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Three Simple Questions: Question 1
March 9, 2017
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Okay, here we go!
Last week, we looked at three simple questions:
- What do you look to achieve in a first draft?
- How extensively do you revise?
- What do you want to get out of an editor?
We’ve assembled a group of talented, diligent authors (see their bios in the orange sidebar – right) and have asked them the same questions.
This week, question one …
Koraly Dimitriadis: ‘With a first draft it’s really about getting your ideas, emotions and plans for the piece of work on the page so you don’t forget. There is nothing more frustrating than walking around all day with poetic lines or ideas in your mind and thinking, I’m going to forget this, I better write it down. I just want to empty myself of the story. I don’t really care what it looks like as I have no intention of showing it to anyone. It’s a brain dump.’
Tess Evans: ‘The short answer is “quite a lot”. I edit extensively on the way. Each day when I start to write, I revise the last few pages from the day before. This serves the dual purpose of rewriting where necessary and re-engaging with the world of the story. I also write each scene as it occurs in the narrative and rarely have to move one. At certain logical points I revise the whole of what I’ve written once again. So by the time I’ve finished the first draft, I expect that the narrative journey will be much the same as in the final draft, the sentences will be coherent and the voice well-established.’
George Ivanoff: ‘With a first draft I’m just aiming to get the story out of my head and onto the computer.’
Julie Koh: ‘For me, the first draft of a short story is about getting it organised. I pin down thoughts and scenes in a rough order that I think makes sense. Once the story is cohesive, and I’m sure it’s going to work well as a whole, then I’ll go through and refine it.’
Ryan O’Neill: ‘The only thing I look for is to get something down, however badly written or full of gaps. Get something down, no matter how bad, and you can work with it and improve it.’
A.S. Patric: ‘I don’t think in terms of drafts when I’m writing. Unless its poetry, where my first draft is my last draft, but that’s probably because I’m not a poet. With any kind of prose of whatever length, all of it is a mass of ideas, character details, themes and motifs, aesthetic pleasures, all evolving together until I feel it’s finished. Different metaphors work for different writers.
‘The drafting idea comes from a craftsman’s perspective where a carpenter might make a beautiful piece of furniture and her first draft might be when she feels what she’s making resembles the object she intended. Her table might not be finished but you can sit down at that table and eat a meal. Another metaphor might lead you to believe that there’s no drafts in writing the same way as there are no drafts in cooking. I put all the ingredients together and it’s ready when I place that meal down on the table for my family to eat.
‘I don’t ever feel like I’m dealing with something dead like wood, steel, concrete or plastic to create something functional, that resembles a chair or table. All of the materials I prefer to use are as close to living as possible. The meat is from the recently slaughtered; the fruit is still warm from the sun. And you are eating it with your friends and family alongside them after you’ve placed it on the table. So there are no drafts in writing for me. It’s fundamentally about taste and nutrition, communing and community.’
Inga Simpson: ‘First draft I’m just trying to get the story down. I’m quite practical and literal for a writer, so a lot of the initial writing process is keeping myself in a certain creative space where the story and characters reveal themselves organically and, at best, subconsciously. I don’t try and order things or plan very much at all. I only write for an hour or two each morning. What bubbles up, those bits that surprise me, are most fun to write and, I suspect, also the most fun to read. Like most writers, I find the middle, between 20,000 and 40,000 words, the most difficult – when the end is so far out of sight.’
Laurie Steed: ‘For me, the first draft is really about nutting out the foundations: Character, setting, and the key conflict. With that said I always ensure that the first draft is finished in one sitting, if at all humanly possible, so that it also captures a mood, or tone that I felt in that first rush of creativity.’
Next Week: Question 2!
Three Simple Questions: Introduction
March 2, 2017
Consider these three simple questions:
- What do you look to achieve in a first draft?
- How extensively do you revise?
- What do you want to get out of an editor?
What are your answers?
You might never have thought about any of these questions too deeply. Your expectations might be amorphous, and only gain definition when you’re faced with any of these circumstances.
