For me the easiest part of writing is the first draft. It’s exciting to turn my characters, settings, and situations into words. The most satisfying moment is when the last words to my manuscript have been typed. Of course, after that comes the painstaking chores of editing and revising. This can take two to three times longer to complete than the actual writing. But I’m not going to bore you with that aspect of writing (see previous entry). What I am going to preach about today is what goes on before the first draft: the planning.
For some writers, plot outlines, chapter summaries, and character profiles are more tedious than editing. Many writers can weave a single idea into a satisfying manuscript without a single moment of planning. A spark ignites, the plot and characters unfold as they type and... VOILA...the first draft is done. I went that route with my first manuscript. Unfortunately, in my case, that only prolonged the revision process. I had that initial spark for my story ten years ago and am just now putting the finishing touches to it. This story has gone through three major overhauls in plot, setting, and characters. Since then, I’ve learned that a little planning can reduce the time spent revising.
It’s fun too. Much like the fun in planning a Walt Disney World vacation. What hotel to stay at, what parks to visit (setting). How to get there, what attractions and shows to see, where to eat (plot). Who is going (characters) and what are they interested in doing? Planning helps make a satisfying and successful vacation. The same applies to writing. A sturdy outline of events keeps the plot anchored so I don’t need to stop writing to conjure up the next scene. All I have to do is refer to my outline and my index fingers can keep pecking away at the keys. A firm character profile keeps continuity from page to page with my literary cast. I know how each character will respond to any given situation because I have laid out their age, history, families, likes, dislikes, and witticisms before bringing them to written life. Solid chapter summaries keep me focused on setting, character interaction, and specific details to the plot so I don’t have to waste precious time battling writer’s block.
The planning method works well for the “chunk” writer. No I don’t mean the overweight writer. A “chunk” writer is one who devotes small chunks of time to writing by either necessity or choice. For me—having a job and family...coaching, Cub Scout den leader, classroom volunteer, etc.—chunk writing is necessary. I may only have thirty minutes to write on Monday and two hours on Tuesday (if only I had two hours every day). With a detailed plan, I can pick up right where I left off. I know what I am going to be writing about the moment I sit down.
Planning is not limited to the few ideas mentioned above. All writers are different. One writer might only need to create a one page summary. Another may need to outline the plot, draft setting summaries, and produce family trees. A writer friend of mine once created a glossary of terms for his alien race. No matter what the case may be, there is a benefit to planning. For me—and I’d be willing to bet for most writers—planning saves time. Not to mention ease headaches. So for those of you who have yet to write a character profile or a plot outline, give it a try. You won’t be sorry.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Turning a Bad Idea into a Good One
Bad ideas are everywhere; the jet powered wheelchair, the inflatable dartboard, the flatulence deodorizer, and Superman III just to name a few. Even geniuses stumble—farting and belching in the Star Wars universe... come on! The funny thing about a bad idea is that somebody has to think it is a good idea initially.
When I was eleven, what I thought was a brilliant scheme to make a quick buck ended up being a colossal mistake. Every summer Mom would raid our closet for outgrown clothes and toys that had become dust collectors. She’d slap a piece of masking tape labeled with either a nickel, dime, or quarter onto it and place them in a rummage sale. Two days later, we carted the unsold items to Goodwill.
One such summer, my “brilliant” thirteen-year-old brother observed that none of us kids made a dime off Mom’s rummage sales, even though the majority of stuff sold belonged to us. After an emergency meeting with my older brother and my twin, we approached Mom. She agreed that if we helped and if we gathered our own stuff to sell, we could keep the money. A nickel here, a dime there and soon all three of us would be rich. We tore through our bedroom. Yes, all three of us shared a room. I won’t lie. It got messy. The first items I sorted through were the piles of dirty laundry on the floor. Curse Mom, I thought. I could have sold my old Smurf underoos for a nickel if she hadn’t labeled my initials onto the tag. Unfortunately, all of our socks had a J, an E, or an M inscribed on them in permanent marker. I ruled out selling underwear and socks.
