Blog Archives
An Ode to Revision
I spent a long time dreading the task of revising my novel. I think every writer has at some point dreamed of creating a flawless first draft that will liberate her from criticism and have a Pulitzer waiting as she types the final keystrokes (or scrawls the final words with aplomb).
No one really likes criticism. It never feels good for someone to point out flaws, even if they’re being constructive about it. In all the writing groups I’ve been to thus far, there has been this structure of “point out something you like so you can say what you don’t like.” I don’t think I’m alone when I say that after a while of living in that structure, the compliments all start to ring a wee bit hollow. The old ego can really take a bashing when people start digging through your words, picking some out, and tackling others with sledgehammers.
All that said, I’m fixing to add a big however.
However.
(There it is.)
Criticism is how we grow. Even if it’s put rather unkindly, the meat of what’s there could make you a better writer. I have a huge issue using the word “stare.” Why, I don’t know. So-and-so stared at other-character. A stared at B. Asswipe and Poo stared at each other. I also struggle with passive voice and that wormy little creature, the adverb. Sometimes I’m oblivious to my quirks as a storyteller, and I need someone to just say, “Dude. Knock it off with the staring contests already.” Or, “FIND A MORE DYNAMIC VERB!”
If you want to be published, you need all sorts of readers. You need the Parental Figure. They’re the one who loves whatever you wrote simply because you wrote it, and you’re the obvious choice for Best Writer Ever because you are you. They’re the ones in your corner, picking you up when someone bloodies your nose or knocks you out, telling you to get your ass back out there and write. You also need the Eagle Eye, who will go through your work with a fine-toothed comb and circle all your comma splices and thoughtless typos with a fat red pen. You need the Arrogant Richard. That’s the guy or gal who knows better than any Nobel Prize winner what makes good writing. The one who will tell you what sucks and why. Who won’t pull a single punch because they are so damned sure they know better than you do. And you need the First Fanbase — they might be the most important of all, because they read it, get to know it, tell you what works and what doesn’t, and ultimately will tell their friends to buy it off the shelves.
You also need yourself. Stephen King likes to put his manuscripts away for weeks or months after he finishes them, then goes back to read them with fresh eyes. It works. It’s shocking how it can make you exclaim, “Oh my god! I wrote that!” or “Oh. My. God. I…wrote……………that?”
The point of all of this is that revision is a great way to find out what your skill set needs as a writer, whether that’s a crash course in plot or pacing or a return to constructive dialogue and exposition. Let’s face it: that perfect first draft is the writer’s version of finding a winning lottery ticket in a gutter. Part of what makes writers great is the ability to push themselves to make their work better all the time.
So get your vomit drafts. Read them. Revise them, and love what you’re doing.
(Sidenote: I am now 180 pages into the first rewrite of Primeval. And loving it all over again.)
Aaaaaaugh! End of Year Stress!
So much for that peaceful sail on the coast. More like plunging through a raging river of death. Okay, slightly melodramatic there, but a little melodrama never hurt anyone.
My poor WordPress bloggity. I’ve been neglecting you. My sincerest apologies. I’ve been rather sick. And busy with that whole raging river of death thing. The silver lining is that all of this junque is almost over, and I shall be free to flit about as I see fit.
This week has been not so good for actually producing anything, but I did go to my writing group on Monday and got some really helpful and awesome feedback on the chapter I submitted. I am going to use their suggestions for fixing my chapter. They also asked me to post more, which, as I’ve already discussed, is the highest compliment anyone can give to a writer. So much work to do…egad, Brain.
I’m hoping — possibly in vain — to get more done this weekend. However, my boyo’s dad is in town, so that may not happen. But who knows? We shall see…
Love and kisses.
Working Out
Turns out, it’s actually a bit of a workout. Go figure.
After literally six weeks of laying around on my arse, I decided it was about time to get off it and try to lose some of the weight that made itself known to me as I attempted to pour it into a pair of shorts yesterday. This pair of shorts was a size bigger than what I wore last summer. Needless to say, the swells of flesh that so stubbornly prohibited my arse from fitting into the denim made their point. They’ve made themselves at home, and I think I need to evict them.
Hence the workout.
