Simmering

After the rush of finishing a first draft, it’s so tempting to rush back in and tie up the loose threads, but I’ve learned from experience that I have to let things simmer. What does this mean for me? No writing!

At least, no writing on the WIP for at least a week—two or three is probably better, in order to really get some distance to see both the flaws in what I currently have and the opportunities to make it better. Sometimes this is a welcome relief, as pulling the book in first draft stage feels about as satisfying as pulling out my own teeth. But this book seemed to just fly. Not that it was effortless, but I found that when I could get into the characters’ heads, it felt almost like channeling.

All the more reason to wait—to bring my reasoned, critical voice **after** the elation has subsided, to transform that giddy, falling-in-love feeling into a more mature long-lasting love, which is what I need for my long-term relationship with the book, and what the book needs to develop a long-term relationship with its readers.

But, I am impatient and will need to distract myself with other tasks—hopefully more productive than my latest time wasting addiction—4 X 4 Sudoku. At least it’s another beautiful day in Massachusetts, a day for harvesting and bicycling, and a couple more marketing tasks, and who knows, maybe I’ll even get back into blogging!

First Draft “Purples”

On Gloss and Loafer Snowflakes

Like most people, I have a love/hate relationship with the snow, yet I am grateful for the reflected light, especially in these dark pre-solstice dates. I am loving the view from my window, the remnants of the storm, the snowflakes that now look like harmless loafers without purpose, falling on my neighbor’s white New England farmhouse. It continues to snow without accumulation, and I feel like these loafer snowflakes–continuing to write without really producing much to talk about or be proud of.

With snow, however, comes ice. Glossy, crisp, and flat. I like to think of ice as the stuff bad writing is made of, though who am I to decide what writing is good and what is bad? I will therefore revise that statement. I like to think of ice as the stuff my bad writing is made of, a substance intensely beautiful but with no permanence. A substance that depends on surfaces. I have been struggling with this surface idea of writing, struggling with plummeting depths, worried that the constant call of my life’s other surfaces, the teacher, mom, house caretaker surfaces will make it impossible to get through that ice.

So, I am going to go back to journaling, to sitting quietly, to worrying less about projects and more about process. I am going to be a loafer snowflake for a while, and I am going to relegate my “ice-life” to afternoons and evenings, claiming the mornings to take that brave plunge into the depths of white out. I am hoping that something will germinate out of this process, though the scariest thing is that it may not. Still, if I learn a tiny bit of patience, it will be well worth it.

First Drafts

In the last few months—actually years—I have spent most of my creative time revising and re-revising several works in progress. Now I’ve finished all those, and it’s time to write something new.

Help!

I heard Andrea Barrett say that her cat wrote better first drafts than she did. I think that the tick I’m about to detach from my dog could write a better first draft than I could right now, because I am not attached to a dog, or anything. To write well, you need to be attached to at least the glimmer of an idea, otherwise it feels like I’m spewing a lot of empty dribble.

First drafts, for me, are the absolute scariest things, because I don’t outline, or plan. I simply improvise until I find a theme that calls to me. I eventually get to a good place, but it’s a bit like trying to find your way to a small house on a dirt road three hundred miles away without a map, directions, or a GPS.

Needless to say, I do a lot of extra driving.

I had to drive home from Boston yesterday—two hours in the torrential rain. My son has finally talked me into letting him do music at the New England Conservatory Preparatory Program. For years, I’ve said, “Over my dead body.” This year, I finally agreed, provided he was willing to take the bus, if we couldn’t find a large carpool. But yesterday was registration day, so I had to go in person. It certainly reinforced my reluctance about the whole idea, but I plunked down the money, so somehow, we’ve got to figure out a way to get him there every week.

At least we have directions.