So, what does the daily routine look like years into writing your first novel? (Besides going to and from the office, keeping up with family, chores around the house…)
I spent the winter and spring going through a hardcopy printout of the entire manuscript and making several hundred edits – everything from line edits to adding and taking away text.
This summer (and into the fall) I am rekeying the 5th draft. In April I set the edited hardcopy next to my PC, opened a new Word doc, and started typing. This is an important part of the process. The value of this is huge in that through rekeying you find more edits and you maintain (hopefully strengthen) the consistency of the text. It will not be the last time I rekey the book.
As I’m rekeying I think I’ve discovered something that you should know. Something I think you can use.
It is useful to look at the entire page at once, as a sort of whole, as a composition. It is useful to take this view and reconstruct the dialogue and action at that macro level. I have found that in the draft from which I’m rekeying, the elements are almost certainly out of order. At least they need to be moved around in some fashion in order to bring forward the punch the scene inherently carries.
It is a fact you can use no matter what you are writing – from a novel to signing a greeting card. The order in which the sentences appear on the page is not going to be right until they are all there. Order only comes within the context of the whole.

Disclaimer: Guidance for writing fiction is tricky. All of it is situational; it is contextual to whatever writing the giver of the guidance had in mind at the moment. It is not science that can be applied across every patient. It is true that for every bit of guidance, there are a dozen examples that fly in the face of it.

Following the Tim O’Brien reading at Butler earlier this month, I was standing in a huddle with several other writers. One of them teaches creative writing and he was talking about one of his current classes. In doing so he told us a bit of guidance he gives them. I found the bit especially helpful and have been noodling on it ever since. There are two parts to the guidance. Here it is:

“If one of your readers says there is something wrong with your writing, they are always right.
If they tell you how to fix it, they are always wrong. Deconstruct what bothered them and fix it yourself.”

Assuming you have chosen your readers with some wisdom and criteria in mind*, you must trust them. They are an asset. They are your customer. This takes humility and a desire to collaborate. It is the turn where the writing stops and the focus group begins. If one of your readers says there is something wrong with your writing, then there is. Something has caused your reader to stop, and not only stop, but make the effort to tell you about it.
Listen to them. Ask questions for clarification. But once you receive the concern, once you understand what caused them to stumble, you are done. The purpose of the conversation has been served. Be thankful and stop listening.
While you were not qualified – were arguably incapable – of seeing what needed to be fixed, you are the only person on the planet qualified to fix it. They will tell you what you “should” do. They will be full of ideas. And if there are several of your readers in the room, they will feed off each other and create all manner of options for you. Know this: They will not hit on the best fix. They are not the author. They are smart and wonderful people, but they simply don’t know the piece as well as you. They don’t have the vision. The fix is up to you.

*Your readers should not be just someone who is willing to read. These people should be folks who read a lot and who understand what makes good writing good. Optimally, your reader understands at a high level what you are trying to do with the piece they are critiquing for you.

Think about the last time you told someone a story. Let’s say it was about your trip this winter to the beaches of southwest Florida. You told them the parts you needed to tell them in order for them to get a sense of what you experienced. And as they listened, they developed a picture in their mind of what you were telling them. There was a lot of detail that you simply didn’t provide. You couldn’t have. There is too much. There were sensations and smells, urges and observations that you lived which could never be translated in retelling the events, if into words at all.

When you told your story, you left almost everything out.

It is a fiction writer’s job – to give reader just enough to create an illusion of experience while leaving nearly everything out. So what do you leave in? You leave in just enough that your reader will sense the rest. If you go too far your reader will see you on the page trying to control their experience. The result will be disastrous for the story.

Read this.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the waves were breaking in long lines down the shore and the water was coming up the sand and there was foam and the cutest little tiny shells caught up in it. You could see the water soak in and out of the sand and it was soft on our feet and the breeze was warm. And the water was blue-green and felt cool between our toes. The water was really breaking a lot harder on the jetty. But up by us it was soft and relaxing.

Now read this.

The sea was at its very best, lines of foam kissing the beach, the breeze lazing with us in the sun.

Which tells the story in a way that leaves you wanting more? That draws you in?
Yep, it’s the one that leaves almost everything out.

This week we are going to get very, very practical. I’d like to talk about a mistake creative writers make all the time. Every time they sit down to work. It is a mistake I am finding throughout my current manuscript and one I am actively editing for every day.
A character has fallen and scraped himself badly. Here is the sentence.

Blood rose in thin slivers, reddening the stinging rash on my side.

As a reader you might read that and not find anything wrong with it. The case is easily made that there isn’t anything wrong with it. It is visceral enough and gives a good image. But wait, here is the sentence again.

The stinging rash on my side reddened, blood rising in thin slivers.

Now the sentence pops, right? The image is no longer good but great. That is because there is a part of this sentence that is called the penultimate phrase – blood rising in thin slivers. In order to give the reader the best experience possible, you should always strive to end the sentence with the penultimate phrase, the most surprising detail.
Start re-reading your favorite sentences. Start messing around with the placement of the phrases. See the power drain out of them? That is why they all give you the penultimate phrase last. It’s not magic, it’s craft.

Here are some of the nuts and bolts I am dealing with at the moment. I am trying to learn how to write a memoir. More specifically, what format a memoir should take. I am in the process of writing a fictional one, a novel in the form of a memoir. I have completed a couple of drafts of my book, and am now circling the wagons, trying to re-imagine how the way I am telling the story might be improved, more thoroughly crafted, guided by the genre.

I checked out about a dozen memoirs from the library in an effort to discover a common form. Some were indistinguishable from an autobiography. Others were reflections on a single event or period in the memoirist’s life. Many had descriptions, a sense of place and dialogue – all the elements of creative nonfiction. But the exercise was not a great deal of help. At least in this crude survey I found no clear form.

I did, however, uncover a book that I think will help me. It is called Memoir: A History by Ben Yagoda. Yagoda has written both biography and autobiography, so I think he can help me understand what my project has me dealing with. As soon as I finish Greg Schwipps’ latest novel, What This River Keeps (which I highly recommend, especially to my fellow Hoosiers!), I’ll begin to take council from Ben. Here’s to hoping.