Scene Theory 105

  I plotted the latest short story initially as an ten line outline with only a word or two of description on what it might contain.  Using that  outline as a guide I created more complete scene descriptions, changing the single words into sentences and, to be honest, adding more ideas.  I put the scenes in the order I wanted - in this case as chronologically continuous sequences - and then wrote each scene, fleshing out the sentences, and ensuring that all the scene elements are there.

When I completed all of the scenes I had a first draft that contained all the action sequences, dramatic point, and established the principal players, primarily the protagonist and antagonist and the forces that drive them.  I did a final check to make sure that the flow felt right.

During the second draft I tried to develop the characters into more than plastic action figures.  This involved filling out some personal background details, imbuing them with recognizable personalities, and developing the multiple relationships among the principals.  Giving them names and roles not already in the first draft is an important addition at this stage.

At the same time I tried to paint a word picture of the environment where the characters are performing.  This meant creating a more complete world where weather, insects, and plants existed.  I tried to appeal to all the senses - sight, sound, smell, and the way movement feels as you pass through a glen or wade across a stream. How does water sound when rushing over a rock filled stream, for example.

The driving force of the second draft was to make the story come alive for the reader and put as many associative hooks into the story as possible so that the reader becomes the protagonist, becomes one with the world I created.

The final draft is making certain that the logic holds, the details are "correct," and that spelling and punctuation are acceptable.  After that it is a matter only of finding a welcoming home for the beast.

Revitalized

After reading yesterday's post I want to assure everyone that I am not contemplating suicide   I was just in a funk from not being able to write anything decent - a dry spell, nothing more, that passed within a day.

I think every writer goes through these periods of despondency, these dark hours when you doubt your ability to produce anything of worth.  It's part of the manic-depressive cycle of creativity where periods of depression are counterbalanced by manic happiness where words pour out of you like a golden shower and nothing, absolutely nothing written has any faults whatesoever.

Of course, that opinion changes when you start editing.

So today I revert to my manic state and write, write, write, ever hopeful that this day will actually be good instead of just feeling that way.

Resignation

One day it hits you that there will be an end to this; that one day you will close the unfinished piece you are working on and simply walk away from the keyboard, never to return.  On that day you will realize that all you have written, the millions of words you've edited, the few that managed to be published, and the too-many pieces of unsold stories languishing in the dark recesses of your hard drives are nothing more than scratches in the sand, doomed to be washed away by the rising tide of other younger writers who will together produce more in any single day than you could in your entire life and further, that many of them will not only write better than you, better than the anyone whose writing you now admire, but most likely better than anyone you're read.

 Maybe the well of creativity has dried up for you on that future day, perhaps a string of rejections has finally etched away the last of that thin armor of hope that has sustained your production of submissions, or perhaps it has simply tired you of the race, the performance, the struggles, and the effort.  Maybe one day you simply decide that the charade is pointless to continue and resign yourself to the fact that all your work will disappear into the heat death of past memory.

You know, I think there's a story there . . .

Writing Schedules

I did not have a schedule when I started writing. In the beginning I took the occasional boring evening to write, sometimes listening to music or watching television.  Then I started writing an hour or so each lunchtime, sparing fingers from the keys only to grab a bite of sandwich or sip a drink.  I produced my first thirty stories (two of which actually sold!) this way before I abandoned writing entirely.

When I did get back to writing about thirteen years later, I set aside a few hours each evening to simply write.  Only occasionally did I miss writing for at least an hour.  My pattern was the same for years; eat dinner, do family things, walk the dogs, and then write for a couple hours.  Because of the time constraints I turned out mostly short stories, although I did manage to struggle through a few novels that could have stood some more serious attention.

I cannot stress the importance of sticking to a schedule for writing.  A decent novel contains about a hundred thousand words.  That's less than three hundred words a day!  If you write a thousand words of crap and edit three quarters of it out you've accomplished your daily quota.  Anything more than that is a bonus.  Writing regularly also hones your literary voice, making your phrasing and styling more consistent.  Another benefit is that it allows you to maintain a steady focus on the story itself, holding everything in mind prevents missteps of timing, characterization, or "fact."

It also improves your typing speed.

Step Eleven of the Ten Step Process

I come back to the story after producing a diverting piece of work, ready to do battle with the thirty-two thousand word monster I'd left lingering in the recesses of my mind.  In the interim I decided how I want it to end and fully intend to now bend it to my will.

It sits where I left it, each scene glowing in all its color-coded glory, unknowing of the surgery I am about to perform.  After saving the draft I create a copy and begin to pare away all the gloss and glitter that was the result more of me talking to myself about the story (what we call the creative process - noodling, in other words) than informing the reader.  With the fervor of a berserker I hack away any scenes that do not directly impinge on the ending I want.  I use a little judgment and leave only those scenes that I believe are part of a logical flow.  When I finish after a few hours I discover that this has reduced the draft by ten thousand words - a good start.  Of course, I may want to restore some of that material later, but for now it's bye-bye.

