Writing Plus Time

               Have you ever been in that wonderful state of writing when everything comes together perfectly?  You can hardly type fast enough because it’s all clicking, words are flowing, and you’re almost euphoric with the pleasure of creativity.  Where do these brilliant ideas, these clever descriptions come from?  No matter; they’re yours and you’re in the zone, churning out page after page of fabulous material.  It’s not as common as we’d like, but most of us have experienced this blissful phenomenon.

                Well, not to burst your bubble, but-- POP!  We need to take a breath here.  Even when you’ve just completed the best stuff you’ve ever written, let me urge you to set it aside for at least a day.  Don’t send it right out; sleep on it.  Come back with new eyes.  Even your most wondrous efforts might need a final polish.  Beginning writers hate to rewrite and fall quickly in love with something, simply because it’s their best so far.  But your best doesn’t necessarily mean publishable.  Even a page that makes you cry with pride could probably use some careful editing.  So give it its due and don’t shortchange it by sending it out prematurely.

                It’s also good to take another look at something you wrote years ago—something you thought was great—but which reads immature now, unsophisticated.  This is a good indication that you’re still growing, but also that you need to let a piece marinate for awhile before you pronounced it finished.

                Here’s how to do it.  Once you’ve completed your day’s work, shut down not only the computer, but the gears that have been turning to create your project.  Get involved in something completely different—get out of the house or office, talk to people, play a sport, watch a movie, do whatever it takes to force your brain to forget about the details of your manuscript.  Don’t keep coming back to it in your thoughts; really take a vacation from it.

Then, tomorrow, look at it as if you’re another person, reading it for the first time.  Read slowly.  Make notes where there were sticky spots, or where you had questions and needed more explanation (or less).  Make changes and do some buffing.  Now set it aside again for an hour or two, then come back refreshed later in the day.  Does it still sing?  Or are you beginning to wonder why you were so giddy yesterday?  Until you truly hit your stride and find your voice, you will find moments of disappointment when your writing isn’t consistent—the part you wrote yesterday has a different pacing and feel to it, than the parts you wrote last week.  Or a second reading is decidedly less exciting, and you realize you weren’t seeing it through rational eyes that first time.

This is normal.  This is part of the writing process.  And it does get better with time.  But accept that your judgment can be skewed by the thrill of the task, and be prepared to roll up your sleeves and go over it again.  If you can find a trusted friend or relative (spouses often find themselves in this role), get them to read it as objectively as they can, and give you some feedback.  I never send out anything my husband hasn’t read, and usually with my request to “see if the ending works” or “see if that second paragraph makes sense.”  It’s simply a good idea to get another pair of eyes to look at it.

 Like making a cake and forgetting the sugar, you don’t want to be in such a rush that you forget the essential ingredient of time. Sometimes that provides exactly the level of professionalism you want, before you serve it up to your waiting audience.  

Outside Input

           We’ve all been there.  We’re sitting in a writing class and the teacher has just read us someone’s work.  We’re now asked to analyze it and help the writer with “constructive criticism.”  Can I please say this is a monumental waste of time?  It happens in high school, college, professional writing programs, and writers’ retreats, and it’s not only a waste of time, but dangerous.  Here’s why:

            First of all, teachers who do this are lazy—let’s just get that said at the top of my list.  Any fourth grader could sit at the front of the room, read a stack of papers, and then call on various students to offer their opinions.  This is called facilitating, moderating, or being the emcee.  It contributes nothing to the writer, yet despite the fact that teachers are hired for their supposed expertise and the ability to impart it, some of them abdicate this duty to the untrained students who, by definition, are there because they don’t know enough.

            Which brings me to my second point.  Why on earth would you want the (often dead wrong) opinions of other novices who have no idea what they’re talking about?  I once wrote a piece about the irony of young moms conferring with other young moms at the park and at pre-school, trying to get ideas about teething, toilet training, discipline, etc.--- when the people they should be quizzing are older, experienced moms.  It’s the know-nothings talking to other know-nothings, or as the cliché goes, the blind leading the blind.  If you want constructive input about your writing, you need professional advice from editors and published writers, not somebody whose own paper is filled with adverbs and exclamation points.

            The third problem with this method is that hearing a work read aloud is not the same as reading it on paper.  The brain is far better able to capture the nuances of dialog and even description, than a teacher at the front of the room.  A reader, even your professor, is not a trained actor who can impart the feel and tone you were going for.  Some would argue that if it’s really good, it won’t matter how it’s delivered.  But this isn’t true.  When you’re looking at a page of print and you come across something that requires you to slow down or think a bit, your eyes can bounce back and re-read, maybe savor, maybe sort out.  But if someone is reading aloud, it moves along at a steady pace and robs you of this opportunity.  I’ve written five award-winning plays and I quickly learned that what works on paper does not always work on stage.  A subtle joke that a silent reader would get does not always penetrate an audience and occasionally you have to be a bit more obvious, a bit more blunt, or allow more time for something to sink in.  It’s a different format.  Unless you’re writing a play, in which case a staged reading is a good thing.

            Fourth on my list of why I dislike read-aloud-and-analyze sessions is that they waste time.  Even if you accept the idea of classmate input (which I reject), wouldn’t it be more efficient to pass copies out to everyone and let them read quietly to themselves at home, and then come to class prepared to discuss the work? 

            Next is my rebuttal to the notion that this is how to get honest reactions from your intended audience.  Nope.  I seriously doubt that your entire class is filled with people who read your genre.  Even if it’s a mystery writer’s class, or a romance writer’s class, there are sub-categories that your peers won’t share with you.  They might pick apart something you’re doing that’s trend-setting or beyond their scope.  The best they can do is homogenize your work into a common mush that won’t sell.  Remember: There’s a reason why everyone jokes about things that are created by a committee.