I have been a bit scarce for the last few days. At least I think I have. Time has gone all wonky. I really think there is some sort of rift in the space-time continuum, but that’s neither here nor there. It is Memorial Day weekend, I suppose, which may excuse any of my scarcity (but would not excuse a rift in the space-time continuum).
I’ma go to the beach! It’s for a whole two days, but still. Beach. Me. Go. Picture me, the whitest white girl in white-onia, slathered in SPF 100 so as to look even whiter, lounging in an olive green bikini, feeling self-conscious whilst squishing my toes in very hot sand and trying to think of ways to get my boyfriend to make out with me under the boardwalk. Yep. That’ll be me tomorrow. And I’m serious about that boardwalk thing. I’ve wanted to do that ever since I heard Bette Midler pound out that song in Beaches. My boyfriend’s plans consist of eating lots of pizza and…sandwiches. (If you are a How I Met Your Mother fan, you will know precisely to what I am referring by the latter.) I have only a few things on my agenda:
1. Play a round of mini-golf.
2. Eat some Dippin’ Dots and see if they are as good as I always hoped they would be as a child — I was never allowed to get them.
3. Make out under the boardwalk.
4. Walk. A lot. Preferably on the beach. This is part of my whole fat eviction scheme.
As you can see, Item 1 has suffered a setback. The setback is that I am broke, and mini-golf is seldom cheap, particularly in a high-frequency, high-tourist area such as Bethany Beach. (Why, yes, gentle viewers! You now know where I will be this weekend.)
I don’t think I will have the money to eat, which is okay because of that whole fat eviction thing. It’s only two days, anyway.
On that note, I am off to be a nerd and play Fable 2 whilst pondering my story and waiting for the boyo to get off work.
In Pursuit of Happiness
According to the preamble to the Constitution of the good old U.S. of A., this is one of those little inalienable rights that we are endowed with as human beens. And it’s this particular right that I am in the process of taking out for a spin.
I know that it doesn’t guarantee happiness, but if the right to pursue it is there, that’s good enough for me. (Random thought: how is it possible to guarantee this?)
What this means for me is that I am going to chase this little fledgling (actually full-fledged) dream of writing for a living. I don’t say “being a writer” because I am one of those — I just don’t get paid for it. Unless I am a horrible person and write at work when I should be doing other things…ahem.
Today I was thinking about my story. And the stories of others. There is a quote that says a story is life with the dull parts taken out. I don’t know if that’s entirely true, seeing as how plenty of stories have dull bits in them — and the idea of what is dull is subjective. However, I will say that I think a story has to be told as though it’s unfolding in front of you. Some authors manage to make it work in other ways, like telling it through letters or through dialogue — I’ve seen that work effectively in the past — but most of the time it needs to just play.
Even though 99% of novels are written in past tense, when they’re written well, it’s like you’re in the same room with the characters. You can smell their sweat and feel the shivers. If it’s told like you would tell a friend what you did yesterday, it won’t keep my attention. It lacks the flow, the tide that sucks you in. Such a flow is not something that is easy to accomplish, especially in a vomit draft.
A lot of times, when we write, we have a concept in our head and we write it down the way it makes sense to us. It’s in the editing process where we go in with a scalpel and cut into it until it makes sense to others. The best writing makes readers forget they’re reading — and this holds true with non-fiction as well as fiction.
This post is really not cohesive. For that, gentle viewers, I apologize.
Here’s a brief update on my writing progress before I attempt to cajole my body into sleeping:
(Ooh! “Sleeping” put me at exactly 500 words so far! How exciting.)
Today one of my characters got blown up. I kind of think she deserved it. She’s been in a snit this entire book. Regardless, I feel bad for her. She has a lot going on in her noggin. I just wish she’d stop acting like a 12-year-old hormone bomb and more like the badass lion she is. Seriously.
I am making some good progress. Elemental looks like it will wind up being about 100,000-120,000 words, which is right where I want/expect it to be. Primeval will probably get trimmed a bit, but its successor might be able to get away with being a bit longer. Right now I’m at roughly 85,000. I did the math on Primeval yesterday and found that as is, it’s about 440 book pages if you count it out assuming around 250 per page. That’s the length I’m going for. I’m not Jo Rowling…yet.
