Writing thought of the day #15:
Ahh, yes. It's THAT time again. The time when I stock up on tea and lock myself in my room. The time when everything changes. The time when you either make or break your story. The time when the faint of heart run, screaming, for the hills. The time all writers fear. Yes, that's right.
THE MIDDLE.
So you have your beginning, and it's great. Fantastic, even. Brilliant, if you're one of those sickeningly optimistic people. You have an idea of where you want your story to go, and you may even have written a little of the end, just out of curiosity's sake. Your characters are working with you, and your bad guy is as evil as evil can be. But then... Then you hit a snag.
It's just little, at first. Like a snowflake. Tiny. Soft. Insignificant. For example, "What should so-and-so be doing during this scene?" Then it grows. Just a little bigger. "Well, I don't know what she should be doing. I'll just skip this and move on a few scenes; I'll figure it out later." Then it gets bigger. "Hmm... My story's disjointed with all these out-of-place, mini scenes. How do I string them together to get to the ending?" Until, eventually, you have the proverbial snowball rolling down the cliff of Writer's Doom, "Gosh, I haven't touched this story in months, and I STILL can't figure out what so-and-so should be doing!"
And then your story gathers dust, while, in the process of "taking a break" you've gone and moved on to another, shinier, more promising story. Until the same thing happens again. And again. And again.
You all know it happens. It may have even happened to YOU. In fact, I can almost count on it. So what does one do in such cases as these?
Please let me know when you find out.
The road to authorship is paved with the dusty, rotten corpses of half-finished manuscripts.
Saturday 29 December 2012
Writing Thoughts #73
This Author's Writing Thought of the Day #73:
She was only supposed to be in my book to die. That's all. Just a victim to the plot. Just something minor to keep the book going. Then, for continuity's sake, I invented a life for her- gave her a home, something to regret when she died, loved ones, a job, people who cared about her, a life lived, grey hairs to worry about colouring, and plans for the next day- and she was suddenly as real as one of my main characters.
Sometimes being a writer means killing off characters you fall in love with (not literally, of course; figuratively), all for the sake of the plot. Sometimes being a writer means going through all that heartache of inventing new characters- giving them lives, and dreams- just to have them in for a few sentences and then having to file that entire life away- never to be used again- because the plot doesn't need it anymore, and who wants to read about the same person over and over and over, no matter how interesting they may be, when you can just invent a new one, instead?
... Sometimes being a writer sucks.
She was only supposed to be in my book to die. That's all. Just a victim to the plot. Just something minor to keep the book going. Then, for continuity's sake, I invented a life for her- gave her a home, something to regret when she died, loved ones, a job, people who cared about her, a life lived, grey hairs to worry about colouring, and plans for the next day- and she was suddenly as real as one of my main characters.
Sometimes being a writer means killing off characters you fall in love with (not literally, of course; figuratively), all for the sake of the plot. Sometimes being a writer means going through all that heartache of inventing new characters- giving them lives, and dreams- just to have them in for a few sentences and then having to file that entire life away- never to be used again- because the plot doesn't need it anymore, and who wants to read about the same person over and over and over, no matter how interesting they may be, when you can just invent a new one, instead?
... Sometimes being a writer sucks.
Writing Thoughts #1
This Author's Writing Thought of the Day #1:
Nothing is scarier than staring at a blank page, knowing you have a month to write however many words, on top of your normal, hectic, everyday life. Beginning is the worst. What do you write? Where do you even start? How on earth are you going to come up with a believable, solid plot, that won't get you laughed out of wherever it is you happen to be at the time? (Not that it won't happen anyway, at times, but hey; unlike reality, fiction has to make sense.) How is it possible to fill so many endless planes of empty white, armed with nothing more than a pen or keyboard and your own- faulty as it may be- brain?
But you have a deadline. You signed up; no going back.
So you put your pen to the paper, or your fingertips to the keyboard, and then, suddenly, it isn't scary at all.
So you take the plunge, and begin to write, and you start to fill the page with ink (or digital ink, depending on your preference), and then, suddenly, the white isn't so white anymore.
