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albionidahoor the best I can recall without checking my notes
Almost two years ago, in the morning, I "felt" a voice that said something to the effect of:
"Jamie Solomon's baby brother was born in the Year of the Pearl."
It went on from there, for a full paragraph. It was a witty voice, very dry, and it told me about the situation of a "Sister" (i.e. nun, but not Catholic, if that makes sense) who had, once again, gotten pregnant. Only this time the baby was different. Very different.
I wrote about half of "Year of the Pearl", finding that the tone changed and the story evolved, and lots of unexpected stuff happened. And then I got stuck about half way through.
Really stuck.
Every so often, for the rest of the year, I'd pick up YotP and wasn't sure where it was going or what to do, so I'd put it away again. I picked it up last January, determined to finish it. I finally finished a zero draft that month. It wasn't the right draft, but I threw it out for crit anyway. When it came back I tinkered some more, but the story still didn't feel right.
Then, one morning I woke up, after having a dream, with another story. I wrote it that day. It's called "Feeding the Ancestors". One component of it involves a very difficult miscarriage. When I wrote it I tried to draw from previous experience, never expecting that soon enough I'd be able to draw from a much more appropriate experience. At this point, it needs some editing and perhaps some slight rewriting.
And then February came, and I was pretty well exhausted after the last year(s), and knew we had to move so Avadore could attend a school that would be good for him and I didn't end up at the behavioral health center, so we proceeded to shop for a new house, and fix up our old house for sale, and my writing time was primarily consumed by house hunting time. So, stories went mostly unwritten, unrewritten, and unedited. (There was a most excellent birthday in there somewhere, which many of you took part in. Though I sent thank you e-mails and snail mail notes if I had your address, I would just like to thank you very much again. It was one of the best birthdays, evah.) I did, however, somehow finish another short story I'd been pounding my head against since the previous summer. (It needs a complete rewrite.)
Then March came, and we found a house to buy, and our old house flooded and started doing other strange and unnatural things (probably in protest that we were going to sell it), and we started preparations to move, etc., etc. I wrote a short story. Twice.
Then April came, and we went and saw Jarvis Cocker in Seattle, and because Jarvis is just that good I got pregnant. (Seattle, btw, was excellent. I never properly blogged about it.) I attempted to work on previous short stories.
Then it was May, and we finished the packing and last things that needed to be done so we could move the first week of June.
And we moved. And it was the move from hell. Seriously. Anything that could have gone wrong went wrong. Life was consumed with moving and unpacking and making a new house. And then Rice had his birthday on the 28th, and on the 29th I started miscarrying. And I did that for most of July. I got very little writing done. I did, however, read many fine books and had many fine naps with Zane Grey, the cat.
In August I was determined that the children and I would have fun and do the things I had promised Avadore we would do that summer: we would play, we would read good books, we would work on the alphabet, we would take swimming lessons, we would go to the park entirely too much, we would eat ice cream, we would meet new friends, we would have shoe tying lessons... And I started writing again. I pulled out "Year of the Pearl" and tried to fix it. And then I got the stomach 'flu and got sick and hurt my back and got sick and got distracted. I did, however, get about 3/4 of a new story out in August. I think I also did some noveling.
September came with one more story, the August story finished, and more noveling. (The August and September stories are quite short, shorter than my usual fare.)
October brought more noveling.
November brought a complete crap novel.
December brought work on the short story I wrote twice in March, and the uncovering and rewriting of a couple of poems from last year, early this year, and a prose bit. I started feeling better.
And I'm feeling very good now. Much better than I have in a very long time.
This week I sat down to "Year of the Pearl" and rewrote it. Some long days, thousands of words pounded out... I rewrote "Year of the Pearl" twice. Then I sent it to Rice. He ripped it up and told me exactly what I already knew, but I wasn't sure how to fix. We discussed the story and how to improve it while I cooked lunch yesterday. When we were done I grabbed a snack, forsake lunch, and ended up rewriting bits of the story again. Two hours later I ate lunch.
