Apologies to Stephen King for using his title. Great book, by the way: “On Writing.” Highly recommended to any aspiring writer, or King fan.
Anyway, today’s blog is about writing, particularly mine. *grin*
First I want to announce the fixing of my blog site for Internet Explorer! Huzzah! With the help of some usenet advice I found out that little traffic counter I had below the menu was throwing off my CSS blocks. But only in IE. So, I just got rid of it. Wasn’t really useful anyway.
Secondly, I reread the other day something about H.P. Lovecraft and how he hated writing to people so much, sending a thank-you for a gift was a painful exercise. All he wanted to do, could do, was write his stories. Until sometime in his 30’s when he suddenly became a prolific letter writer with constant ongoing correspondences with people. And it made me wistful for the pre-Internet days. (Can one be wistful for a time one barely remembers?) Fortunately, because of the Internet, I’m writing all the time. I’m responding to e-mail list postings, Web boards, writing my blog. But there’s just something about putting actual ink on actual paper that just feels… sensual. Not sexy sensual, weirdos, but the original sense of the word. It just FEELS good.
I had a friend I met at Church Camp in high school who I wrote letters back and forth with. She was an aspiring poet, was smart and bookish, and I felt giddy every time a new letter would arrive in the mailbox from her. It was just a wonderful feeling to tear open a letter, hold paper in your hand as you read words hand written by someone you appreciated. I miss that.
Finally, I’ll be mailing out my first attempt to publish a story tomorrow. I’ve been writing, er, trying to write since oh… I was 10. Through high school and college and a little since, I’ve started and never completed probably around 50 or more stories. Short, novella, novel. I usually get around 5 to 20 pages in, realize it’s crap, and drop it. Completely ignoring one of the most important duties of the writer: Just write!
I hate editing. Hate it. Not that I’m not good at it, I believe I am. I’m quite competent with English grammar, despite what you see on my blog. See, with my blog I just spew stream of consciousness like I should, but never go back to edit because when I reread what I’ve written (prose or non-fiction,) I realize how awful it is and how much work is needed to make it readable, and give up. So I never edit my blog (as I’m sure you can tell.) And I try to edit AS I write fiction, which is a HUGE no-no. You’re supposed to get it out, get it down, and then only after it’s all out do you go back and edit. And edit and edit.
Author Michael Stackpole reminds the writer in his podcast and newsletter that when writing the first draft, even if you realize something major half way through that has to be added in from the beginning, DON’T GO BACK! Don’t ever go back. Make a note to add it, and then just keep writing as though it was there from the beginning. Another author has said, “Great novels aren’t written, they’re rewritten.” I’ve known that since I was 13, but I still refuse to follow it.
So, I have VERY few, like, only three or four of the 50+ half finished stories that I’ve actually forced myself to finish. This one I’m finally submitting to publish I actually finished about four or five years ago. But when I started to go back to edit, realized how bad it was and put it away. Finally I forced myself to edit it. It was a painful, degrading, self-abusive task that left me shaking my head often pondering “Who wrote this crap! Oh yeah, I did.” I had my brother at one point early in the editing look at it and make notes. He’d make a very good writer himself (if he got off his lazy butt and wrote *grin to him*,) and he filled the first five pages with notes and just stopped saying “Dude, seriously.” And only about 5% of his notes I didn’t follow. But I put aside pride and said, “This can be done. I can take this sludge, because I believe in this story, I believe in these characters, and I can pound out a better narrative.”
And so now, I have something that’s a little better than sludge. And so tonight or tomorrow (depending on when I can get stamps,) I’ll actually send it in to a magazine. And I fully expect it to be rejected. But you know, I’m OK with that. Knowing this story is OK, but not great, I expect it to get rejected, I won’t be devastated when it is. I’ll say “Yeah, that was expected,” and hope the editor may have made a useful comment about it I can use in the rejection letter (hoping it’s not a form letter.) But even so, doing this, sending it in and getting rejected, will tear down that other wall I have: fear of rejection. Another reason I’ve never REALLY tried to finish a story and send it in, because I don’t want it officially rejected by people whose job it is to know good writing from bad. So I’ll be sending this in, expecting a rejection, fix anything noted if any, and send it somewhere else. And I will keep doing that until I’ve run the gamut of genre magazines, and then I will submit it to e-zines. And maybe eventually one will take it pour gratis, and that’s fine. But in the meantime, I’ll have the will and fortitude to be working on the next story and the next.
Actually, at the moment I’m working on one of my novels. I’m still debating whether I should write stream of conscious as I do and then force myself to edit the resulting garbage, or edit a bit as I write risking not finishing it in frustration, but having something a little easier to edit at the end. It’s painful either way.