to some away game — Princeton or Cornell or some place we took a bus to the night before. Since I was always on the Study Bus (as opposed to the Raunch Bus), I decided I would use the trip as a chance to read through the novel. But even in my usual formatting (Times New Roman 12 pt., single-spaced), that was 198 pages of book, which is an awful lot to haul around. I decided to make it smaller.

The result was something my brain immediately dubbed the “miniscript,” the mini-manuscript. Times New Roman, 8 pt., full justification, half-inch margins, delete all page breaks between chapters, print on both sides of the page. Hole-punch the edge and secure it with those little metal rings, and you’ve got yourself a novel on forty pieces of paper — less if it’s a short novel, more if I ever write something that goes substantially past the 120K mark. I have eight of these things now. Maybe more; I can’t remember if I printed a miniscript for the atrocious first draft of Sunlight and Storm, or the revised draft of TNFKASotS*. I go through and mark them up with the red-pen chainsaw edit; then I go through again with a green pen, doing the line-edit. (That’s useless in places where I’ve radically changed scenes, but I just skip over those.)

What you need, to try this at home: forty pieces of paper (give or take), three metal rings, a red pen, a green pen, and microscopic handwriting.

Is it the best way to edit a novel? Probably not. But it’s how I edit a novel. Which is why the miniscript of Midnight Never Come came with me on a plane to Dallas, and acquired a sizeable bloodstain that has nothing to do with the quality of the story; my pen exploded during the flight. For portability, the miniscript can’t be beat.

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*The Novel Formerly Known As SotS. That’s an acronym at the end, for the original title, which I’m not using so I’ll stop thinking about the book by that name. I’m failing, but I keep trying. My problems would be much reduced if I could just come up with a title I like.

a recipe for madness

I seem to have hit upon a workable method for writing the Tiresias pov scenes.

Talk to people about dreams and madness. Come up with core concepts for two of the four that need to be written (the other two I’m still uncertain about). Let these compost for a while. Late at night, put Tiresias’ music on loop. Make sure there will be no interruptions (this includes closing e-mail, of course). Turn off all the lights; leave about three small candles burning. Reset the computer display so Wordperfect gives you white text on a black background; this minimizes the light from the screen. Turn the screen off and lie on the floor for a while, thinking about Tiresias as if preparing to role-play him. When the scene starts to take shape, get up, write the scene longhand on the backs of random scraps of paper. Write hunching over the paper to see in the candlelight. Don’t worry about mispellings or other mistakes. Let your handwriting go to hell. (Bonus points for using the black-and-silver fountain pen you already and will forever associate with this novel.) Toss the sheets aside the instant they’re done and grab a fresh one; stream of consciousness is important. When you have one completed, turn the monitor back on, type it in. Go back a few steps and start on another one.

I had one done already; did two more tonight, for just shy of nine hundred words of present-tense madman point-of-view. I haven’t yet decided what the other two will be about, but I think — not that I have any distance on them at the moment — that I like the two I’ve done. (And the progenitor of them all, the original Tiresias scene, which I did ages ago.)

Drop that on top of 1556 words of forward progress on Act Five, and it’s a good day’s night’s work.

Authorial sadism: Calling in favors.

LBR quota: I loves me some bloody rhetoric.