Don’t get me wrong: I am still a huge believer in plans and outlines, particularly for novels and screenplays.  No plotline of any complexity can be efficiently paced, foreshadowed, set up, and paid off without knowing in advance where you are headed and what needs to happen when.  Some people prefer to wander through a first draft and discover things as they go, then rewrite entirely from page one once they figure it out.  That draft, essentially, takes the place of my outlining process.  In the past, I was a staunch defender of doing the structuring without actually crafting any prose.  Why?  Because I have a hard time writing prose that isn’t at least an attempt to be clever or pithy or poetic.  And for me, trashing dozens of pages of clever, pithy, poetic prose because I realize I don’t need that entire scene or subplot is like asking a chef to take his made-from-scratch souffle straight from the oven to the garbage disposal.  It’s a kind of cruelty.

At the same time, I realized that I was using Not Having a Perfect Plan as a sophisticated form of procrastination, and needed to break through that.  So I made the world’s most basic outline (five crucial turning points to write to at predetermined word count goals) and then just started writing.  Fast.  The result?  Well, a lot of very weak prose.  But also, I have realized  that you do discover things in a draft that you cannot discover in an outline.  Case in point: this week, two of my characters decided to kiss.

It was not a tidy, consummate Disney moment.  It was emotionally lopsided and weird and tasted of cigarettes.  I did not know it was going to happen until the characters were there, and the emotional pitch and exact blocking of the scene made me realize, these people would kiss, and it’s going to complicate their already-imbalanced relationship in a way that will pay off tenfold later.  I could not have outlined that kiss without actually being there in the moment, feeling the insane amounts of adrenaline they were both feeling.  And yet the kiss matters, and has repercussions since it was inappropriate on a couple of levels, and so now it goes into the outline.

I still believe in outlines.  Even for the emotional stuff.  I believe in detailed, detached manipulation.  I do not believe that if I’m crying when I write something, the writer will necessarily cry when reading it.  The reader and I are starting from a different emotional place unless I willfully create the place the reader is starting from.  I have to build that place.  I believe the reader is more likely to cry if I have looked at seventy other films and novels that have made me cry, and taken apart why, stripped them down to the bare skeleton of build-build-build-release and then given those same skeletons different flesh.

The reason I allowed the kiss to creep into my outline was not that it moved me.  It did move me, but so do dog food commercials.  I have made the kiss part of my outline because it is a new way to build to something else I am planning.  It adds a layer of complexity and intensity to an event that is coming up later on.

So my lesson for this week is that spontaneity does have its place.  I shouldn’t be afraid of it.  I’m still holding the reins, even if I give the horse a little slack now and then.

Words this week: 13,200

Total words: 50,500

Saturday

• Just sent emails to around 30 local orthopedic surgeons, hoping one is as crazy as I. If there’s a better way to do research, lemme know.
• Basically, I’m looking for someone who knows a lot about how to put a shattered human body back together, and who also loves fantasy. !!!

Sunday

• I can’t believe I’m sitting on 1/4 of a novel. It’s 1/4 of a badly-written novel, but there is, at least, a good novel hiding underneath.
• Just so we’re clear, when I write WIP it stands for “Wreck in Progress.”

Monday

• Re: novel, body and mind are finally cluing into the fact that this is a marathon, not a sprint. So tired. Endurance = not my thing.
• “Be fearless,” they say. “Open a vein onto the page; don’t hold back.” Later, they say, “Don’t take bad reviews so personally.”

Tuesday

• Last night I dreamed there was a way to create groups to send tweets to privately, so I could stop bothering all of you with my word counts.
• I also dreamed that two of my front teeth fell out. Those were the only two dreams I had time for. It was a rough night.

Wednesday

• Writing a novel, frustrating as can be, feels like coming home. It’s what I’ve wanted to do (and done) since I was nine years old.
• I find myself wondering if Jill is checking Jack’s pupils to see if they’re the same size, and if Poor Old Michael Finnegan is in therapy.
• Angel says: “You’re being honest and confronting your demons!” Devil says: “No one gives a crap about your demons” & I’m inclined to agree.
• Let’s all pretend I didn’t eat a significant quantity of shredded cheese with a spoon just now.

