Humpty Dumpty and Writing

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
couldn't put Humpty together again.

Just so you know, this has been my month. Okay my last three months, maybe more, but who's counting? And no, I haven't been an egg, even if (alas) I may be trending toward that shape. Think of me more like all the king's horses and all the king's men, and I've been trying to put my WIP (work in progress or current manuscript for you non writer peeps out there) back together again.

It's not working any better than trying to fix a broken egg.

So what to do?

Eat scrambled eggs and get a new Humpty--one who doesn't like walls.

I'm done, finished, OVER trying to fix my messed up manuscript. I can't stomach sitting down at the computer and fiddling with the shattered and cracked pieces one more time. Today I will trash it. As in deleted, scrubbed, GONE.... Well, at least I'll take it off my computer and store it on a flash drive, then I'll hide the flash drive in the basement under sixty pounds of photos waiting to be scrap-booked. That'll teach it. That old WIP is never going to see the light of day again. EVER. (I'm just not that brave with the delete key. It scares me. Just saying. But I'm great at hiding stuff. It's a true talent. I call it denial. Aren't you jealous?)

And no, I'm not bitter at all. Really. Why? Because the premise is still a good one, and that I'll keep. And the characters can stay if they start being nice to me. (You've been warned.) It's just my words that have to go. Stupid, messed up, egg-covered words. Be gone I say!

Strangely, I'm excited to start all over fresh and new with no mistakes...yet. It's invigorating and hopeful and tingly and hopeful. Did I mention hopeful? My question is, why did it take me so long to get to this point?

I guess I'm just plain stubborn.

What about you, when do you stop trying to pick up the pieces and just make scrambled eggs?



Yum.

How To Throw Away Your Book, or The Art of Revision

Did you know it's Tuesday? Late Tuesday? I do...now. Yeah, I need help, what can I say? I guess sorry for the late post will have to do.

Anywho, last week I promised a WIFYR post, and here it is. Yay!

During WIFYR I was in the fabulous Martine Leavitt's class. I learned a lot, but one of the best things for me was a discussion on drafts. She mentioned that Cynthia Leitich Smith writes her first draft then destroys it--as in gone. Deleted. Poof.

If you don't believe me, read it in Cynthia's own words:

“I do this drastic thing... that freaks out my graduate students. When I'm finished with the first draft, I print it, read it once, throw away the hard copy, delete the file, and delete trash. Knowing as I go in that the draft is for my eyes only, that I'm not committed to it, frees me up to experiment. It gives me an opportunity to explore the characters and their world. I figure the best, strongest aspects of the character and story will survive when I write the second first draft.”

—Interview with Cynthia Leitich Smith
from the Faerie Drink Review.

Check out more about Cynthia at her website.

Now, those of you out there who aren't writers might not understand how drastic this sounds. I'm not one of Cynthia's students, but the idea is still freaking me out. Writing a draft is like giving birth, but harder. And yes, I can see you out there shaking your heads, but I've done both, so I KNOW. It takes about as long as a pregnancy for me to complete a draft from conception to delivery, and there is a lot of pain and joy involved.

The thought of taking all that work and effort and love and throwing it away feels like murder, or at least the kind of craziness they lock people away for. But the more I think about it, the more it starts to make sense. Sort of.

Martine doesn't throw away her whole book, but she does write the first one hundred pages and then trashes those. She said that by then she's done most of her experimenting and has figured out the main character's voice, objects of desire, and all the good stuff, and she knows where the story really starts. Then she can write the real first draft without all the exploration.

A hundred pages may still sound like a lot, but I've chucked more than that before on projects because I didn't like the direction the book was taking. And do you know what, I didn't miss those pages when I rewrote them, because the best and most important things did survive. And it freed me up to really revise.

That brings me back to WIFYR. Both Martine and Heather Dixon talked about making revising become a true revision, as in re-envisioning the project to make it the best story it can be. You can't do that if you're married to your first draft. Why? Because first drafts stuck. They're supposed to. The first draft is when you give yourself permission to write crap and just get the story out there. If you hoard those words you spewed out, it's like trying to turn vomit into fine cuisine. I guess it's possible, but maybe that's why it took so many drafts for my first book to be readable. It takes a long time to transform raw spewage into yum.

Maybe it would be better to trash the gross stuff and start with fresh ingredients. The menu would be the same, but the result would be so much better, wouldn't it?

Now, I'm not saying I'm ready to compost my whole first draft on my current project, but I am saying I'm willing to completely re-envision it. Maybe my dark elf might end up as an alien, or maybe I'll scrap my whole magic system and come up with something new, and I'm even willing to say goodbye to my favorite lines of dialog. Ouch. But it's like Martine says, "You will get other great ideas, and they will be better every time."

What do you think? Would you have the heart and guts to delete your whole book and start from scratch? How about if you don't write, does this fit in with your own creative endeavors? Can destruction actually help creation? I really want to hear your thoughts.

Leisha Maw

My Garage Door Hates Me. Really.

Awhile ago my garage door broke. It looked like this:



I looked like this:



Except not quite so yellow, and with more hair, a nose, and ears, but otherwise it's a dead ringer for me. Just saying.

