by Mayumi-H | Mar 6, 2013 | Process
Writers’ Museum in Edinburgh. In Lady Stair’s House. Photo by Jeremy Keith.
Now, I’ve shared my stories with others before: friends, writing buddies, family (once in a while), even strangers. I don’t stress about feedback from any of those folks. They receive my stories as a chunk of text to absorb, and, for the most part, their feedback is a simple, “I liked it,” or “I didn’t.” We may go into slightly more detail than that, but it’s often conversational, with comments painted in pretty broad strokes.
A professional edit, though, picks a story apart scene by scene, line by line, word by word. That’s good. It helps a writer step outside the confines of their little self-imposed world, to have someone examine that world with a sharp, precise knife and cut where necessary. They may do a little triage, too, to keep the story pumping. I’d trust an editor – especially a good one, like I was lucky enough to get – to do that.
When I received the pages back and finished reading through all the comments, I wanted to scuttle back into my NaNo hole and tear the whole story apart again. Not because I was crushed or demoralized by those red marks. Because those red marks showed me there was something there. And I wanted to fight for it. I wanted to dig deeper into myself and that world and those characters, and make the story better. Because, with those fixes and suggestions, I knew it could be so.
I didn’t think I’d pick up that story again. It was a first draft, and first drafts always need work. But, when I crossed the NaNo finish line last year, I thought, Good enough. Now, I know how wrong I was. The best bit? The editor never came out and told me I could do better. It was everything between the lines: all the little ticks and tacks that – when I saw them – I knew were right.
In hindsight, I shouldn’t have worried. The editor’s feedback was great. Not to say it was all glowing praise, because it wasn’t that. Rather, it was observant, critical, and helpful, what a proper edit should be. And, just reading through the comments for that one scene made me realize the story wasn’t all it could be.
I wasn’t all I could be.
So, I decided to take the pages back and start over. Not from scratch, because I do like a lot of the story already. But the suggestions and observations are with me every time I start to play in that world again. And when I play in all my other worlds, too.
The story may never be great, or a bestseller, or even publishable. But I can make it better than it was before.
Better. Stronger. Faster. Dah-na-na-naa! Dah-na-na-na-na Na-na-na-naa!
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HofoK_QQxGc?rel=0]
What words of wisdom do you have for a hopeful aspirant? Got stories of your own to share? Want to trade? Let me know!
by Mayumi-H | Feb 20, 2013 | Fearless, Process, Short Stories, Songbirds
For the scrapheap
Sometimes, a challenge prompt will strike an immediate chord with me, and writing a submission is no trouble. (My Songbirds series vignette “A Deeper Reflection” was one of those easy-peasy efforts.) Other times, a multitude of prompts will converge into a perfect storm of inspiration and interpretation, such as with “Stagger to Sway,” one of my Fearless side stories. And then, there are the times when I’ll start writing one way, go another direction, twist around yet another bend, until I finally end up with a piece suitable for public consumption.
In the case of the “CHERISH” prompt, I eventually settled on a somewhat humorous entry, but below are three other efforts I deemed unworthy, for one reason or another. Take a gander, if it please you.
“Rescue”
That first shriek – echoing along the coastline like a banshee’s wail – made Scott drop his board like it was on fire; Finchy and Niall were already tearing across the sand, arms pumping for speed toward the source of those cries. Scott followed quick as he could do, only to pause at the edge of the scene: a young mum bouncing a screaming little girl close to her breast, while a frazzled dad was on hands and knees, scrabbling in the sand.
“Lost doll,” Niall said, his voice ripe with sour disappointment.
Scott almost snickered, when a glance into that girl’s reddened, snotty face made him think of his own tiny Emma, prompting him to shove both his mates toward the beach with a sharp, “Don’t just stand there. We’re a rescue squad; let’s rescue!”