It's a much stronger, tighter story now. His insight was invaluable, as usual. He helps me focus on the center of the story I'm trying to tell. (Most stories I write, not just this one.) I think, at heart, I'm a novelist, and not a very good one. Novels and short stories are different animals, and so often I seem to want to make my short stories novels, and they easily fall apart in trying to be something part of me wants them to be, but they're not.
Rice looked at my most recent rewrite tonight. He agrees -- it's stronger and tighter. He also went through and did another heavy edit, a lot of word choice stuff. And this is where I smile. Some of his suggestions are quite good and make the writing stronger, while some of his comments, if implemented, would weaken the writing significantly. They weaken the strength of the verbs in some cases, for example. I wouldn't have known this not so long ago, but I know it now, and it's a very good feeling.
I'm learning. I'm not good, I'm often not even competent. BUT I'm better than I was when I started, and that, too, makes me smile.
So tomorrow I will go through YotP one last time before it heads out to first readers. We'll see what happens then, but before the month is out I suspect it will have had a fork stuck into its side declaring it's done.
It will be a good feeling having it finished and off my desk. I've actively lived with it for the past year, trying to uncover it, chipping away, getting lost and digging up other stories that don't belong to Jamie Swanson. That's okay; they'll find their place somewhere. I have one character and setting, in particular, that will find their own way into a story at some point.
***
I also got just over 1500 words into a new short story yesterday, as well. Rice, bless him, let me disappear into my lappy for about 3 1/2 hours yesterday so I could write. And I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote. It's the best feeling in the world, making a new story that's (hopefully) never been told before appear. And even the rewriting and editing, over and over again (how many passes now?) on YotP was satisfying and felt so incredibly good. After all that writing and working I feel amazing, revitalized. Alive. Happy. Content.
Some people I've associated with think writing is easy, that you just sit down and channel the Great God of Prose and words flow, and that it always turns out perfectly, shot one. Writing is hard work, and when I am tired and drained in all ways it is almost impossible to get anything to come. The well is tapped by other things, and must be refilled. And that's been my last year -- the well has been tapped and it's been a struggle to get anything written, let alone written well.
But here I am, with a new year ahead, a whole new year, and it's going well. YotP is almost ready to see the light of day. Next I'll rewrite "Fathoms", another story that got lost along the way in my insistence that I complete a draft. But I think I know where that one's going, too. And it will also be tighter and stronger. I'll also put time in the new story. The story from March, an Albion story, needs more rewriting, but I know what it needs and where it's going. I have more stories that need rewriting and an edit pass, and some that just need a pass or two before it hits the first readers. Then there are new stories to be written.
I have grant writing to do is well. Where will that fit in? Hmm...
I have plenty to do, and it feels so good. So fabulously amazing. And I need it right now.
The baby I'm not having was due at the end of January. I am literally surrounded by women, some good friends, who are due in the next few weeks. I am so incredibly happy for them, but at the same time it's hard to watch them anticipating the birth of their babies when there won't be a new one at this house. But at least, this time, I have children now to care for, love, hold, and enjoy. It was harder for me before to lose a baby and not have that comfort. And I have stories to tell, stories to create, and that, too, is a great comfort and helps fill the tiny void that, though not as raw and painful as it was last summer, is still present.
The process of writing, now matter how difficult and exhausting, is one of my favorite things. Some people say they love the act best, some say they love having done the act best. I think I love both, and I go back and forth as to which I love more than the other -- it depends on whether I'm writing or have written at the moment.
Right now, I bask in both.
Almost two years ago, in the morning, I "felt" a voice that said something to the effect of:
"Jamie Solomon's baby brother was born in the Year of the Pearl."
It went on from there, for a full paragraph. It was a witty voice, very dry, and it told me about the situation of a "Sister" (i.e. nun, but not Catholic, if that makes sense) who had, once again, gotten pregnant. Only this time the baby was different. Very different.
I wrote about half of "Year of the Pearl", finding that the tone changed and the story evolved, and lots of unexpected stuff happened. And then I got stuck about half way through.
