Don’t spoil the end

A great vacation, a tasty cake, a good book, the writing of a good book, the big project – whatever the event there comes a time when it must end. As I approach the conclusion of the Bibliotopia project I am left feeling somewhat anxious. I have loved the process of putting together my library and its garden – of what will become my new writing space. Choosing doors, colours, decor and finding the ambiance that I know I need there, has lifted my spirits and given me a fresh sense of purpose that was much needed. Though there is much physical labour to do on my part, the end is in sight and I will be installed in the library within the next three weeks. Which means I will have no excuse but to buckle down and write. Specifically I have to sit down and write the chapters of the novel. But this project, like the novel, has to culminate in order to be able to progress to the next step of life. It is important that I don’t spoil the last days of this project by attending to it as if I was attending a wake. It is the same with writing projects. For the majority of the writing of a piece the writer is able to live in the moment, to craft each word, to address sentences and paragraphs, plots and themes as if they were the only things that mattered, to love the experience of visualising the words, of having them manifest in the mind and transposing them onto the page. But as we approach the end the experience becomes twisted with anxiety. Feelings of disappointment and regret take over where there was once a feeling of unbroken satisfaction. As writers who care about our readers, we must urge ourselves put aside that anticipation and maintain that sense of now. Too many novels drift into a sort of incongruity where the end does not fit the preceding narrative. I suspect this happens either because the author is bored, or because the author knows the book must end and wishes to avoid the burden of ending. My sister once said to me “write as if no one is watching”. I would like to add to write as if there is no end.

It’s my job

Sad puppy dog eyes

Don’t be fooled by those eyes. This is the face of a tyrant.

It’s very hard to do much of anything when there is a puppy at my feet with a bucket on his head. It’s driving everyone crazy, most especially him, because the cone that stops him chewing on his stitches also stops him from entering a room in an eloquent and unobtrusive fashion – which is hard for a six month old puppy to do at the best of times. His banging and clashing jars the brain of anyone within earshot and makes it difficult to even contemplate working. And then there is a issue of him tail-gating. He likes to trot behind us, but when he has this bucket on his head all you can feel is the scrap of plastic against the back of your knees as he tries to keep up or get closer. Punishment for making him undergo this humiliation?

In his frustration Ernie has destroyed a chux cloth, his bed, some paper that I left carelessly in reach, several Christmas beetles, one rhinoceros beetle, a couple of pieces of a jigsaw puzzle I was working on, the edges of his bucket, the lattice work on the back veranda and very nearly everyone’s patience. My moments of working at the computer are haphazard and ephemeral. I constantly have to get up and check his whereabouts, check whether what he’s destroying is needed or wanted and check his stitches to make sure he hasn’t burst them in his careless frolicking around the living room. His presence is larger than any character’s presence at the moment, which says more to me about my enthusiasm than it does about this little monster called Ernie.

Every writer must face this obstacle when writing a lengthy piece such as a novel: call it boredom, restlessness or even apathy, when it hits it’s always a surprise. Six months ago you had this great idea for a story. You knew you could fill four hundred pages with gripping storytelling, authentic dialogue and a conclusion that would satisfy everyone. You couldn’t wait to get started and spent every waking moment thinking on it. Now any excuse is good enough to divert your attention: the dog, the dishes, lunch with friends, sleep, that movie everyone is talking about. What happened to that enthusiasm? Were you wrong about this story? If you’ve lost interest half way through then readers surely will too, since it will show in your work. For me, the best antidote to this dilemma is to go back and revisit my intentions for this particular story, the original idea and find what sparked my interest in the first place. Why did I want to write this in the first place? What did I like about the story and why did I have to tell it? Answering these questions requires rereading the first clumsy notes, and even remembering the moment when the spark first appeared. From this I can discern where I went wrong, why the spark has waned. For me it is a very simple case of losing faith in the original concept, which has caused me at times to contemplate abandoning the book all together. Fortunately I am a tenacious being; I won’t give up on something I have believed in so fervently for so long. The diversions will come and go, but the project must be done. It’s my job.

Know thy parameters

In working on the garden this week I discovered accepted something important about myself that has huge ramifications for writing: blueprints don’t work for me.  In the case of the garden I had a set of parameters, in this case it was the physical limits of the area that would contain the garden, but the possibilities were virtually boundless. Before beginning the project I knew only what I wanted the garden to feel like – I had no visual in my mind. I bought plants and other enhancements based on what I liked and then set about putting it all together. The garden came together in a day and the end result surpassed my expectations. By working this way I was able to be flexible, changing what needed to be changed without deviating from a set idea I’d imposed on it. After the project was done it occurred to me that this has been the problem all along with the novel: I’ve imposed margins that are difficult to operate within. I have tried to outline and plot the novel without success. In fact, I’d say it has hindered the progress more than it has helped. For me it is important to know the parameters – the frame if you will – but the rest needs to flow naturally, to be stitched together at a later date. With this in mind I’m scrapping the outlines and going to feel my way through the story, the way I did with the garden. In this way the story will tell itself. For me, knowing the parameters is knowing enough.

