Brick by brick

I did it. I hit my Third Draft deadline a month ahead of schedule.

Is there a chance this early win is due to a somewhat light touch line edit?

Yes, yes there is.

Going over my book in May made me feel very dizzy, and bored. Very bored. It's like I invited a friend over for a few nights, and the nights turned into weeks, and though I love them very much, I was ready for them to go.

By which I mean that I'm ready for my novel to fly the nest. It needs to go out into the world on its own two feet, stand up for itself, and seek independence.

No doubt it will come back to me in a month or so with the shit kicked out of it, a few pages missing, and try and chuck itself head first into the nearest bin.

But this is the process.

Whether I'm happy about it or not, the next stage for this book, is an audience.

And the feedback, good or bad, is essential to this book surviving beyond my circle of friends. This book needs to bulk up.

I've taken it as far as I can - thank God - time to make it somebody else's problem, now it's over to my generous readers.

Firstly, I'm forcing my husband and Mum to have a read, just to check there's nothing horrendously misguided about it before it goes to the printers.

I'll push out a few more blogs about what I've been up to in May, but this one is all about relief. It's about sitting back and enjoying the smug before the fall.

It's also about the twenty other tasks that I'd forced to take a backseat this year, coming to the fore.

I see it as a sign that my favourite writing magazine, Mslexia, has just arrived in the post. Put your feet up. Breathe.

You have to treat every long-term, painstaking commitment the same; brick by brick.

Three's a crowd

Thankfully my end of June goal is looking a little more attainable this week. I'm still working through all my structure edits, trying to seamlessly place weather, and subplots and stitch the gaping holes, and not make it look like a rag doll.

One of the most irritating things is the re-invention of a sexual triad (No, it's not dirty, and no, I had no idea what this was until I read about it in my writing bible.) Google will take you down the Polyamory road if you let it, but in the context of story, it's about tension between three characters in a romantic sense. As in, Character A and Character B are together, but Character C is more than a little interested in Character A and intends on giving it a shot.

Or as Robert J. Ray put it in 'The weekend Novelist', 'The sexual triad bristles with biology, mate selection, power, and the dramatic intensity of the intruder penetrating a closed circle.'

I had a triad in my first draft, but it lacked any real drama, and didn't kick in until later on. Cue, a much needed re-write.

A few things have changed here; the characters that ultimately fancy one another start flirting much earlier. Initially I had them fighting their way through a good fifteen chapters. Now that it's clear there's something between them early on, there's a reason for the boyfriend to be jealous.

That still wasn't enough. And that's where back story comes in. Ray encouraged me to create this beauty of a table, called 'The Three Goods':

CHARACTER	GENES	RESOURCES	BEHAVIOUR
Hannah	Good	Bad	Bad
Daniel	Good	Bad	Good
Linden	Good	Good	Bad

Initially all three triad characters were pretty much the same - reasonably well off attractive people. Great work imagination. So why would Hannah be compelled to like one of them more than the other? Yes, I know it's not that simple, but these are the most significant reasons why people stray.

So, I had a play around. What if Linden had a lot of money, and Hannah didn't, better still, what if Daniel was having secret financial struggles (that come out eventually). That's a reason for Hannah to consider trading up, and another reason for Daniel to dislike Linden. Win.

I liked the money idea a lot, so I took it further. I created a historic issue between the two men based around Linden embarrassing Daniel over his lack of cash. that's hinted at for a while before it's known - great - another potential reveal and some much required tension between the guys before their competition over Hannah even comes into it.

I also decided that Daniel would be so worked up over his hatred of Linden, that it would take him a while to realise that Hannah's interest in Linden was a little over-zealous. Too late.

The good news is - I made my book better. The bad news is I was left with a handful of chapters where two characters now needed to grow closer together instead of their amusing (but ultimately irrelevant) sparring. I have to keep reassuring myself that stripping away is oddly essential to moving forwards.

I've edited 22 chapters, only another 10 to go. Then I'll be spending a bit of time in the past, with my so far ignored Flashbacks.

I'll leave you with some wise words from Robert J. Ray (I realise that I gush over this man):

Q: What (if anything) in your writing do you find challenging?