Really stuck.
Every so often, for the rest of the year, I'd pick up YotP and wasn't sure where it was going or what to do, so I'd put it away again. I picked it up last January, determined to finish it. I finally finished a zero draft that month. It wasn't the right draft, but I threw it out for crit anyway. When it came back I tinkered some more, but the story still didn't feel right.
Then, one morning I woke up, after having a dream, with another story. I wrote it that day. It's called "Feeding the Ancestors". One component of it involves a very difficult miscarriage. When I wrote it I tried to draw from previous experience, never expecting that soon enough I'd be able to draw from a much more appropriate experience. At this point, it needs some editing and perhaps some slight rewriting.
And then February came, and I was pretty well exhausted after the last year(s), and knew we had to move so Avadore could attend a school that would be good for him and I didn't end up at the behavioral health center, so we proceeded to shop for a new house, and fix up our old house for sale, and my writing time was primarily consumed by house hunting time. So, stories went mostly unwritten, unrewritten, and unedited. (There was a most excellent birthday in there somewhere, which many of you took part in. Though I sent thank you e-mails and snail mail notes if I had your address, I would just like to thank you very much again. It was one of the best birthdays, evah.) I did, however, somehow finish another short story I'd been pounding my head against since the previous summer. (It needs a complete rewrite.)
Then March came, and we found a house to buy, and our old house flooded and started doing other strange and unnatural things (probably in protest that we were going to sell it), and we started preparations to move, etc., etc. I wrote a short story. Twice.
Then April came, and we went and saw Jarvis Cocker in Seattle, and because Jarvis is just that good I got pregnant. (Seattle, btw, was excellent. I never properly blogged about it.) I attempted to work on previous short stories.
Then it was May, and we finished the packing and last things that needed to be done so we could move the first week of June.
And we moved. And it was the move from hell. Seriously. Anything that could have gone wrong went wrong. Life was consumed with moving and unpacking and making a new house. And then Rice had his birthday on the 28th, and on the 29th I started miscarrying. And I did that for most of July. I got very little writing done. I did, however, read many fine books and had many fine naps with Zane Grey, the cat.
In August I was determined that the children and I would have fun and do the things I had promised Avadore we would do that summer: we would play, we would read good books, we would work on the alphabet, we would take swimming lessons, we would go to the park entirely too much, we would eat ice cream, we would meet new friends, we would have shoe tying lessons... And I started writing again. I pulled out "Year of the Pearl" and tried to fix it. And then I got the stomach 'flu and got sick and hurt my back and got sick and got distracted. I did, however, get about 3/4 of a new story out in August. I think I also did some noveling.
September came with one more story, the August story finished, and more noveling. (The August and September stories are quite short, shorter than my usual fare.)
October brought more noveling.
November brought a complete crap novel.
December brought work on the short story I wrote twice in March, and the uncovering and rewriting of a couple of poems from last year, early this year, and a prose bit. I started feeling better.
And I'm feeling very good now. Much better than I have in a very long time.
This week I sat down to "Year of the Pearl" and rewrote it. Some long days, thousands of words pounded out... I rewrote "Year of the Pearl" twice. Then I sent it to Rice. He ripped it up and told me exactly what I already knew, but I wasn't sure how to fix. We discussed the story and how to improve it while I cooked lunch yesterday. When we were done I grabbed a snack, forsake lunch, and ended up rewriting bits of the story again. Two hours later I ate lunch.
It's a much stronger, tighter story now. His insight was invaluable, as usual. He helps me focus on the center of the story I'm trying to tell. (Most stories I write, not just this one.) I think, at heart, I'm a novelist, and not a very good one. Novels and short stories are different animals, and so often I seem to want to make my short stories novels, and they easily fall apart in trying to be something part of me wants them to be, but they're not.