* * *
“Toothless Shark”
Venus knew they had sex. As quiet as they’d tried to be, the rhythmic creak of used springs was as tattling as a two-year-old. So when she had to creep past their bed to the bathroom, she always kept her gaze trained forward, for the sake of all their dignities. Except for this time, when she glanced reflexively toward the sound of a muffled sniff, and had to cover her mouth and hold her breath against the most itching, adoring whimper, at the sight of Finchy’s face pressed into Amber’s ruffled curls and his fingers linked loosely with hers.
Swinging the bathroom door closed behind her, Venus laughed softly into her palm, wondering what the rest of the crew would think if they saw their resident shark, now.
* * *
“One”
At the precipice, she stood, white and bright and beautiful, the whistling wind swirling her golden curls around her shoulders the same as it ruffled the edge of her dress around her legs.
Seeing her so, warm sweat formed in his palms. He shifted his hands to his sides, to wipe them down, when it suddenly became too late: she grasped his fingers with her own – cool, slender, soft – and moved up close to him, for this moment that would end their lives as two.
They exchanged the words between them, and the precious circles the same. A single kiss, at last, and that was all, to soothe the anxious patter of his heart, and to make them one, for ever.
Now, I don’t think any of these are terrible. I was determined enough to want to finish them, after all (and to be willing to share them, here). But, as you can hopefully see, devoting such effort to these challenges is time-consuming. Even though I’ve decided to cut my blogging down to two posts a week instead of three, these still take plenty of concentration. I don’t like posting my work if I’m not totally pleased with it; I owe you that much.
…Focus…!
So, if you liked any of these scraps at least a little bit, remember this: even if what you write doesn’t make your final cut, keep that effort. Don’t throw it away completely. You never know when you might need that smile.
Where do you keep your scrapped efforts? Have you ever used a scrapped effort to start a new project?
by Mayumi-H | Jan 30, 2013 | Process
Many artists – sculptors, poets, fantasists of all kinds – attribute inspiration for their work to what they call their Muse.
“Hesiod and the Muse” – public domain image
Not to be cruel. Because, as artists, we’re all rather flighty individuals, with our minds dwelling at least a little bit in the clouds. That’s okay. Without dreamers, society would be pretty boring. Actually, it likely would have died away by now, without any high thinkers, who wrote some of the most important words of our civilization, from “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” to “We hold these truths to be self-evident….”
But ascribing your talent to some sort of divine guidance is – oh, I’m just going to say it. It’s kooky. More than that, though (and I’m going to catch a lot of flak for this, I know), it’s lazy.
Now, before my ever-dwindling group of blogging and writing friends decides to pull out the lynch ropes, let me clarify.
I’m not talking about artists who decide they need to step back from their art and re-prioritize; those folks know they’re just putting a muzzle on their Muse for a bit. Nor am I talking about the artists who simply know themselves well enough to decide they’ll make their art when it suits them, all in good time.
I’m referring to the people out there who complain they have no inspiration to create…while they can still pick up a videogame controller for hours on end, or head out to the pub the whole weekend long. That has nothing to do with the attention of your Muse.
Now, I completely understand the charm of having some seraphic creature looking over your shoulder, telling you which way to move your pen. And I, myself, believe that – in the throes of a story – a character or characters can take over, using their voices to weave new and intricate tales I’d never even considered while I was in the plotting phase.
But, don’t be misled by the flowery notion of a Muse. Those character voices are your voices. Any new paths toward which they may pull you are functions of your own creative subconscious. It’s a wonderful experience, to guide a story in an unexpected direction, based on the whim of a single word or phrase. But you have created that word, those phrases, that heretofore unknown story arc that turns your hunter into the hero, or your princess into the warrior demon. It didn’t come from any outside force.
What are you waiting for?
It’s not the idea of the Muse with which I take issue. I take issue with the idea of waiting on a Muse to move your pen (or hammer, brush, bow, or lens). That takes the power of creation away from the artist. Even worse, it takes away the responsibility for that creation. When an artist whines, “I’m waiting for my Muse,” that’s just an excuse for being lazy.
You cannot wait for some capricious, aetherial harlot to come knocking on your door, tapping at your shoulder, whispering into your ear that now is the time for you to make real all your hopes and dreams. No outside force is going to make your art for you. You are the only one capable of that. You. Or, I. Nobody else.