But, if you’re going to write, they are questions worth thinking about.
What do you look to achieve in a first draft?
Some writers seek perfection with early drafts, agonizing over every paragraph, every sentence, every word. Others are happy to get their ideas out in whatever mess they fall, and try to perfect in revision.
How extensively do you revise?
Some writers pride themselves on producing quality early drafts that (they believe) don’t need much revision. Others torturously rework material over and over and over, trying to wring perfection from every pass, but never entirely comfortable with the text.
What do you want to get out of an editor?
Some authors are happy for editors to chop and change text, if not insert their own prose. Other authors find this overstepping, and prefer that the editor highlights passages and explains their concerns, so the author can then take whatever steps are required. And yet others don’t expect editors to do anything more than correct grammar, spelling, and punctuation.
This is a very basic insight into each of these three questions. As people, we’re unique. As writers, we try to be distinctive. But in terms of our practices, we share commonalities. For example, a question you might hear is this: Are you a planner or pantser? Meaning do you plan (hence: planner) your writing before you begin, or do you fly by the seat of your pants (hence pantster)? Generally, despite how different we are as writers and people, we’ll fall predominantly into one or the other category.
As far as these three simple questions go, you need to find a methodology that:
- helps you write
- helps you get the best out of yourself
- ensures you finish what you’re writing
- gives your writing every chance of succeeding, e.g. being published
- will ensure your writing connects with an audience.
Think about how you do these things and if what you’re doing works. You might think the way you’re doing things is fine, but never finish a first draft. Or you might have lots of material, but rarely get acceptances. You might be constantly at odds with editors, unsure why they don’t understand you or your writing.
And, most importantly, you might think you know it all.
Over the next three weeks, we’ll be asking these same questions to an array of established authors.
Next week, the first question: What do you look to achieve in a first draft?
Good Enough
February 16, 2017
French author and poet, Paul Valéry, is quoted as saying, ‘A poem is never finished, only abandoned.’ Filmmaker and creator of Star Wars, George Lucas, cannibalised this quote to say, ‘A movie is never finished, only abandoned.’ In fact, it’s a quote you could apply to any form of writing.
So what does it mean?
Any writer will have suffered from the malaise of just wanting to give their poem/story/novel/screenplay/article, etc., just one more pass. Is the content as good as it can be? Or does it sag in that one area? Is it perhaps a little bloated in another? Is the phrasing in that passage right? The questions are endless. As are the insecurities.
Given the opportunity, we will tweak endlessly, striving to find perfection, but always doubting ourselves, always questioning the result, always wondering if we can do it a little better.
Ultimately, it can become an exercise in futility because art is subjective. We all have different tastes. I might enjoy the grandeur and depth of Lord of the Rings. You might find it overblown. I might dislike the sparseness of Cormac McCarthy’s prose. You might love that it’s simple and precise. We will never be able to please everybody, least of all our toughest critic – ourselves.
Compounding this is that we’re always learning, we’re always evolving. Look at something you wrote one year ago. How have your skills changed since then? And tastes? How would you write that piece today? You’d likely think you’d do it better. It definitely would be different – anybody who’s written something, lost it through some misfortune (e.g. a computer crash) and had to do it again would know they’re never going to write it the same way.
It’s this doubt and obsessiveness that compels us to pursue excellence, but at some point we do need to let go. Failing perfection, the best we can do is attain a standard of ‘good enough’. Is it good enough to be let loose into the world? Is it good enough to survive scrutiny? Is it good enough to connect with an audience?
This doesn’t mean we can be slipshod. Ask any bestselling author, and I’m sure they’d love just one more pass at a book, even if it’s critically acclaimed and selling well. It’s this drive (for perfection) that’s contributed to their success. We might shudder to learn what their qualification of ‘good enough’ is. They would never release anything to its next stage of development before they felt it was ready – until they felt it was good enough for that level.
That’s important to consider: that there are stages in a piece’s development. And each comes with its own parameters, e.g. you wouldn’t submit a first draft to a publisher, knowing that it’s a mess that needs some revision. It’s important to identify what your expectations are, and what you hope to accomplish with each step.