A: Beginnings, Middles, Ends, First Drafts, Rewrites—everything in writing is hard to do well. If you write a good book, the next one could be a stinker. If you write a stinker, ouch. You need luck. You need energy. You need help from other writers. You need to know where you are in a book, but you can’t know until you finish a couple of drafts, so how do you keep moving, what do you write today after writing crap yesterday? Writing practice keeps me afloat, writing with other writers, packing the pages of your notebook, reading out loud, listening around the table. Writing at Louisa’s here in Seattle has kept me going for two decades. Working pages with Jack Remick and Joel Chafetz sends me back into the words, always.

Labyrinth

People often refer to the mid-point (or Act two) of their novels as (like the blight of aging), the saggy middle.

The middle is a Labyrinth. It's easy to get lost in. It's easy to convince yourself that you're going in circles. We would love to stumble across a minotaur or two in there - thank God; a bit of drama and intrigue.

The middle contains a lot of exposition, that is, backstory and talking with less action, what with the hook behind you and the climaxes at the end (as a rule). It's not as exciting or as easy to structure. It can wander off, like a thoughtless child and cover an incredible amount of ground before it gets to the point.

Hence saggy, unwieldy, excessive.

I wish I could complain that I'm currently battling my saggy middle (physically, always) because that would mean I was editing the core of my book. Instead, I'm just about to leave Act One, with a definite sense of limbo - cue rolling haystacks and lift music.

I'm just not finding it as rewarding. All of my 'ah ha!' moments were during the structuring phase, where I felt limitless and creative, but now I'm stuck following the plan. Before was playing around, an endless series of 'what ifs' but now it's all mostly decided.

And, yes, you've guessed what's at the heart of my whinge, It's hard work.

I am terrible at hard work, like a cat held over a bath of water, I will do almost anything to get out of it.

So I've started committing to smaller deadlines with my digital writing group, weekly goals. There's something about public announcements that gets me though. It's the dread of having to admit I've failed. Because if there's one thing I hate more than trying, it's failing.

The goals I put up there are feasible, more than that, they're easy. Secretly I want to beat them, and it's within my power to. That's the point.

I've edited 11 of 34 present tense chapters (I'm not including flashback chapters as I haven't....err....factored them in whatsoever yet).
I want to finish April with 12 done. That will leave me with 22 to complete in May - 5 or 6 a week (Jesus Christ). Then first week of June for flashbacks and last two weeks for line/style edits.

And off to the printers!

Sometimes plans make you feel hopeful. Sometimes (as is very clear in this case) they make you feel hopeless.

If I'm honest, I lost most of April to a combination of '13 Reasons Why' and Gin (not at the same time).

I guess I better get on with it then...

The Treasure Map

As a result of trying to develop and then plait my subplots together, my novel has put on considerable weight.

Only time will tell if the details and directions added overwhelm the story - but for now I celebrate that it seems rich, and alive, and fully formed.

Thank God. 1year and 4 months later.

I used my subplots to rebuild my book - what had to happen and where, ideally in the most dramatic order. I saw chapters which I could merge, steal from and kill off, events which travelled earlier and later. In Week One alone (it's set over a month) 12 Chapters reduced to 7).

Next is the monstrous Chapter Map - my skeleton. This involves some serious data mining.

My notes are everywhere; Trello (a great mind mapping tool), old word docs, track changes of current drafts, my phone, post its.

When I'm finished with this task, each scene will look something like this:

I've tried to master the art of the 3 Act structure, which guides you on where to place drama, road forks etc but I'm only loosely in line with it (A.K.A I don't completely understand how to do it).

The 'Ref', instantly reminds me of the gist.

'Sig' for 'Significance' which marks which subplots are involved and cross over. 'Obj' for 'Objects', apparently (acc to Robert Ray, a story without objects is rubbish (repeated objects become symbols like Cinderella and her glass slipper).

A summary, and the location of the scene, and finally my mess of thoughts.

The volume of notes seems pretty indicative of the re-work involved, so it looks like CHP1 and I are going to be spending a lot of time together.

Having all of this info in one place allows me to do something incredibly valuable - planting. I am planting all over the shop. For example I've changed the time of year to just after Christmas. Why? Because it's cold, miserable, the lowest point - a perfect backdrop for a dark tale.