Blaming a Muse for lack of inspiration or failure to produce the story, the music, the picture you want is a cop-out. When you call – when you make the choice to apply yourself to your art, whatever it may be – your Muse will come. And, if she doesn’t, you go get her. You grab her by her flowing toga, and you drag her over to your workstation. Because you can’t afford to wait for her.
Because you are your own Muse.
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3C3poU_0sK4]
Now, for those of you still with me after that little tirade, tell me: How do you motivate yourself?
by Mayumi-H | Oct 20, 2012 | Process, Uncategorized
Part of what makes stories so much fun is the drama involved: Will the hero conquer the villain? Will the princess find her true love? Will the puppy make its way home? But, what happens when we find our characters strive more for realism than for drama?
Every story needs some kind of emotional resonance for it to have impact, whether it’s about war or heartbreak or family experience. Sometimes, though, our characters become so much their own people that they end up dictating where their own stories go. I’ve written scenes – necessary ones – for their dramatic effect…but I’ve also had to rewrite other scenes because the characters’ voices had developed so much since my initial plotting that their actions (or reactions) as I’d originally envisioned simply no longer held true to their natures.
What do you do in this situation? Do you let the character take over, possibly sacrificing the drama of the scene? Or, do you follow through with the original idea, possibly sacrificing believability for the character?
It’s okay to play Loosey Goosey in some instances: maybe the hero isn’t in his right mind at the moment and makes a snap judgment against character; maybe the heroine is torn by the conflict facing her and decides on one route over another because her values are confused. Written well, with the associating consequences, those options are totally valid. But, what do you do when your original big conflict becomes significantly less climactic than originally envisioned, because your darned MC has grown up too much over the course of the story?
I’m a big fan of sweeping epics, and last-minute, nerve-wracking climaxes where the audience is led to page after page to see what happens next. But I also believe in, well, believability in a story. The hero shouldn’t overcome the conflict just because the story needs a climax; he should do so because that’s what he has to do, to progress, grow, and change. It may make for less high drama, but it may also make for more realism.
But that’s just my opinion. Which do you prefer: realism or drama?
by Mayumi-H | Sep 8, 2012 | Process
Many of us have already been told it’s better to keep our prose as simple as possible: clear is better than clever, as they say. For the most part, I agree. And I’ve enjoyed my share of flowery prose! One part of a story that’s created something of a dividing line between me and other authors, though, is just that: the dividing line. To put it more broadly, the use of transitions.
Keeping in mind that adage of clearer being better than clever, I don’t see much point in dwelling on long, rambling transition sequences. But, I also think the dividing line is a bit of a cheat. Not only does that divider line (or space block, or asterisks, or whatever) take the reader out of the moment, it breaks the flow of the narrative. Sometimes, this doesn’t matter so much; if you’re changing perspective, for example, you want to separate the narrative flow somehow. But for a subtle scene or time change, I prefer to keep reading, rather than having my eye stutter over a visual division.
The rest of the afternoon passed quickly: the relatively uneventful walk back to the city centre, with St. Stephens and the train station, and a bit of aimless traipsing around the shops while the hotel prepared their late check-in room. Sally led them into a book shop where they stopped to listen to a charming children’s reading circle; Larry dallied in a retro art store with a selection of colorful and odd-looking international movie posters.
The quaintness was charming, of course, and they chatted along the way about both realistic potentialities and dreamy might-bes. But, through it all, there was still something missing, something hovering almost expectantly in the air between them: when they’d stop at a corner, or pause in conversation, or share a quiet look over tea and biscuits in a coffee shop.
Now, the above doesn’t really move the plot along any; all it does is take the reader from one scene to another. An editor might tell me to cut it. Simply removing these paragraphs between the two scenes makes my brain stutter, though, the same as putting in one of those divider lines would do. So, I’ve indulged myself with this transition.
What are your feelings on transitions in prose?
Recent Comments