An Archeological Dig — Revision and Its Many Stages

This week, I read Gobsmacked! by my formed mentor Stephen Roxburgh. A wonderful piece about Roald Dahl and their time working together, Stephen illuminates how they worked through the revision process, and the various rounds and ongoing discussions had they regarding certain ideas, story structure, characters, and the like.

Not only is it a delightful read, but Gobsmacked! is a good reminder of the ways the revision process evolves over time. As Stephen writes, much "like a archeological dig. You start moving big things, but in the end, you focus on the smallest details." This is something I certainly know is true from my time working with Stephen, and is a truth I was reminded of again as I moved into the second round of my revision process.

Entering the second stage of revision, I was glad both to finish round one, as it is a mark of tangible progress, while also welcoming a change in revision style. In round one, I worked through the manuscript chronologically, identifying larger character and plot concerns, as well as heavily refining my language and deleting unnecessary sentences and/or paragraphs. In round two, however, I am tackling my list of more conceptual problems. Dealing with more minute but wholly significant character inconsistencies, missing pieces, the need for more interactions, and many other problems that require a creative type of problem solving.

At times I feel as if I am looking a piece of wood that needs to be carved to just the right shape in order to fit into the puzzle. I have certain revision points in which I need to actively figure out how best to address the problem that exists — to change things, or manipulate, to reimagine a character and come up with a unique but consistent resolution that fits into the larger whole of the story.

This revision cycle also requires that I work out of order, extracting disparate pieces from my story and looking at them side by side, even though they might be hundreds of pages apart. Jumping around from section to section, I need to make sure that if I change a detail on page 16, that what happens on page 108 and 208 also change accordingly.

This is a round where all the pieces matter together, individually and in relationship to each other; where I have to think more strategically, in terms of the greater whole — because truly in the end, it is the details that matter and the details that could pull a story apart.

So as I continue through this revision cycle and into the next, I welcome the changes that occur and the variant styles I must employ in order to make it all work. And of course, it is always helpful to hear the words of an expert, and remember that even the most brilliant literary minds go through a process of trying, and reworking, and digging through the dirt.

Help When I Needed It — How Writing Gives Back

Writing is often seen as a chore. A habit you have to enforce. A discipline you practice. An endeavor you pursue. And all of this is true. Writing is a practice that must be honed and worked at; one that requires commitment and perseverance. We see writing as something we give ourselves to — an output of ourselves and our stories onto the page. 

But it's also more than that. Writing is an expression that helps us to get through all of life’s challenges. Writing provides a forum for the truths we hold important, and the difficulties we seek to both describe and further understand through our writing of them. It receives our words, like a good friend offering a listening heart. It provides structure in an often unpredictable world. Writing gives back. It gives to the writer, just as the writer gives to her writing. 

You see, often I fall in the first camp of thinking. I suspect most of us do. I like writing, but mostly I like producing stories that might one day affect the heart of another. I know some people who can't wait to write every day, which is totally great. But no matter how much passion we have to our craft, it still becomes work. As my good friend said to me this week after I described how much time I put into my work —"Books don't write themselves". And she's right. They don't. So we write them, dedicating hours and hours and restructuring our days to make sure to fit it in; and in that sometimes that feeling of "work" overtakes the feeling of "fun" or "passion", and habit overrides emotion. 

In theory, this is good. We writers want to be people of habit and dedication. But what about what writing provides to the writer? Don't we want to get something from this journey, too, apart from the ultimate dream of publication? Don't people say art should be for art's sake and not the end game? 

We could also answer these questions different, but here's why I'm writing this post: Last week, I realized just how much writing does for me. That's right. What it gives to me. And, to be honest, I could probably expound and expound on why I write and why choose this as such a major part of my life, but in this post, I'm just going to make one simple point, which I already alluded to above.  

Last week was a particularly hard week for me. And while I am more than happy to say everything turned out well, it was a difficult week to get through. It was trying. And in the midst of it, when there was nothing I could do but go about my day hoping and trying to be as normal as possible, I found my writing. 

Of course, it has always been there. But this week, I found how much my practice of writing helped me. In the middle of hardship, I found my writing a comfort in a way I had not anticipated. This habit allowed me to feel normal again. My characters allowed me to focus on another, very real part of my world. And above all, my writing was there - consistent, structured, unchanging, all determined by me. It provided the constant, reliable outlet that I needed. And before last week, I am not sure I ever realized just how valuable writing is in this way.  

No matter where I go or what happens, my writing is there. It's familiarity is comfortable to me. It lives within me and on the page. In times of trouble, I am sure writing will not always be easy. But the simple fact that it is there, waiting for me, ready to receive the weight of my heart or create something entirely new, that was a revelation that really helped me through. 

This whole writing thing, it's not a one way street after all :) Wishing you all comfort in your writing, and all good days ahead!

Books! Books! Books! The Love of Reading and How It Relates to Writing

I had a great moment this week. It was the moment I officially knew that I loved reading again. You see, grad school was hard. And reading 5 to 8 books a week really took a toll on me. Even though my second year was relatively light on reading, the first year had done its damage. Reading had lost its urgency for me. At least for a little while.

It's not that I loved books any less or that I didn't read. But that desire, that need to pick up a book and spend my free time in the pages of a story just wasn't there. Perhaps heightened by my own story telling efforts, I felt like I needed to do something different. Be with friends. Watch TV. Go outside. Anything. And while books floated into my routine sometimes, most of the time I felt the need for space; time for my mind to distance itself from the hours and hours spent cramming book after book into my brain.

But this week, things changed. Or shall we say, they returned to normal. This summer, I've been reading regularly, but at a slower pace. I felt no need to rush through one book and hurry to the next, but instead enjoyed a leisurely stroll through chapters and stories, loving picturebooks for their short, visual nature, and gravitating toward adult non-fiction. Last week I ventured to the library, however, picking up Sara Pennypacker's Summer of the Gypsy Moths and Rebecca Stead's Liar and Spy. I finished the first last week and began Stead's fantastic book. And when I came to the end of Liar and Spy, when I turned the last page and closed the cover, I knew the moment. I finished the book around nine thirty at night, and instead of turning to TV or deciding to turn in early or call a friend, I instantly wanted to read another book. It wasn't just that I wanted to read another book. I needed to read one immediately. Right now. So I pulled my awaiting library borrow, Just Kids by Patti Smith, and plunged into the pages.

To some, this may sound normal, and to others perhaps strange. But it was the urgency with which I needed to read that got me. It wasn't my interest, for books have never and will never not interest me. But it was that I needed to read. I had to start another book, as if being in the middle of a story would lessen the quality of life.

This feeling isn't new to me. But it was a welcome return. I remember late in middle school and early high school always having the desire to read. And although books have never left my side, that feeling ebbs and flows, changing, coming and going with the seasons of life. And I don't know what it is — perhaps my hiatus from books, my need to have stories swirling in my mind as I pursue my own, these particualr titles, or maybe something else — but I was happy to pick up the torch again, blazing through books and looking forward to the next one.

Carrying a book around in my purse, planning reading into my day, staying up later than I should repeatedly telling myself, "Just a few more pages." I know I'm not the only one who does this. But my new zeal for reading is a good reminder of why I want to create books myself. To imagine someone else reading my book the way I might read another; to know that my pages could be the reason a kid feelings this love of reading for the first time; to think that my work could sit alongside so many of the books I loved and have yet to discover — this is why I write. Because I love reading. And to provide someone with a book they can love; to contribute to the body of literature that betters my days and provides heart and knowledge and growth; to contribute to the reading experience. There's nothing better than that. Nothing at all.