Steer for the deep

The world is an amazing place and no where is this more evident than on social networking sites. In just a few days through Facebook, I’ve hooked up with at least five friends from high school in New Zealand, three of whom I even went to primary school with from 1979 to 1985. But even more spectacular is the fact that my family has found some lost cousins. These are first cousins – children of my mother’s brother who died when we were all still young – not the kind of people you’d expect to lose contact with. But we did. At last my family has been reunited. I think of us as the Children of Molly – my maternal grandmother. Molly loved us all and without her the web that kept us together unknit itself. Through the genius of the world wide web it is being respun.

My first instinct is always to resist new technology. I didn’t hurry to get an email address when it first became widely available. I resisted mobile phones, then SMSing, personal blogs, and most recently Facebook, believing that it herald the end 0f face-to-face communication. I worried that we were breeding recluses and building a world that supported antisocialism. I worried that it would eventually lead to a language breakdown as people forgot how to use whole grammatically correct sentences, relying instead on acronyms and short hand. Mostly I think this was paranoia. Now I think cyber networking has opened a portal through which we can all benefit. It’s up to the individual to stay in touch with the “real” world in combination with the virtual one. One can compliment the other.

If I’m honest I will admit that the information superhighway has helped me more as a writer than any other medium. I still have some reservations about all this networking, but as a writer we should not shy away from possibilities. I’ve said before, Writers are explorers – as Walt said:

Sail Forth- Steer for the deep waters only. Reckless O soul, exploring. I with thee and thou with me.
For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared go. And we will risk the ship, ourselves, and all
- Walt Whitman

Follow through

Scenario 1:

Elliot is a writer. He’s excited because he has a new project. His idea is a good one – in fact its the best he’s had, much better than the last one and the one before that. He has a few good characters who seem willing to participate. He can see the completed book in his mind, a masterpiece that everyone will want to read. His daydreams motivate him and he’s eager to start writing. In the first week he spends some time jotting down ideas and realises that he needs to do some research first. The research takes longer than expected so he flits back and forth between writing and researching. Through his research Elliot discovers several other books written on the same theme, same genre. He is gutted. The idea doesn’t seem so good anymore. He abandons it.

Scenario 2:

Jacky is a writer. She’s excited because she has a new project. But Jacky is wary of her own enthusiasm and decides to sit on the idea for a few weeks. She’s been burned before by “good ideas” that have turned out to be dead ends. So she incubates. As she daydreams about the idea her confidence begins to grow and she thinks this might be the one she was looking for. It’s original, it’s classy, it’s flawless, she cannot possibly be wrong. She starts talking to her friends and relatives about the idea. She talks a lot about it. They’re enthusiastic and encourage her to write the book, telling her they’d love to read a story like that. Jacky talks to more people and discovers they too think it’s a good idea. She fantasises about the writing process, what the characters are like, how the book will be received. She decides she needs to incubate some more before writing. Months pass and Jack still hasn’t started. The idea has lost her attention – a new and better idea is forming. 

Scenario 3:

Harry is a writer. He’s had three novels published and is currently working on a series of short stories for his website. Every day is a brawl with his inner critic. It seems every new idea he has, every new project started, his inner critic finds some reason why it won’t work. But Harry knows something Elliot and Jacky don’t: He knows how to follow through.

Follow through - finish doing something, to take further action as a consequence or extension of a previous action, especially to continue something through to completion¹. The antonym of follow-through is abandon. Synonyms for abandon are dump, ditch, discard, dispose of, throw away, desert, abort, turn your back, walk away, etc.

To continue something through to completion . . . why is it so important and how can we practice it? In my own life I’ve had trouble following through with writing projects. I identify with both Elliot and Jacky, but I’m tired of having incomplete projects, of never reaching the finish line. With my current novel I made a decision to complete it, no matter what. I took some time considering and developing the idea, I thought about why I’ve abandoned projects in the past and thought about ways to keep my interest. One of the best things I did was start this blog – I made a declaration and now I must uphold it.

Follow through is important for writers because it encourages good writing habits, each completed project improves your chances of completing another, it improves your writing skills, finishing projects improves self-esteem and self-confidence and it aids in keeping the dreaded writer’s block at bay.