Aha! My taekwondo trophies. Who wouldn’t want one of those? I piled them into a box and carried them out to the garage. Out strutted my older brother with a superior grin cemented on his fat face. He slid my trophies aside and set up a display of our duplicate Star Wars action figures; Stormtroopers, Snowtroopers, Star Destroyer Commanders, Hammerheads, Walrus Man, Jawas, and Tusken Raiders. Who needed five R2 D2’s anyway? At a dime apiece, those action figures flew off the table as if Obi Wan Kenobi himself were using a Jedi mind trick on our customers.
An hour later, we replenished our stock. Out came toy X-wings, TIE Fighters, sandspeeders, and a Death Star play set. BOOM! By the end of the day everything Star Wars had been sold. Even the Boba Fett I received from a third grade gift exchange was gone. It felt weird to step into our room and not see the Millenium Falcon dangling from the ceiling or the stacks of Topps Star Wars trading cards strewn about the shelves. The five or six dollars in my grubby mits helped soothe any pain the sight of a Star Warsless room may have caused my eyes. I don’t recall what I bought with my share of the money—no doubt important stuff like candy bars and soda—but what I do remember is how jealous I felt years later when my buddies set up a shrine to their childhood Star Wars collectibles. I also felt like a chump shortly thereafter when I thumbed through a toy collector magazine and saw the current value of those toys we had sold for pennies. If only my brothers and I would have thought more about what we were doing that fateful summer day back in 1983, I could have saved the hundreds of dollars it took to rebuy some of those items. The bad idea of selling our toys for a measly fifteen bucks could have evolved into a big-time moneymaker just by waiting a decade and a half later. We could have fetched a handsome sum by auctioning those vinatge Star Wars collectibles on eBay.
See what a little foresight can do for an awful idea? For a writer, bad ideas spring up all the time. They may hinder a character’s potential or even ruin the plot. Those ideas may be bad for that particular story; however, after careful consideration and planning, those bad ideas may work wonders for a writer’s next character or project. It takes time and effort to transform a bad idea into a good one. The key is recognizing that an idea needs more work. If I would have taken a moment to reflect upon how losing my favorite toys would make me feel instead of being blinded by the almighty buck, I might still have my entire collection to share with my sons.
At least I learned a valuable lesson. You can bet I’ll never sell my Jar Jar Binks collectors cup or my Darth Maul T-Shirt. Who knows, maybe I’ll draw some inspiration from my youthful mistake. There is a story idea in it somewhere.
When I was eleven, what I thought was a brilliant scheme to make a quick buck ended up being a colossal mistake. Every summer Mom would raid our closet for outgrown clothes and toys that had become dust collectors. She’d slap a piece of masking tape labeled with either a nickel, dime, or quarter onto it and place them in a rummage sale. Two days later, we carted the unsold items to Goodwill.
One such summer, my “brilliant” thirteen-year-old brother observed that none of us kids made a dime off Mom’s rummage sales, even though the majority of stuff sold belonged to us. After an emergency meeting with my older brother and my twin, we approached Mom. She agreed that if we helped and if we gathered our own stuff to sell, we could keep the money. A nickel here, a dime there and soon all three of us would be rich. We tore through our bedroom. Yes, all three of us shared a room. I won’t lie. It got messy. The first items I sorted through were the piles of dirty laundry on the floor. Curse Mom, I thought. I could have sold my old Smurf underoos for a nickel if she hadn’t labeled my initials onto the tag. Unfortunately, all of our socks had a J, an E, or an M inscribed on them in permanent marker. I ruled out selling underwear and socks.
Aha! My taekwondo trophies. Who wouldn’t want one of those? I piled them into a box and carried them out to the garage. Out strutted my older brother with a superior grin cemented on his fat face. He slid my trophies aside and set up a display of our duplicate Star Wars action figures; Stormtroopers, Snowtroopers, Star Destroyer Commanders, Hammerheads, Walrus Man, Jawas, and Tusken Raiders. Who needed five R2 D2’s anyway? At a dime apiece, those action figures flew off the table as if Obi Wan Kenobi himself were using a Jedi mind trick on our customers.