So good enough doesn’t mean so-so. It means as good as you can get it. Strive. Reach. Fight. Do the very best you can. And once you have, once that’s done, we do have to learn to let go, and trust that what we’re sending out into the world will be able to speak for itself.
Common Structural Problems
February 2, 2017
This week, we’re going to take a look at some of the structural issues that commonly mar early drafts.
Story doesn’t start in the right place
When you first sit down to write – and especially with a longer work – it’s often a feeling-out process. You might have planned out your story, but you’re still finding your way in and meeting your characters, locations, and the circumstances. Sometimes, that shows, and what you offer the reader is a travelogue, instead of narrative that’s moving the story forward. Guess what? That’s all choppable!
Be brutally honest when you look at your opening. It might be beautifully written, but is it serving the story?
It’s underwritten, or there are sections that are underwritten
Too many people love the juicy bits in the story, but they don’t do justice to the journey. They hurry through it. So things that might be interesting end up underdeveloped.
For example, consider this: your protagonist is going to tell their partner they’ve been cheating. You’d want to jump right into that scene, right? Into the screaming and shouting and things being thrown around? So you hurry through your protagonist coming home. But isn’t there something interesting in that build-up? Wouldn’t the protagonist consider what the relationship has meant to them? Wouldn’t there be a cool scene where they’re just sitting in the car, parked in the drive, summoning the nerve to make this admission? Wouldn’t this be compelling to see?
Think about the scenes you’re skimming through – although you mightn’t realise you’re skimming, you might be able to identify that’s what’s happening because you’re feeling bored by your story, and/or eager to get to another section. Think about what you’re writing. Some times, you will need to skim; and, other times, you’ll have a scene inherent with overwhelming potential. Stay in the moment. And make sure you give it every bit of attention it deserves.
It’s overwritten
We love to make sure that the reader is getting it. There’s a storm. Thunder rumbles. Lightning flashes. Wind howls. The protagonist is cold. Shivering. His fingers are icy. The wind tears through his clothes. Rain pounds his face. The thunder startles him. Lightning almost blinds him. The rain stings. The wind howls. The storm ravages the house. And on we go.
We get it. The protagonist is in a storm. Smashing the reader this way doesn’t emphasise the storm, but dilutes it because details are no longer unique. They become common. Repetitive. Readers start switching off.
Alternatively, your details might be unique, but the prose itself is fat. You’ll find that instead of needing fifty words, you could say the same thing in just twenty. It’s that precision that will stay with the reader, and move the story, rather than bogging both down in a quagmire.
Digressive / Exposition / Important things happen off the page
These can all be lumped together because they can become intertwined.
One of the best ways to identify exposition is to ask if the events being recounted are happening in the current setting, or occurring in introspection, e.g. the protagonist lays in bed, recounting their wedding day. Obviously, we’ve moved away from the current setting and now the protagonist is thinking about something.
A little exposition is going to be unavoidable. You’ll need it to provide backstory (or depth) to characters or the circumstances. But how long is it? Is it taking the reader away from the unfolding story? By the time you get back to the story, will the reader remember where they’d jumped off? Are you telling the reader about something important rather than showing it? Or are you referencing important events that happened off the page which would be much better to see unfold as they happen?
Think about how you’re communicating information to the reader.
Lack of chronology / lack of foreshadowing
Usually, the best structure is a straight line. Just tell the story chronologically. Don’t write the first five chapters chronologically, set the sixth chapter thirty years earlier (because it’s convenient and the readers really need to know something from back then), and then the next thirty-eight chapters chronologically. That one detour is going to mystify the reader.
As readers work their way through your book, your narrative programs them into what they should expect. Is the story alternating between characters (e.g. any Game of Thrones book)? Is it alternating between timelines and perspectives (e.g. Barracuda)? You need a methodology – no matter how convoluted the structure – that the reader will trust, and which makes sense (at least internally in terms of the narrative). Otherwise, it just comes across as random.