Thu:

• On second thought, let’s not write this novel. It is a silly book.
• The trick to a satisfying romantic subplot is Character A must not fall in love with Character B before the reader does.
• There’s a leak, there’s a leak, in the boiler room.
• At what point do you say, “I have reached the event horizon of mediocrity,” and stop struggling and just make tuna casserole or something?

Friday

• Fantastic. Just finally started reading American Gods for the first time, and it starts very similarly my novel. I QUIT LIFE.
• So all I need to do in order to finish this novel is become a trauma surgeon, attend UCLA film school, and spend time in a mental hospital.
• That last one might happen, either way.

These random comments throughout the week, these little vents of frustration and self-doubt, are not professional.  They aren’t dignified, they aren’t admirable or praiseworthy.  They don’t demonstrate the sort of attitude that I need to have if I ever want to sell anything I write.  I’m aware, and if I could go back through the week and tweak my attitude, I certainly would.  But I take a stubborn pride in the fact that during a week when I was in a worse mood than I can remember being for a very long time, a week when I was convinced at least half the time that there was no point to what I was doing, I wrote every single day, and averaged over 2,000 words per day.

Writing when you feel like writing works fine so long as no one cares whether or not you finish.  But what happens when you have a deadline to meet?  As far as I’m concerned, this week was good practice.  In case anyone is worried, I should add that I’m feeling much more enthusiastic about my story (and life) today.  Although the research and rewrites are going to be maddening, and although I am still struggling to be at peace with the fact that I will never write American Gods or Prince of Thorns or A Game of Thrones, I believe that this flawed story that I’m telling has a right to live, as do the flawed people who populate it.

Words This Week: 14,200

Total Words:  37,300

The idea is for you to spend a couple of weeks prior to World Fantasy Con looking over the first draft of my novel, and then coming to a pizza-or-whatever party one day or evening during the con (time/food to be decided by readers) where we will go around the room Clarion-style and everyone will tell me what they liked and didn’t like.  You are also welcome to hand me (or email me) marked-up copies of the manuscript afterward with more detailed notes.  You do not have to be a Clarion grad, a published author, or anything in particular.  You just have to be someone who wants to read a rough draft of my book and who will be in San Diego during WFC to talk to me about it.

If you’re interested, please email me at myfirstnamemylastname@roadrunner.com on or before September 29th.  I’ll be emailing everyone on September 30th to let you know more details about the plan.

A word in the hand is worth two in the bush.  And I think there’s something here.  I think this could actually be something I’m proud of, once I reverse-engineer this garbage draft into an outline and then start over with a solid plan.

The structure of it isn’t completely hopeless even as is; it’s basically going where it needs to go, so far.  My main character is thoroughly embroiled in the main plot of the story, but still has a lot to learn about the “new world” in which she finds herself.  When I left off, she had just discovered an interesting secret about herself, the thing that makes her unique even among her paranormally-involved colleagues.  No, she’s not a “chosen one,” nor is she touched with the hand of destiny.  She has always made her own choices in life, and most recently she’s made all the wrong ones.  But sometimes even our most crippling scars can turn us into something greater.

That’s all I’m saying for right now; the minute I start telling people my ideas, the minute I start worrying about their reactions and stop writing.

Words This Week: 16,800

Total Words: 23,100

Why is it that writers will painstakingly research the ins and outs of guns and ammo, leave no stone unturned in a quest for an expert on 8-tracks, and become a paid-in-full member of the American Nyckelharpa Association just to write one scene in a 500 page novel… and yet when it comes time for one of their characters to go into labor, those same writers will just shrug and say, “I saw this once on a sitcom!” and start typing away?  I am beyond baffled by the prevalence of fantasy-childbirth in otherwise well-researched fiction.  It has become so ubiquitous, in fact, that women are actually starting to believe that TV-birth is how it’s supposed to happen, and their own experiences are some kind of bizarre anomaly.  This kind of entrenched mythology is the only way I can explain female agents/editors with children allowing stuff to get past them that is the literary equivalent of having an Evil Twin or Complete But Conveniently Temporary Amnesia.