Then you get to see your story come to life, and experience that moment of panic when your characters begin to write themselves, without your consent, and without giving a darn about your plotline. You get to see this new world of yours- all yours, did I mention?- start to run by your own rules. You begin to discover your characters, fall in love with a few, play favourites, try your hand at manipulating fate, and try not to cry when your plot demands that a few of them die. You get stuck often, are tempted to chuck your writing utensils across the room even more often, and grind your teeth at the horror of a sentence you thought was acceptable a second ago, most often. You even, at times, throw out giant sections of your work because you can't stand to look at them anymore, or you hate your plot, or your characters. Sometimes you'll hate your world, but did I mention that it was all yours?
There's nothing scarier than staring at a blank page, knowing you have a month to write however many words, on top of your normal, hectic, everyday life.
But there's nothing else quite like it, either.
Nothing is scarier than staring at a blank page, knowing you have a month to write however many words, on top of your normal, hectic, everyday life. Beginning is the worst. What do you write? Where do you even start? How on earth are you going to come up with a believable, solid plot, that won't get you laughed out of wherever it is you happen to be at the time? (Not that it won't happen anyway, at times, but hey; unlike reality, fiction has to make sense.) How is it possible to fill so many endless planes of empty white, armed with nothing more than a pen or keyboard and your own- faulty as it may be- brain?
But you have a deadline. You signed up; no going back.
So you put your pen to the paper, or your fingertips to the keyboard, and then, suddenly, it isn't scary at all.
So you take the plunge, and begin to write, and you start to fill the page with ink (or digital ink, depending on your preference), and then, suddenly, the white isn't so white anymore.
Then you get to see your story come to life, and experience that moment of panic when your characters begin to write themselves, without your consent, and without giving a darn about your plotline. You get to see this new world of yours- all yours, did I mention?- start to run by your own rules. You begin to discover your characters, fall in love with a few, play favourites, try your hand at manipulating fate, and try not to cry when your plot demands that a few of them die. You get stuck often, are tempted to chuck your writing utensils across the room even more often, and grind your teeth at the horror of a sentence you thought was acceptable a second ago, most often. You even, at times, throw out giant sections of your work because you can't stand to look at them anymore, or you hate your plot, or your characters. Sometimes you'll hate your world, but did I mention that it was all yours?
There's nothing scarier than staring at a blank page, knowing you have a month to write however many words, on top of your normal, hectic, everyday life.
But there's nothing else quite like it, either.
To: Mr. Santa Claus, North Pole
Dear Santa,
Y'know, this year I think I've been pretty good, as far as "good" goes. I've eaten all my veggies, apologised to the people I need to (and the people I don't need to), and haven't turned brother dearest into mulch, yet. Heck, for that I'm practically a saint; wouldn't you agree? Well, you would if you lived with "brother dearest". I love the Christmas season and all, but... being rudely awakened by bad Christmas tunes at ridiculous in the morning by an unfortunately resilient, viciously loud plastic jukebox doesn't help my chances of staying on the "nice" list, y'know what I mean?
I'm pretty sure murder makes for an instant transferral.
So, anyway, I'm just writing to say "hi", see if our deal's still on, and ask you for something. Wait, wait! Hear me out for a second! I know what you're thinking, "Everyone's always writing to ask me for stuff! Doesn't anyone bother to just say 'hello' every once and a while?" Next time, I promise. And I'll send a little extra with my next delivery to make it up to you, okay? Fresh-baked.
Also, if you didn't want people asking for stuff every Christmas, why did you even start doing this? What did you expect? A nice, orderly line? Asking politely? Acknowledging limits? Not in this world, Santa baby. Oh, that reminds me; I already told Mrs. Claus: A Facebook Page? Bad idea. BAD idea. I know the elves in PR have their little striped stockings in a twist about "getting with the century" or some cheesy sales pitch like that; but do you know how annoying notifications are, after a while? No idea at all?
Let's put it this way. Here's me, Miss Relatively Quiet, and even I'm not a fan getting poke notifications (before you say anything, I like the pokes, not the notifications). Can you imagine getting 4 billion of them? As well as instant messaging to every last kid with a Facebook account? ALL YEAR ROUND? You'd short out the server in two seconds, tops. Just think on that a bit, and let me know the verdict.