An hour later, we replenished our stock. Out came toy X-wings, TIE Fighters, sandspeeders, and a Death Star play set. BOOM! By the end of the day everything Star Wars had been sold. Even the Boba Fett I received from a third grade gift exchange was gone. It felt weird to step into our room and not see the Millenium Falcon dangling from the ceiling or the stacks of Topps Star Wars trading cards strewn about the shelves. The five or six dollars in my grubby mits helped soothe any pain the sight of a Star Warsless room may have caused my eyes. I don’t recall what I bought with my share of the money—no doubt important stuff like candy bars and soda—but what I do remember is how jealous I felt years later when my buddies set up a shrine to their childhood Star Wars collectibles. I also felt like a chump shortly thereafter when I thumbed through a toy collector magazine and saw the current value of those toys we had sold for pennies. If only my brothers and I would have thought more about what we were doing that fateful summer day back in 1983, I could have saved the hundreds of dollars it took to rebuy some of those items. The bad idea of selling our toys for a measly fifteen bucks could have evolved into a big-time moneymaker just by waiting a decade and a half later. We could have fetched a handsome sum by auctioning those vinatge Star Wars collectibles on eBay.
See what a little foresight can do for an awful idea? For a writer, bad ideas spring up all the time. They may hinder a character’s potential or even ruin the plot. Those ideas may be bad for that particular story; however, after careful consideration and planning, those bad ideas may work wonders for a writer’s next character or project. It takes time and effort to transform a bad idea into a good one. The key is recognizing that an idea needs more work. If I would have taken a moment to reflect upon how losing my favorite toys would make me feel instead of being blinded by the almighty buck, I might still have my entire collection to share with my sons.
At least I learned a valuable lesson. You can bet I’ll never sell my Jar Jar Binks collectors cup or my Darth Maul T-Shirt. Who knows, maybe I’ll draw some inspiration from my youthful mistake. There is a story idea in it somewhere.
Friday, March 4, 2011
An Editing Essential
People fulfilling their New Year’s resolutions do it. Clydesdales and greyhounds do it. Basketball, baseball, and football players do it. Well, not all football players. Offensive linemen do the opposite. The physician recommended that my next-door neighbor Bernie do it. Ralph Kramden should have done it. So should have Chubby Checker and Fat Albert.
“It” is a ritual known as trimming the fat. And all good writers need to do it. For writers, trimming the fat means something different than it does for a racehorse or an athlete. We writers don’t have to watch what we eat. We don’t have to frequent the treadmill, or indulge in sit-ups or daily jogging to trim our fat. But we do have to hunt down weak modifiers, colorless verbs, overused and unnecessary words, and clichés; a task that can be every bit as painful as passing up a juicy T-bone steak and a plate of chili cheese fries for a carrot and a bowl of dry lettuce. To the trained eye, however, those literary mistakes stick out like...well, like the overused cliché...a sore thumb. Does a sore thumb really stick out?
I had a sore thumb once, when I was ten. The batter hit a screaming liner down third. I snared the ball out of midair and landed awkwardly on the bag with my throwing hand buried beneath my chest, bending back "Tom Terrific." For the next two weeks, my thumb was in pain. Good old "Tommy Tutone" was a little swelled and bruised, but didn’t stick out anymore than the other nine pudgy digits on my hands. A better metaphor to use would be; those literary mistakes stick out like the fleas on a hairless monkey’s back. Better? The point of listing those mistakes is to explain that a writer must trim the fat from a first draft. A good story or book is rarely, if ever, complete after one sitting. A first draft is merely the foundation for a skyscraper. Each draft or revision adds the next floor on the tower.
Fluffy, meaningless words clutter writing. Much like the way our speech is filled with excessive words that don’t add to what we say. It would make for dull dialogue if an author chose to use the actual exchange of words between a courting young male and his first crush. “I ah...was wondering if um...maybe you’d like to, you know, possibly, maybe go out with me sometime, you know...to a movie or something.” We’ve all been through that in real life, but on the written page, the dialogue must be crisp and move the plot along or your reader will choose to watch a rerun of The Brady Bunch instead. Believe me, the Casanova of Clinton Ave., Greg Brady would have no problem getting a date the way our bumbling character does. Besides, reading is supposed to be an escape. I don’t want to read about a guy as dorky as I am with the ladies. I want to read about the super cool guy I’ve always daydreamed of being or the guy shrouded in mystery or the guy who rebels against everything I’m too afraid to even think about rebelling against. Take the main character in my novel The Toupeed Eagle for instance.
Darwin sashayed to Chloe. He caressed her warm cheek. “Such beauty would go well with pizza and a movie, no?”