Let’s get a few things straight.  Ninety nine point nine nine percent of the time..

Labor does not begin with one’s water breaking.  I’m sick of seeing and reading scenes where an otherwise asymptomatic woman suddenly looks down in Utter Surprise to find herself standing in a puddle!  By the time the bag of waters breaks, labor has progressed to the point that a woman would already be deeply into whatever pain-management system she had decided upon.

There is no GASP! moment or trumpet blast.  Women do not collapse to the floor and dramatically shriek, “It’s time!”  They do not lose the ability to walk.  Some women are on their feet pretty much the entire time, depending on their birthing preferences.  The first reaction is usually more along the lines of, “Hmmmm.”  The mom-to-be looks down at her belly speculatively, and may or may not be certain that out of all the random pains she’s been feeling for the last two months, this one means business.  I could tell the difference, because I was well educated on what to expect.  My response?  I made a mental note, then went back to sleep for two hours.

Women have no mystical knowledge of what their body is doing.  In this age of disconnection from all things sloppy and stinky and natural, the vast majority of women are as confused about all this as their husbands are.  All they know is, “Ouch.”  This is why there are doctors.  This is why first-time (and even veteran) moms often call their doctors 2-3 times in a panic over Braxton-Hicks or “practice” contractions, thinking that IT’S TIME.  Women also cannot accurately estimate how much time is left before the baby crowns, unless those women happen to be obstetricians peering at a dilated cervix.  And even those latter type of women are often colossally wrong.  So please stop writing women who get some mysterious otherworldly look in their eyes and predict the exact hour of their baby’s birth.  Unless the woman is in fact from a world other than this one.

There is no need to run red lights.  Unless your laboring mom is one of those people who cries over a stubbed toe and is howling for an epidural now now now, obey the speed limit.  Don’t worry about her ejecting slimy birth-stuff all over the passenger’s seat of the car.  Especially if it’s a first-time mom, you could walk to the hospital with laboring mom on your back and still get there in plenty of time to stop being nervous, start being bored, fall asleep a couple of times, watch a Simpsons marathon, call everyone you know, get in an argument on Twitter, knit some booties, and get nervous all over again.  As I mentioned before, after my labor started I went back to sleep for two hours.  Then I woke up, had some breakfast, and we picked my mom up on the way to the hospital.  My labor, from that first very undramatic Real Contraction (more of a nudge than a pain), went on for 22 hours.  Even after I got to the hospital I was there for over 12 hours before they finally gave up and sliced me open to get that stubborn critter out.

There are always baby-born-in-the-back-seat exceptions to the rule.  But until people stop writing about the exception rather than the rule, the myths about childbirth are going to continue.  These myths serve only to frighten and confuse women and perpetuate an irritating attitude toward childbirth, a kind of corollary of the madonna/whore complex.  Childbirth is neither a Mystical Magical Shining Inexplicable thing that All Women Instinctively Understand, nor is it something comically nauseating and terrifying that should never be mentioned in decent company without a laugh and a shudder.

Childbirth is intense, and there is nothing in the world like it, but it’s perfectly normal most of the time (see: definition of “normal”) and no cause for histrionics.  If you need to write about it, I’m not saying you need to have an OBGYN on speed-dial, but for Pete’s sake talk to one of the 487 women you know who has gone through it herself in the past year or two.  It’s not rocket science.

You should heed reviewers’ advice if their tastes seem to match yours, not judge them solely by their facility with a red pen and a frown.  I read bad books now and then, but I don’t talk about them.  In fact, I rarely finish them.  What mother of a toddler has time to read something that doesn’t bring pleasure?  I don’t “review” books at all, really.  I just share some of the reasons for my enthusiasm when I find one worth sharing with friends.  Does that mean I have less particular tastes, or that the books I praise aren’t really worthy of it? No.  All it means is that I keep my mouth shut about the books I don’t like.

I respect the authors of books I don’t like.  If even one other person likes the book (such as an agent or editor), I assume that my inability to appreciate it is my own lack, not the author’s.  It means I don’t connect with what the author was trying to do.  And for me to spout off the “reasons” that the book is “bad” just seems ridiculous and narcissistic to me, as if “good” or “bad” were words that hinged upon the particular arrangement of my tastebuds.