To round out this meandering sort of post, I just stumbled across a rather perfect metaphor thanks to a friend who posted a picture of a little dark cloud against an overcast sky. It reminded me very much of Winnie-the-Pooh, who decided one day to disguise himself as a little black rain cloud in his pursuit of honey, which happened to be at the top of a tall tree. He did so by rolling in some very black mud and holding tight to a balloon, hoping that the bees would not think he was threatening their livelihood.
Whilst floating above the earth, Pooh sang, “Oh, I’m just a little black rain cloud!” (The full lyrics to which can be found here) Needless to say, the bees were not fooled by this endeavor, and Pooh swiftly found himself plunging rear-end first into a gorse bush.
The moral of this story is this: We have the freedom to pursue our honey by whatever means we see fit. It may be at the top of a very tall tree, but if we’re not afraid of falling a few times and getting some gorse in our bums, we just might get there one day.
*In case you’re wondering which books these are, they are, respectively: David Eddings’ Belgariad and Malloreon series, which are phenomenal; and Daughters of Darkness, by LJ Smith, who was the woman responsible for hooking me on vampires about 15 years ago. The characters to which I’m referring here are Ce’Nedra and Mary-Lynnette.
Emmie Mears, Author
Ted Mosby….Architect.
Both of those have a certain ring to them. 
Imagine my surprise and warm fuzzy feelings when I discovered (thanks to WordPress’s handy-dandy stats box) that someone had searched for “Emmie Mears author” somewhere. How lovely! Now I only feel bad that I don’t have a book published yet…woe.
Bear with me, gentle viewers. I will do everything in my power to get Primeval and Elemental into your hot little hands as soon as humanly possible. If only it was as simple as willing them onto the shelves….and the bestseller lists.
To the illustrious personage who hath made my day brighter by their curious search-capades: thank you!
This process is a long one, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it will be worth it in the end. I have a good friend who is going to help me edit Primeval and Elemental before I begin to query agents, and because I am committed to making this my career, I want to get everything in tip-top shape before I start. I can’t wait for the rejection letters to come pouring in.
Sometimes I feel like this blog takes place under water. The surface of the water is smooth and unbroken until someone lets out a “Yop!” and creates some ripples — then I know I’m not alone out here. If you find yourself puttering around these pages, know that you’re appreciated.
Seeing as how once I do get an agent and get this ball rolling faster, this blog will remain my conduit into the world and make its nest on my website, I rather want to nurture it. I’m not sure if it’s a baby bird or a fish. Either way. I’ll leave you to ponder the philosophical ramifications of my blog’s species taxonomy. I am going to snuggle down and take a nap.
Just a Spoonful of Sugar
I don’t know if it was the sugar, but I did make some progress today. I got about 1,400 words done in Elemental in the last hour or so, which, aside from meaning I’m again up way too late, is encouraging. I’m going to try and do more later this week.
This is just a brief note to crow my hurrah, and now I am off to get 3 hours of sleep and face the day.
Progress?
I seem to be developing the propensity to title my blogs with questions. Oh well. For now, it can’t be helped. I’m okay with it.
I wrote about five pages of Elemental today, which was exciting. I got through a plot point I have been itching toward for a while — it’s something that will really prove important by book 3, and I feel good about having really introduced it. I touched on it briefly already in Primeval and have hinted a bit more in Elemental, but the pages I wrote today should really hook the reader on this tidbit of info and make them really ponder what it could mean. Because it does have meaning. And a cool one at that.
That’s about all the news on the writing front. Words cannot describe how good it feels to have produced something after this long hiatus. Maybe it’s because this horrible job is winding to a close — maybe it’s because I’m beginning to make some serious decisions about how to move my life forward, in spite of my current plight of feeling totally and completely directionless and a bit lost. Writing has been one of the few constants in my life, whether I was stealing my mother’s expensive day planners to scribble my childish stories or filling journals with teenage angst. It’s always been there, and I think that accomplishing what I did today was a relief in that it reminded me that I can still do it. My goal is to write at least a thousand pages a day, or at least average out to 7,000 a week or so. Preferably more, but I’m going to ease myself back into it.
I met up with a writing group last night, which was great. It’s a group of speculative fiction lovers, whether fantasy, sci-fi, supernatural, alternative history, etc. It looks like it will be a good thing for me to get involved with other writers again.