Little things like the Christmas trees I'll pick to stand in my characters' homes, will (in theory) speak volumes to the reader, their wealth, their personalities (the faithful show don't tell).

There are small plants; my protagonist is now a swimmer. She lane swims, early and often, to battle stress, to avoid people, to help keep her secrets quiet. So I push this in here and there, scenes where her hair is wet, where her boyfriend remarks that she always smells like chlorine, her towel drying on the radiator, boiling over when she can't find the time.

Routines make people.

Some chapters have few notes so far:

Unsurprisingly 'Ted Intro' includes no subplots, out of a possible 6, inferring that there's no story here. It may contain a rather pretty depiction of the coast (if I do say so myself) but in its current form, it slows the story. This forces me to choose; is it a waiting platform, desperate to help a subplot or two on their merry way, or is it destined for the scrapheap.

CH23 will certainly require some thought:

So, if I manage to continue to crack on (and don't lose my mind in the process) my third draft of 'Dollis' will be ready by the end of June, and nervously passed over to a select group of readers.

Roll on June.

Losing the plot

.....and finding the subplots. All six of the snaky bastards.

For the past few weeks I've been focusing on isolating the mini stories, the vines of drama, the secrets, motives and conflicts which have entwined themselves around my plot.

The first is the journey of my antagonist, a bratty fifteen year old girl intent on taking my protagonist down. I traced her steps through my second draft, when she shows up and why, when she wins and loses ground, where she is irrelevant and where she is threatening to take over the whole show. Bad antagonist.

I thought this would be a tedious but ultimately hugely beneficial exercise. It was hugely beneficial. It was also very, very tedious. (Yes, I am still reticent when elbow grease is required).

I started to get to know Ashley (a.k.a Subplot 1). She became crueler. She stole from her mother. She lied about where her Dad was, changing it to suit her mood; he was dead, he was missing, he was a wanted man. I figured out her back story and noted in down. Chapters grew richer; new, better ideas replaced shaky ones. Because I took the time to hang out with her exclusively, it was easier to see what she was lacking, what she would do when backed into a corner, the words she would use to wound.

Instead of growing dizzy trying to stare down the whole book at once, I was zoomed in, focused, and seeing one aspect clearly.

The epiphany's were great. But the problems followed fast. Ashley shows up on pg 103. As the main obstacle for my antagonist to battle, a pretty lazy entrance. So I would have to move her up, significantly, naturally. She also takes her time to cause drama, time I can't afford to lend (and the reader won't care for). Loose ends aplenty. Entire chapters tentatively ejected to the rubbish pile for the greater good.

I re-made the table, breaking and re-setting bones.

I loyally followed the advice of my bible, 'The Weekend Novelist' and tried to see each action like the scenes of a film:

Ashley’s House. A loves H, fascinated by P, cruel to M.

CUT TO

Ashley’s House. A reveals her investigation. H is unhappy. A tries to look like H.

CUT TO

Out of Town. H secret meeting with M to address concern about A. M is dismissive.

CUT TO

Ashley’s bedroom. A knows about secret meeting, tells lies, steal’s H’s phone.

CUT TO

Hannah’s family home. A turns up trying to interview G after second girl missing.......

And so forth.

I have endured this for four subplots over two weeks. My brain is white noise. My book is like something I spilt on the floor. Once the subplots are fully realised I'll have to put the story back together again, Humpty Dumpty style.

I wish I was Jack Kerouac, who put his hands on his type typewriter for three weeks and pushed a book out. (A crazy book, but a great book all the same. I like it a lot - On The Road )

Alas I am not Jack, and so the fight continues between my desire to finish this and my innate laziness.

I'll leave you with one of my favourite pieces of writing from Kerouac, and get back to an evening in the delightful company of Subplot 5.

“[...]the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”

A real page turner

Last week I stumbled across Robert J. Ray's 'The weekend Novelist Redrafts the novel,' in an unpacked box and had a quick skim. I can see exactly why past me had purchased it, lured in by the title, then flung it into a dark corner after properly reading a few pages. The book reeks of hard work. It asks for time. It demands that consideration be given to things like archetypes and subtext.