All that matters is if a book reaches its target audience.  If I don’t like it,  I just assume that target audience isn’t me.  Unless I think a book is genuinely dangerous to society in some way (as I suspect Twilight is to young girls but will hold my tongue about that until I actually read it), I don’t see the point in “warning” people against it.  Maybe my best friend will love it.  I failed to maintain enough interest to finish The Name of the Wind, though I intend to try it again sometime.  I finished The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms, then gave a resounding “meh” and moved on.  I still don’t understand what’s so effing great about Hemingway.

On the whole, I prefer books that are more meant as entertainment than art.  The “classics” I enjoy were also generally written with the intent to entertain: Dickens, Melville, Shakespeare, 19th-century Russian literature in its entirety.

That said, I despise some subgenres of “entertainment,” including anything that presents “love/romance” (a.k.a. sexual desire) as some irresistible, exhilarating, reason-swallowing force that must be heeded, lest you deny yourself your right to happiness!  I believe that line of thinking goes beyond foolish to deeply dangerous on a profound series of levels, but that’s another blog for another person to write.

But I would rather read a bodice-ripper any day than something that has obviously been written to “wake” my poor naive ignorant self to the realities of the world.  It’s beyond condescending to assume that because one blind man isn’t feeling the same part of the elephant that you are, they need to switch seats.  I prefer the ears to the ass-end, myself.

Contained within those last two paragraphs is a negative review of everything I’ve read but didn’t like in the past few years.  I feel it’s unkind to assign names and titles to the ones I really disliked.  But this is just my way of letting you know, if I like something, it’s because it meets my own eccentric but stringent set of criteria.  It must have enough heft to seem grounded in reality, but it must also be on at least some level touched with optimism and empathy for the human race.  Because if you think the world is 100% bad, you’re full of crap.  If you think the world is 100% good, you are also full of crap, but you might at least be a pleasant way to waste an afternoon.  Unlike that other guy.

Cheers! 

Unfortunately, someone already beat me to everything I was going to say.  So just read that.

I’m not exaggerating at all, though, when I say that if you are a champion of the subgenre (whatever you want to call it), you need to read this book.  If you’re that guy who heard about Game of Thrones when it came out and went “meh, I’ll pass, this isn’t a real epic fantasy,” now is your chance to redeem yourself.  You will want to decide whether you love or hate this book (there are no 2 or 3 starred reviews on Amazon as of this writing), and practice an eloquent defense of one or the other, because if you hang out with people who read fantasy, eventually it’s going to come up.

Write something worth reading

or do something worth writing.

I’m using Pages to draft the thing and/or surf the ‘Net for detail, then emailing it to my laptop in Word format to count words (and so I’m not up a creek if my iPad falls in an actual creek, or something).  Everything I’ve been writing so far has mostly been putting the main character into an escalatingly awkward situation and setting the stage for the Primary Plot Question, or whatever term you choose to give the thing whose resolution ends the novel.  (Michael Hague calls it the Visible Outer Motivation, which makes sense in film but doesn’t ring quite as perfectly when you’re talking about a novel where technically no one “sees” anything.)

The thing that has surprised me the most about beginning this draft is how much fun I’m having.  I’d forgotten that writing could feel like this: like an adventure and an exploration rather than a chore.

It’s no secret that I’ve been working on a more “sword and dragon” type novel for a while.  A very long while.  It’s become one of those marriages that has lost its spark.  Part of me feels like I’m cheating with a younger cuter novel, but a writing career isn’t one of those games you win by having a faithful heart, this is a game you win by writing.  Finishing stuff.  And at this rate, believe it or not, it’s going to be easier to finish a draft of this brand-new novel than it will be the one I’ve already poured a couple of years and 65,000 words into.  Especially since I found out after I’d written 65,000 words that the novel I was trying to write actually needed to be a trilogy.

The novel I’m now working on will be my fifth, if you don’t count the one I wrote 65,000 words of and then started over at zero.  If you do count that, this is my 6th.  Whichever time this is, I hope it’s the charm!  So far so good.

Words: 6300