In other news, my beloved city of Nashville, Tennessee is under water. If you haven’t heard about it, the Cumberland and Harpeth rivers that both run through and around Nashville gained about 26+ feet over the weekend, causing catastrophic flooding and billions of dollars of damage to homes and businesses. I-24 became a raging river, and the water was forceful and deep enough to detach homes from foundations and even sent a modular school building floating down the interstate.
One of my closest friends had to be emergency evacuated from her apartment — she’s very lucky, and it turns out the water only got ankle deep and her car even still works, but thousands of others were not so lucky. My old boss had to sit and watch from his home as a man was stranded up a tree in his Forest Hills neighborhood — Tom couldn’t get to him as there was fast moving water that was far too dangerous to move through, and I’m told the man was stranded there for at least 20 hours in the pouring rain. There are thousands of other stories like these. I’m dismayed and disappointed that the national media is paying only cursory attention to this disaster. Almost 30 people have died so far, and countless others are without power, clean water, and homes. If you are at all able, please text REDCROSS to 90999 to donate $10 to the relief efforts.
I only lived in Nashville for a year, but it is a truly lovely city full of warm and inviting people. To see loved ones and colleagues entrapped in this disaster and also being nationally ignored is heartbreaking, and I wish I could do more to help. I don’t get a ton of views on this blog, but hopefully enough people will read this and be moved enough to spare $10. If enough people do it, it really does make a difference.
Please help.
<3 Emmie
Gasp! She emerges from hibernation!
*yawn*
Why, hello there, gentle viewers. I don’t think you exist, though it would be lovely if you did. Emmie here, writing in from Silver Spring, Maryland, home of the Quarryhouse Tavern, A.F.I Cinema, and presumably, a silver spring.
A great deal has happened since I last wrote my hopeful little ditty about getting re-vamped for the writing process. Remember the part where I said my job would be giving me vacations? Well, it did. I was on the way to work 2.5 weeks ago, and as I minded my own business in my lane, someone rather inconsiderately decided to smash her car directly into my driver’s side door, which, as you would correctly presume, is precisely where I was sitting.
The result has been a bit of a battered Emmie. I have torn ligaments, pinched nerves, a reversal of the lordotic curve I wasn’t aware could be reversed, tingling and numbness in my left arm, and vertebrae who have decided to run amok now that they are unhindered by those pesky little ligaments that normally hold them firmly in place.
I’ve been home for almost 3 weeks from work now. And due to the nature of my injury, the only position in which my spine does not protest is flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. In case you’re wondering, it’s very difficult to get anything done in that position. It’s also quite boring to remain thus for a prolonged period of time. The irony of this situation is a: I’ve been dying for a break from work and have discovered that teaching special ed is not the job for me, and b: I really, really want to write.
After nearly a year and a half of allowing Primeval to lay dormant on my hard drive, I read the whole thing this week. And let me just say, I’m awfully pleased with it. The first third needs some serious work and a few monkey wrenches. But after that? I couldn’t put it down. And that’s saying a lot. Yes, I know it’s mine and I wrote it, but I haven’t read it for a year and a half. It was like reading someone else’s book. Suffice it to say that draft two is going to kick some serious buttocks. My goal is to have finished draft one of Elemental by August and be sending around a more polished draft two of Primeval by Labor Day. Remember that whole “I’ll finish Elemental by the end of November 2008, har-de-har-har” deal? Snort.
I have six weeks left of school. I don’t expect to get much done between now and the 4th of July, seeing as how my lovely boyfriend and I are jet-setting off to my home town of…well…my home area of the Bitterroot Valley in Montana the day after school ends and thence to Toledo for his brother-in-law’s birthday. (I just said “thence.”) But I will get paid through August, and I fully intend to take my summer to write my little buns off.
In case you’ve never read any of my earlier posts and I sound like a raving lunatic (sorry about that), here is a brief synopsis of my (copyrighted!) book:
Sarah Jensen didn’t mean to die. She also didn’t mean to come back. Most people don’t, but Sarah wasn’t like most people. Thrown into a world of vampires, shapeshifters, witches, and seers, Sarah is an Awakened — the first human in eons to transform into a vessel of prophecy. Pages turn. Ancient powers slumber in the darkness of the earth, beginning to stir as a new age of magic dawns.
And Sarah is only the first to wake.
Well, how’s about that? I just woke up from hibernation, too. Too bad I can’t see the future.