Past me saw little value in things like that. Firstly (and this hasn't changed) I was hugely intimidated by words like these. My writing degree taught me a lot about my own voice, due to the three years I'd paid to get familiar with it, but very little about what lies behind the words. The teachers were keen to encourage us to lock ourselves away and put pen to paper, but imparted limited advice on the actual craft.

Secondly, past me very firmly believed that great writing was a kind of magic; a slippery, elusive thing which chose to arrive and disappear beyond my control, but, when it was there, it would be flawless, gifted, the plot, characters etc. all prettied up and neat.

Past me was a naive idiot.

The only reason I picked up 'The weekend Novelist,' and instead of throwing it, held it close (this time around) is because I finally have a draft deserving of all that the book requests.

Yes, editing is still an uneasy task for me; I have a lot to learn, and wrap my unwieldy mind around. And past me is still in there somewhere, huffing and puffing about how I just need to crack on and write instead of messing around with scene profiles and antagonists. But present me realises that this prize winning book lark is less about a beautiful sentence here and there, and much more about structure, and chronology and core story. Sadly (I would prefer an easier route).

I feel like the past 6 months have been about arming myself with the tools to push on; a digital writing group which has transcended into good friends who also write, Scrivener, a bookshelf of 'How to' books which actually work for me, and my Study; a space of my own.

I think I'm going to spend a lot of time with Robert J. Ray. Thanks to him (and the other brilliant things listed above), not getting picked for the Jerwood Mentorship didn't feel crushing. The news briefly slowed me down until I thought, 'Right, I guess it's back to work then.'

'If not you, who?
If not now, when?'
~Hillel The Elder~

Suggested reading....for inspiration....
The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
Fear of Flying - Erica Jong
Beat Poets - Carmela Ciuraru

For getting on with it...

Writing Down the Bones - Natalie Goldberg
The weekend Novelist Redrafts the novel - Robert J. Ray
A Writer's Book of Days - Judy Reeves

Well trodden Memory Lane

The start of 2017 has seen me preoccupied by two things; my submission to the Jerwood Mentoring Programme and a bout of good ol' nostalgia, not altogether unrelated things.

In order to apply for the scheme (a year of retreats and support as a fiction writer - http://www.arvon.org/grants-schemes/jerwoodarvon-mentoring-programme/) I had to put together a Bio and Personal Statement. Trying to ignore that both of these things terrified me, as they meant addressing my consistent floundering and self-doubt, I typed them up frantically (mostly looking away from the screen). I presented them to my husband, flushed and ready for praise.

He destroyed them (not physically, though they deserved it). He was right to do so; they were flowery, eager to please, rushed attempts at demonstrating my able wielding of the written word rather than daring to say anything about my life or my journey as a writer.

Back to the drawing board, and almost two solid days of re-drafts. The more I tried, the more I panicked. I was gearing myself up for this, wanting it, investing. I was inflating myself higher and higher, and slowly becoming aware of the imminent fall.

My husband's advice was not to get too excited. But that's not really me. I don't know how to try but not care, to give everything, but pull the emotion back. If I'm not successful with this it will hurt like a bitch, but that's good. I'm out of practise with failure. I need to get a wealth of failure behind me again, scrap through the hurt and rejection, and be better for it. Failure is good, great even, it suggests effort; a million times better than standing completely still with my eyes shut - my usual attempt.

In my Bio I talked about my frantic scrawling as a teenager. It took me back. I would stay up until the early hours writing, until my floorboards were covered with barely legible sheets, my hand ached and I had nothing left to stay. It is painful to look back and realise that in some ways, the past you was a better version.

I know what changed. It's the same stuff that plagues us all; work, relationships, owning shit we don't really need, cleaning it, fussing with it, selling it on. Adulthood can often fail to be the imaginative wonderland that childhood gave us in abundance. But that's probably our fault.

As we've just bought a house, my Mum has decided to relinquish a huge sports bag worth of my stuff - most of it books from school, letters, old photographs. It's early days, but I'm already finding some absolute beauties, my which I mean, horrific yet endearing writing I'd forgotten about. Perhaps the contents of the bag will teach me how to go back to writing for myself, back to the girl staying up till dawn for the words (even if that does mean for a while, producing a few worryingly odd poems about bullying).