That little thing about our deal? I have you covered. I'll make sure my mum buys extra Andes Mints just for you, and doubles the batch. Mmmn-MMM! Her cookies are the best. See that little smudge on the top left corner? Cookie. Andes Mint cookie. Can't you almost smell it? Taste that gooey, chocolatey goodness that just makes you wanna melt? That pleasant surprise of soft mint? I can make it a reality, for you, Mr. Claus. So as long as you take my bestest friend off the "naughty" list, I'll just keep these coming.
Mmmm, cookies.
As for me, well, I don't want much. Nope. I'm already really darn happy with my life and what I have. I'm blessed with a stable family, friends, and a roof over my head. But... you know what wouldn't hurt? A shamshir. Hey! Just a minute! I know you don't really do weapons- striving for World Peace and all that- but... It would be nice. And I'd understand if it's a little too much to ask after that incident last year (I'm aware that Billie, Benny, Birdie, and Bernard haven't recovered, poor things), so I'd settle for a scimitar. They're gorgeous. Have you seen those things? True beauty in blade form.
Thus concludes my letter! Take care of yourself, okay? Don't overwork the poor elves. Tell Rudolph I said hey, and to let me know if he ever has any trouble with Dasher again. Speaking of whom, has his fur grown back, yet?
Send the Mrs. my regards!
Sincerely,
-Me
Y'know, this year I think I've been pretty good, as far as "good" goes. I've eaten all my veggies, apologised to the people I need to (and the people I don't need to), and haven't turned brother dearest into mulch, yet. Heck, for that I'm practically a saint; wouldn't you agree? Well, you would if you lived with "brother dearest". I love the Christmas season and all, but... being rudely awakened by bad Christmas tunes at ridiculous in the morning by an unfortunately resilient, viciously loud plastic jukebox doesn't help my chances of staying on the "nice" list, y'know what I mean?
I'm pretty sure murder makes for an instant transferral.
So, anyway, I'm just writing to say "hi", see if our deal's still on, and ask you for something. Wait, wait! Hear me out for a second! I know what you're thinking, "Everyone's always writing to ask me for stuff! Doesn't anyone bother to just say 'hello' every once and a while?" Next time, I promise. And I'll send a little extra with my next delivery to make it up to you, okay? Fresh-baked.
Also, if you didn't want people asking for stuff every Christmas, why did you even start doing this? What did you expect? A nice, orderly line? Asking politely? Acknowledging limits? Not in this world, Santa baby. Oh, that reminds me; I already told Mrs. Claus: A Facebook Page? Bad idea. BAD idea. I know the elves in PR have their little striped stockings in a twist about "getting with the century" or some cheesy sales pitch like that; but do you know how annoying notifications are, after a while? No idea at all?
Let's put it this way. Here's me, Miss Relatively Quiet, and even I'm not a fan getting poke notifications (before you say anything, I like the pokes, not the notifications). Can you imagine getting 4 billion of them? As well as instant messaging to every last kid with a Facebook account? ALL YEAR ROUND? You'd short out the server in two seconds, tops. Just think on that a bit, and let me know the verdict.
That little thing about our deal? I have you covered. I'll make sure my mum buys extra Andes Mints just for you, and doubles the batch. Mmmn-MMM! Her cookies are the best. See that little smudge on the top left corner? Cookie. Andes Mint cookie. Can't you almost smell it? Taste that gooey, chocolatey goodness that just makes you wanna melt? That pleasant surprise of soft mint? I can make it a reality, for you, Mr. Claus. So as long as you take my bestest friend off the "naughty" list, I'll just keep these coming.
Mmmm, cookies.
As for me, well, I don't want much. Nope. I'm already really darn happy with my life and what I have. I'm blessed with a stable family, friends, and a roof over my head. But... you know what wouldn't hurt? A shamshir. Hey! Just a minute! I know you don't really do weapons- striving for World Peace and all that- but... It would be nice. And I'd understand if it's a little too much to ask after that incident last year (I'm aware that Billie, Benny, Birdie, and Bernard haven't recovered, poor things), so I'd settle for a scimitar. They're gorgeous. Have you seen those things? True beauty in blade form.
Thus concludes my letter! Take care of yourself, okay? Don't overwork the poor elves. Tell Rudolph I said hey, and to let me know if he ever has any trouble with Dasher again. Speaking of whom, has his fur grown back, yet?
Send the Mrs. my regards!
Sincerely,
-Me
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