If you have trouble following through think about these points:

1. Define completion – what does it mean to you to finish a project?
2. Identify what makes you give up
3. Writing begets writing – the more you write the more you will want to
4. Understand there is no perfect idea
5. Understand there is no perfect time to write
6. All ideas need a gestation period, but don’t over do it
7. Set goals and write them down
8. Plan every step of the process and tick them off as you achieve them
9. Keep a writing journal and write about the writing process 
10. Consider ways to keep your interest in the project. If you lose interest your readers probably will too. Consider it a challenge to keep your own interest
11. Don’t allow yourself to loiter – do the research, do the outline or plan and then get on with the project
12. Do your research on the genre, but don’t be discouraged by other people’s similar idea. You have something different and new to say
13. Remember why you started in the first place
14. Take it one word at a time

¹Microsoft® Encarta® 2006. © 1993-2005 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.

Writing for gold

For every novice writer it seems there is a book on how to write. Bookstores are almost collapsing with the weight of them. Many of these books will have the same homogeneous advice, some of which is vital to the craft of writing, but sometimes it’s repetitive and frustrating. After all, there are only so many ways you can learn about clichés. While many books discuss the technicalities of writing – like when to use adjectives, how to plot, characterisation, voice and style etc – few books devote more than a few pages to the psychological athletics of being a writer. Even fewer books admit that writing is hard work. Every piece a writer produces, whether it is 100 or 100,000 words, is a life lived. From the inception of an idea and its development to well beyond its realisation a writer will experience every emotion known to humans and maybe even invent some new ones. Writers are nothing if not inventive.

For non writers, the process of producing a single piece is little understood. Some pieces are more difficult than others, but few writers will ever experience a pain-free writing project. For some it might go something like this:

The writing process begins with an obligatory exercise in procrastination. During this phase the writer might pull at her shirt collar or reduce nails to nubs, play with writing props meant to stimulate the muse or convince herself that watching TV is an important part of incubation. During this phase, the writer might manage to drop a few words onto the page in a lethargic and noncommittal kind of way. The steps between procrastination and getting to work are often fuzzy – procrastination has no curfew, it is unpredictable and can end without ceremony. When the writer realises that it is time to sit down and write there is a sense of urgency about starting. This anticipation can lead to false starts, but most writers understand that this is necessary. During the writing phase writers often sacrifice sustenance and sleep to beat the keyboard or make ink marks with a favourite pen and notebook. With itchy eyes and aching neck the writer writes on, hunched like Quasimodo, smiling like a demon. The ferocity with which some writers can perform their craft during this phase is remarkable, but it isn’t particularly sustainable and eventually the sleep-starved writer slows down. Now it becomes more difficult to think of synonyms for words like hard. The piece is nearing completion. Ending can be harder than beginning and a new exercise in procrastination ensues. Deciding how to end becomes a religion and can take longer than writing everything before that point. When she does make the final full stop page one beckons for her return. It’s time to edit. The beginning of the editing phase finds many writers realising that the dog needs attention, the laundry needs hanging and the garden has become the most interesting place on Earth. The agony doesn’t stop when the writer leaves the little universe she has created. Even a disciplined writer, who knows to leave a piece before attacking it with the red pen, will drive her loved ones mad with bitter testimonials about why she does this writing thing and why she never wants to do it again. But do it again she will. After the washing is done and the dog is annoyed by so much attention, when the neck pain has abated and the appetite for fingernails returns, the writer is ready to go back to the private world of metaphors and conjecture. She knows that a new hell awaits her: the taxing job of reading and rewriting that fabulous prose. For some writers it’s like facing a panel of jurors, with the exception that she doesn’t have the luxury of unfamiliarity. Each juror wears the same face: hers. Never has it been more obvious than now that she is her own worst critic. Humans are inordinately bad at self-assessment, which makes the process of redrafting difficult for most writers. In those small moments when she is reading her own work she will indulge in worrying every word, sometimes to the point of neglecting other important components, like structure or fluency. She’ll brood over on a single sentence for too long, reread the piece too many times and end up staring at a blinking cursor until it’s no longer visible. If she’s like me her work will never be complete, but if she’s lucky she’ll get a unanimous “ok” from each juror. Unlucky writers will scrap the piece entirely, sulk for a while and start the process over. If the writer has the courage to circulate her work, either to publishers, or an established readership of indulgent family and friends, she’s done a great job. She’s let her baby go.

If it seems like the hard part is over, think again. There will be no soft landings. Writing is a continuous process and every piece is timeless. Every piece is a life lived and its success is measured not by how well it is received by others, but by how the memory of its writing lives within the writer, whether it makes it into the portfolio of pride or sunk into the file with all the other rejects, of which there will be many. This is a fact that all writers must live with. Not everything she writes is gold. So why do it? Why write at all? Writers write for many reasons, but perhaps most importantly a writer writes for the same reason humans visited the moon or the bottom of the ocean: to see what’s there, to feed a sense of curiosity and because the next step (or sentence) could produce the gold she’s looking for.