Darwin gets the girl. He has to, to keep the plot moving. If he didn’t, there would be no point including the scene in the story, unless I wanted to show a flaw or weakness or make the reader feel sorry for him, which I do not. The first time I wrote that passage, it was boring and wordy.
Darwin walked slowly by Chloe who was standing next to the counter. He slowed down for a better look at her brown eyes, and then stopped. He placed his hand gently under her chin then rubbed it against her rosy cheek. “How about joining me for a pizza?”
In my revision, I chose stronger verbs (sashayed instead of walked, caressed instead of rubbed), eliminated unnecessary words (where Chloe stood was not important, nor were her brown eyes), and cut the weak modifiers (slowly, and gently). Trimming the fat made the passage snappy and direct. It conveyed the same meaning in three short sentences (twenty-one words) as my previous attempt had with four long, clumsy sentences and twice as many words. Trimming the fat is an editing essential and it takes time to master, but is worth every second, minute, hour, or year spent doing it.
“It” is a ritual known as trimming the fat. And all good writers need to do it. For writers, trimming the fat means something different than it does for a racehorse or an athlete. We writers don’t have to watch what we eat. We don’t have to frequent the treadmill, or indulge in sit-ups or daily jogging to trim our fat. But we do have to hunt down weak modifiers, colorless verbs, overused and unnecessary words, and clichés; a task that can be every bit as painful as passing up a juicy T-bone steak and a plate of chili cheese fries for a carrot and a bowl of dry lettuce. To the trained eye, however, those literary mistakes stick out like...well, like the overused cliché...a sore thumb. Does a sore thumb really stick out?
I had a sore thumb once, when I was ten. The batter hit a screaming liner down third. I snared the ball out of midair and landed awkwardly on the bag with my throwing hand buried beneath my chest, bending back "Tom Terrific." For the next two weeks, my thumb was in pain. Good old "Tommy Tutone" was a little swelled and bruised, but didn’t stick out anymore than the other nine pudgy digits on my hands. A better metaphor to use would be; those literary mistakes stick out like the fleas on a hairless monkey’s back. Better? The point of listing those mistakes is to explain that a writer must trim the fat from a first draft. A good story or book is rarely, if ever, complete after one sitting. A first draft is merely the foundation for a skyscraper. Each draft or revision adds the next floor on the tower.
Fluffy, meaningless words clutter writing. Much like the way our speech is filled with excessive words that don’t add to what we say. It would make for dull dialogue if an author chose to use the actual exchange of words between a courting young male and his first crush. “I ah...was wondering if um...maybe you’d like to, you know, possibly, maybe go out with me sometime, you know...to a movie or something.” We’ve all been through that in real life, but on the written page, the dialogue must be crisp and move the plot along or your reader will choose to watch a rerun of The Brady Bunch instead. Believe me, the Casanova of Clinton Ave., Greg Brady would have no problem getting a date the way our bumbling character does. Besides, reading is supposed to be an escape. I don’t want to read about a guy as dorky as I am with the ladies. I want to read about the super cool guy I’ve always daydreamed of being or the guy shrouded in mystery or the guy who rebels against everything I’m too afraid to even think about rebelling against. Take the main character in my novel The Toupeed Eagle for instance.
Darwin sashayed to Chloe. He caressed her warm cheek. “Such beauty would go well with pizza and a movie, no?”
Darwin gets the girl. He has to, to keep the plot moving. If he didn’t, there would be no point including the scene in the story, unless I wanted to show a flaw or weakness or make the reader feel sorry for him, which I do not. The first time I wrote that passage, it was boring and wordy.
Darwin walked slowly by Chloe who was standing next to the counter. He slowed down for a better look at her brown eyes, and then stopped. He placed his hand gently under her chin then rubbed it against her rosy cheek. “How about joining me for a pizza?”
In my revision, I chose stronger verbs (sashayed instead of walked, caressed instead of rubbed), eliminated unnecessary words (where Chloe stood was not important, nor were her brown eyes), and cut the weak modifiers (slowly, and gently). Trimming the fat made the passage snappy and direct. It conveyed the same meaning in three short sentences (twenty-one words) as my previous attempt had with four long, clumsy sentences and twice as many words. Trimming the fat is an editing essential and it takes time to master, but is worth every second, minute, hour, or year spent doing it.
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