The next step is to remove the parts within each scene that do not advance the plot. This is slower and requires more delicacy with the delete key but in the end manages to reduce the narrative by another six thousand really good, but unnecessary words that weren't relevant to what I'm aiming for at the moment.  I can call back what I need from my earlier draft, if I have to, so nothing is really lost.

Once again I dive into the text and word-by-word erase excessive adjectives, collapse gerunds, and do all the linguistic house-cleaning necessary to produce crisp, clean text.  This arduous process removes another two thousand immortal, and now unspoken, words and produces what I believe to be a final draft.

But is it done?  Is this really as good as I can get it?  The question haunts me for a day and then, unsatisfied that I have really done all I could to improve it, I decide to make one more editing pass.  Just once more, I promise. Once more. In this pass I add some of the deleted material, although not necessarily in its former location in the text.  Perhaps another pass before anyone sees it, I think.

On an absolutely final, final editorial run-through I still find places where I can tighten the text.  For economy of expression I convert exposition to explanation, background to dialogue, dialogue to exposition - whatever I think it takes to reduce the density of thought and crystallize the narrative.  In the end I am left with a little over fifteen thousand words; less than half of all that I've written.

And what's left over is enough over for another story, I realize.

Frustration

It always comes down to this, the nubbins of the project where the parts are scattered about as you try to fix what's wrong and realize that you've screwed it up so bad that it will never be put together right again.

Let's jump back a step. I decided that the metastory should be continuous, with illuminating backstory thrown in as needed. I pulled out the one third of the narrative that contained the crucial scenes and rewrote/edited them as a single story. That went well. It was when i tried to stick the backstory parts into this framework that the trouble began. Parts no longer fit where they were before, the chronology suddenly turned wonky, and, and, and, . . . I despair of ever getting this together again, it is so screwed up. This has happened before and is probably a consequence of something my mind is working on but has not yet resolved.

The first thing I tried was putting everything back into a simple chronological sequence which failed again because all the important action comes at the end of a LOT of backstory. FAIL!

The next effort was to cull the story, a difficult task since I have an insane loyalty to my WAW (Words-already-written). Nevertheless I began the process of carving away any WAW that didn't support the main thesis. The result was a pretty bland story but lots of action and hardly any backstory at all. FAIL!

Frustrated I restored the full draft and once again turned to my faithful copy of Tobias's Twenty Master Plots to see if there is some approach that would stand a chance of success. As usual, I learned only that I had missed no opportunity insofar as plot points, but the story still lacked a pleasing structure. What to do next? What haven't I thought of?

Rather than beat my brains against this wall of blocks I decided to go back to work on a hard SF novella with the hope that working on something completely different would clarify my mind. As these things happen, a new approach popped into my head no sooner than I got into the rhythm of the new piece. Resisting the impulse to jump back I simply made a few notes, put them aside, and continued working on the novella.

It is so nice to think you are in control of the process.

Not Quite Stage Ten

So here it is at last, the final pages of this tale done and, to be perfectly honest, I haven't a clue on what to do next.  Sure, I have the final scenes written, the pretty words all laid out in reasonable prose, the situations all tied up in a nice bow, the actors at the end of the journey that started out in the first sentence of paragraph one in the first scene.  I've done what I set out to do and, although it took me considerably longer than I planned, nevertheless followed the ten stages like clockwork. Not bad for a month's work. I think this is what the editor ordered, or at least would find acceptable.

But for me, it ain't a story, not yet.

There, I've said it plain as can be.  What I've written just doesn't work for me.  I've gone over the scenes one by one and confirmed that each tells its part of the tale, each has the characters acting in accordance with their roles, and each setting is consistent with the environment described in all of the other scenes.  Further, the scenes are in the proper order, revealing what the reader needs to understand as we move forward to the climax.  I even plotted the high dramatic points to energize the narrative where it might otherwise have dragged.  I wrote the high and low emotional points next to humor or pathos to heighten the tension.  I ran out detailed descriptions to provide verisimilitude and make the reader believe the tale is real.

So why isn't this thirty-odd thousand pile of words working for me? 

To my mind, a story should be more than an assemblage of words in reasonable order, more that a description of events, actual or fanciful, and certainly more than something simply readable or enjoyable.  A story associated with my name should be worth the telling and, more importantly, tell people something about themselves that they might not have otherwise realized.  A facet of our inner selves should be illuminated by any story, legend, joke, or speech worth the telling, even if it's a tiny hidden facet that helps us more fully understand what we are or what we could be.

That's what a real story should do.
My next steps are clear.  I need to chip away at this block of text to reveal the story that I know lies inside.  I am not going to abandon this.  Not yet.