Rice looked at my most recent rewrite tonight. He agrees -- it's stronger and tighter. He also went through and did another heavy edit, a lot of word choice stuff. And this is where I smile. Some of his suggestions are quite good and make the writing stronger, while some of his comments, if implemented, would weaken the writing significantly. They weaken the strength of the verbs in some cases, for example. I wouldn't have known this not so long ago, but I know it now, and it's a very good feeling.
I'm learning. I'm not good, I'm often not even competent. BUT I'm better than I was when I started, and that, too, makes me smile.
So tomorrow I will go through YotP one last time before it heads out to first readers. We'll see what happens then, but before the month is out I suspect it will have had a fork stuck into its side declaring it's done.
It will be a good feeling having it finished and off my desk. I've actively lived with it for the past year, trying to uncover it, chipping away, getting lost and digging up other stories that don't belong to Jamie Swanson. That's okay; they'll find their place somewhere. I have one character and setting, in particular, that will find their own way into a story at some point.
I also got just over 1500 words into a new short story yesterday, as well. Rice, bless him, let me disappear into my lappy for about 3 1/2 hours yesterday so I could write. And I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote. It's the best feeling in the world, making a new story that's (hopefully) never been told before appear. And even the rewriting and editing, over and over again (how many passes now?) on YotP was satisfying and felt so incredibly good. After all that writing and working I feel amazing, revitalized. Alive. Happy. Content.
Some people I've associated with think writing is easy, that you just sit down and channel the Great God of Prose and words flow, and that it always turns out perfectly, shot one. Writing is hard work, and when I am tired and drained in all ways it is almost impossible to get anything to come. The well is tapped by other things, and must be refilled. And that's been my last year -- the well has been tapped and it's been a struggle to get anything written, let alone written well.
But here I am, with a new year ahead, a whole new year, and it's going well. YotP is almost ready to see the light of day. Next I'll rewrite "Fathoms", another story that got lost along the way in my insistence that I complete a draft. But I think I know where that one's going, too. And it will also be tighter and stronger. I'll also put time in the new story. The story from March, an Albion story, needs more rewriting, but I know what it needs and where it's going. I have more stories that need rewriting and an edit pass, and some that just need a pass or two before it hits the first readers. Then there are new stories to be written.
I have grant writing to do is well. Where will that fit in? Hmm...
I have plenty to do, and it feels so good. So fabulously amazing. And I need it right now.
The baby I'm not having was due at the end of January. I am literally surrounded by women, some good friends, who are due in the next few weeks. I am so incredibly happy for them, but at the same time it's hard to watch them anticipating the birth of their babies when there won't be a new one at this house. But at least, this time, I have children now to care for, love, hold, and enjoy. It was harder for me before to lose a baby and not have that comfort. And I have stories to tell, stories to create, and that, too, is a great comfort and helps fill the tiny void that, though not as raw and painful as it was last summer, is still present.
The process of writing, now matter how difficult and exhausting, is one of my favorite things. Some people say they love the act best, some say they love having done the act best. I think I love both, and I go back and forth as to which I love more than the other -- it depends on whether I'm writing or have written at the moment.
Right now, I bask in both.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-07 09:16 pm (UTC)Congratulations! That is most excellent!
Fiction is very, very hard work. Most of the short stories I've written have been more difficult and grueling than any academic work I've done. Ever.
Oh, I'm so proud of you and Mary. That's just fabulous!
no subject
Date: 2008-01-07 10:49 pm (UTC)i used to think writing was "easier" than i do now, but i've found this was only because i didn't try and "polish" anything; i simply left the rough stones on display. but, if i want to "get anywhere", i have to buy a new chamois and have at it, all of it. this post also helped regarding that.
thank you.
btw, was YotP a story you posted elsewhere that i've read? cos i think i have a clear memory of an interesting, well-told tale with that title... and if it is that one, i look forward to someday reading the rewrite.
heck, even if it isn't that old story, i'll look forward to hopefully reading it some day... ;-)
rt
no subject
Date: 2008-01-07 11:53 pm (UTC)Rewriting is certainly one of the necessary parts of good writing, I'm afraid :).