Equally important is foreshadowing, which also falls into the realms of chronology. Let’s say your protagonist is kidnapped in Chapter 5. In Chapter 10, they escape, because we learn – only then – that while they were being kidnapped, they secreted a kitchen knife in their jacket. Most readers will just think, Huh? It’s convenient. And when convenience becomes a solution, you lose all tension, because readers will know you can just whisk out a solution whenever you need it.
Alternatively, you can foreshadow events but misdirect the reader, so when they do realise what’s happening, it puts everything in a new context. M. Night Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense is a masterpiece of misdirection, so that when the twist comes, you realise everything has predisposed you to the wrong conclusion, yet all the evidence was there to see the truth for yourself. Similarly with Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Clubs. There’s plenty of great examples out there.
You don’t need to think about these things as you write (although knowing about them might challenge expression you’ve held true for however long). Just write. Get that draft out. But once it’s out and you’re starting to revise, think about how you can improve your narrative.
Our Unsung Heroes
January 19, 2017Here’s a blog that’s going to talk about the unsung heroes at Busybird.
You’d know about our staff, especially if you’ve come to a Busybird function like Open Mic Night, read our About Us, or seen our Facebook page. And if you know anything about us, or retained a manuscript assessment or an edit, you’d know that we train a pod of editors whom we subcontract as needed.
So, who else is there then?
Our interns!
Our interns usually emerge from some tertiary writing and publishing course, bright-eyed and optimistic, brimming with energy and unsure what to expect in the publishing world. One intern recently confided to us her nervousness when first coming to Busybird, and how she expected us to be all formal and corporate. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth: we’re relaxed, easygoing, and love our bad jokes.
When prospective interns first come to interview to see how they’d fit at Busybird, we give them an editing exercise and a proofreading exercise to perform, just so we can get an understanding what their baseline is, and to give them an idea of what they’d be tackling. We’re also curious as to how they interact because we pride ourselves on our friendliness and approachability. It’s also a good demonstration of how they might deal with authors.
Interns who do then go ahead to intern for us come in one day a week, intern 4–6 months, and are given real responsibilities. That same intern who was worried about us being corporate was also worried she’d be assigned menial duties, like constantly making tea for everybody. Well, yes, there are some menial duties, like spreadsheet maintenance, making lists of vendors, and research. But that’s balanced by duties that involve reading and appraisal, proofreading, and occasionally they’ll be asked to edit something (that will usually be also edited by somebody on staff).
Now it’s important to pause here. Often, graduates from tertiary courses expect the publishing world to be glamorous, like they’re going to discover and help shape the next Harry Potter. Working in publishing involves lots of reading. Lots. If you pick up a book to read recreationally and don’t like it, you can speed-read it, or you can ditch it. Not if you work in publishing: you have to finish it. If you’re assessing it or editing it, you not only have to read it, but connect with it, and be analytical and diplomatic with your editing and feedback.
This makes publishing sound dreary and draining. It’s not. It is exciting to watch a book take shape, and gratifying to see an author hold the finished product in their hands. But this involves hard, unglamorous work – this is the reality of anybody who works in editing. You can’t skimp. If you have an edit that’s going to take one hour, it’s going to take one hour – if you try to race through it, you’re likely to miss things. You won’t be able to chat with somebody while you’re working, you won’t be able to have the television on in the background. It requires a singular focus.
At Busybird, we also like to give an intern a major project to either oversee, or contribute to. An intern put together The Australian Writer’s Companion 2017. The Anzac anthology, Fine Spirit and Pluck (which we worked on in conjunction with Yarra Plenty Regional Library), was co-edited by two interns (and our chief editor). So the interns are getting real experience that they can put on their CV, and those who show an aptitude in editing and dealing with authors later will get (paid) editing work.
So, as we embark on a new year, a big thank you to all the interns who’ve passed through Busybird.
Postscript
If you’re interesting in interning at Busybird, you can find more information here or contact us through email or by giving us a call on (03) 9434 6365.