            Last, this practice is dangerous.  Let’s say you meet a hailstorm of criticism.  You forget to consider the source (inexperienced know-nothings) and you’re devastated.  You may never finish your story, you may give up writing entirely.  You’re not confident enough to weather so much rejection and you question your talent.  What a shame.  Or, the class loves it.  You’re brilliant, you’re the next best-selling novelist, you’re perfect.  This is just as damaging because it sets you up for shock and dismay when agents and publishers disagree with that finding. Instead of learning how to polish and rewrite where necessary, you’ve been sent on your way with inappropriate overconfidence.  You needed a good editor and you got a raving fan instead.

            If you find yourself in a class with this methodology, drop the class.  If you’re a teacher, go ahead and share student work, but then you be the one to point out what works--or doesn’t-- and why.  And do it with encouragement.  By listening to your analysis, your students will not only learn how to write better, but eventually how to offer similarly valid advice.  If they hear enough expert opinions, who knows?  Maybe their own will be worth something someday. 

Taking Care of Business

            Every career has a downside.  Okay, possibly “heir” has no downside.  Wait—even that has the unfortunate consequence of casting doubt upon your friends’ real motives.  Think about other professions.  A woman becomes a lawyer because she cares about defending the little guy.  But then she discovers she has to deal with lawyers constantly.  A man opens a restaurant because he loves food.  But then he has to scramble because of flaky waitresses who don’t show up when they have a fight with their boyfriends.  A guy becomes a doctor to heal people, but spends half his day solving petty quarrels amongst his office staff.  Ask around; you’ll see there’s always a flip side to the job you thought you’d love.

So what’s the downside of writing?    It’s handling the business side of things.  It’s writing cover letters,  getting an agent, learning new software, corresponding with editors, promoting your work, even doing book signings.  In short, anything but writing itself.  I once heard a ballerina say she’s either dancing, or waiting to dance.  I feel the same way about writing.  And, truth be told, even when I’m not at the computer I’m still writing in my head.  That vacant look on my face, that inability to remember what you just said?  Writing.  I still remember my mother, when I was seven or eight, standing in front of me in exasperation and asking, “Where are you?”

            And if you’re a real writer, you’re the same way.  I pity our spouses.  I pity our children.  They have to live with someone whose brain is on vacation the majority of the time.  All we really want to do is make up stories.  But reality intrudes and we have to parent, be a caring spouse, run a household, and (cue the ominous music here) sell our work. 

If you made a list of the traits it takes to tell a story, and the traits it takes to sell a story, those two lists will not match up at any point.  We are thrust into the uncomfortable arena of bookkeeping, filing, phoning, mailing, and dealing with real live people.   Alas.  Why can’t we just write, and have someone else do all that stuff for us?

Well, if we get famous enough, we can.  There are secretaries, agents, and managers who sail smoothly through these tasks if you can afford to hire them.  Until then, it’s on you to handle the marketing. So you’ve simply got to roll up your sleeves--  or put on your Big Girl Panties-- and do it.  It’s distasteful, it’s boring, but it’s what grownups learn to do.  And if you can’t summon the discipline to do the difficult, you’re in the wrong line of work.  Writing, like it or not, includes moments of not writing.  It’s part of the job description and actually needs to be given a steady percentage of your time. 

A mediocre writer who’s willing to tough it out taking care of business will succeed over the brilliant writer who refuses, every time.  So don’t invest a lifetime creating wonderful stories and then shoot yourself in the foot by refusing to market them.  Be the talented writer who can both spin a tale and get it into the right hands.  That’s what professional writers do.  Even when they don’t like it.

Should You Start in the Middle?

               There’s a writing technique called In Medias Res which means, simply, to start in the middle of the story.  Very often this is where the story should begin, right in the thick of things with plenty of action.  Too often beginning writers think they have to lay out the entire back story, a sometimes painfully boring exercise that’s not only tedious, but frequently unnecessary.

                Rather than see how the criminal wound up in prison, begin with his escape.  You can always use other techniques (flashbacks, dialog) to fill in the needed details as to how he got there. But by starting at an exciting moment you hook the reader in immediately.  Show the bride wavering at the altar, about to make a run for it.  You can reveal why later.  Have the terrorists already in place, leaving bombs to explode, rather than start with their first meeting about what they want to do.

                In Medias Ras doesn’t always have to use flashbacks, but it quite commonly does.  In my coming-of-age literary novel, Pinholes Into Heaven we meet a grown man traveling by train.  Much of the story is told in flashbacks as he recalls his upbringing in a small Midwest town.  Because his journey by rail is such an important part of the story, I chose to weave it in throughout, rather than begin with his childhood and take him chronologically up to the reasons for the train trip.

                This isn’t to say that every story has to begin in the middle.  It’s simply one device to consider, as you think about how best to tell your tale.  Maybe your story starts when a young boy moves to a new town.  That’s the beginning, period.  You don’t need to jump ahead.  Or when a meteor hits the earth.  Or when a woman dies in childbirth.  You have to analyze your own story and see if this technique would benefit, or harm, your plot.

                In my play, “Rock, Paper, Scissors,” a man has just been admitted to the hospital with a serious injury.  Later the details unfold as to who he is, why he’s the way he is, and what he needs to do for redemption.  What if I had chosen to show him at work, at home, dealing with his kids, then getting injured?  It would have taken much too long to have a sense of urgency.

                Another great use for In Medias Ras is as a clever cure for writer’s block.  Some writers stare at a blank page for days because they want the perfect opening line and can’t think of one.  They should just jump into the middle of the story and start writing.  Or write the ending first.   You can always go back later, and fill in the part you skipped.  And, who knows?  You might even discover that your story’s best beginning is right in the middle, where you least expected it to start.