Anywho, I was bummed. Broken garage doors can do that to you. My dad and brother fixed it. And then this happened. Again.



And I looked like this:



Except with more hair. Yup. You know it's my spitting image.

Anywho, my brother fixed it. Again. Then...you guessed it. It broke. Again.

It's official, my garage door hates me. I can feel it glaring at me every time I go out to my car. It's like a lurking monster waiting to strike. And the thing about this monster door is it's something different each time--the cable breaks, the spring does some strange spring thing that equals broken door, the wheels hop the track, the motor groans and does some strange motor thing that equals broken door. It just has problems. Right now it's the sensors that won't let it close. They keep "seeing" something in the way and refuse to let the darn thing go down. And no, we haven't bound and gagged any neighbors and put them under the door. It just hates me.

So, is it time for a new door? A new motor? A new life? Nah. It's just like revising a book. You fix it and then realize there's a whole new problem you didn't see before. At times you even think it's a monster that hates you. AND you may even hate it back. But if you want to get your car out of the garage, you have to fix the door. And I want my car out of the garage, as in I want to get published. And that's why I revise.

What are you fixing today?

Quilting a Novel

I recently had a conversation with Jonene Ficklin after we both read a blog post at The Scribblers Cove entitled, Piecing Together A Story. Jonene recalled how foreign quilting had been for her, how overwhelming it was to face a room full of experienced quilting in-laws, and how self conscious she'd been with her unpracticed hand.

I couldn't help smiling as I thought back to my youth. I grew up in a family with a rich quilting heritage. My mother quilted. My grandmother quilted. We probably quilted back to Adam.

For my wedding present my grandma hand-pieced a quilt out of scraps she'd gathered over the years--slices of my mother's baby clothes, dresses my grandmother wore--parts of her life really. The pattern came from her head and years of practice. My mom put the quilt up in our front room, and the gathering began.

Grandma put her last stitches in my quilt. My younger sisters put their first. Neighbors stopped by to add their part. Even my dad and brothers stabbed needle and thread through the fabric for me with clumsy love.



My stitches are mingled with my family's and friends' old and young. Some of the stitches are even and straight, marching across the colorful fabric like disciplined soldiers. Others are as crooked as my grandmother's fingers had become. Some are as fat as baby cheeks. They all tell a story. One I treasure.



As I stroke the fabric and run my fingers along the beautiful designs, I not only see the flowers and patches of color making up the overall picture, I see the faces of these women (and my dad and brothers) who took the time to sit, sew, and visit as I entered a new world.

If writing really is like quilting as the post at The Scribblers Cove suggests, and I very much think it is, what role do the quilters play? They aren't the author. They didn't create the design. My grandma gathered every piece of fabric and sewed the quilt together. She arranged the pattern and provided the materials. She chose the plot, the setting, and the characters. Her hands created the quilt, but it wasn't done yet.

Here is a pic of an infant quilt of mine. It's really just the idea of a quilt. A bunch of pretty thoughts waiting to be drafted into a whole.



Here is a pic of an older one I'm working on. It looks like a quilt, but it's not. It is just the quilt top--all the pretty colors and the design.



It's a novel about to become a real book. But it has rough edges.



And it's missing something--the team of quilters who would finish it. The critiquers, the editors, the support staff. It lacks the polishing that comes with each new stitch and backing and batting and binding and such.

Could my grandma have finished my quilt on her own? Yes, but it would have taken much, much longer, and it would lack the richness of all those varied stitches that mean so much to me. So, as a writer I suggest we all embrace the work and effort of all those critiquers, editors, beta readers, and revisions. They transform your quilt top into a treasure.

Are you quilting today?

Leisha Maw

Attending Your Own Viewing

First off, I still haven't heard from Wren about her prize in my contest. Wren, if you are out there, please send me an email at klmaw@aol.com. Thanks!

On to today's post. (Aren't you just trembling with anticipation?)

Over the weekend my parents were invited to attend a surprise viewing for a dear friend. Why was this a surprise? Well, for two reasons: this friend was still living, and she didn't know about the somber event.

Let me explain. Her hubby, who is a practical jokester, decided to go all out for his wife's fiftieth birthday. And by all out, yes, I do mean he staged his own wife's viewing as a surprise.

She came home to find the house decorated for a funeral. A real casket loomed in the front room. Pictures chronicling her life stood on easels around the house. A register book lay ready for guests to sign in and give their condolences. And large funeral arrangements of flowers--dead flowers--surrounded the casket. To top this all off, a sign sat by the front door that read, Please enter with reverence. And a companion sign inside the house read, Please join us in mourning Cindy's youth.

How did this remarkable woman handle this? With grace and humor. She sat beside the casket as the guests arrived and went through the funeral receiving line. She smiled and laughed as she accepted black-wrapped gifts and black balloons. She didn't even cart her hubby out of the house in the casket.

What does this have to do with writing? And, yes, it really does have something to do with it, I promise.

As a writer, you have to be willing to attend your own viewing sometimes. Well, your manuscript's viewing anyway. And just like how my mother's friend wasn't dead yet, it might not be time to actually bury the thing, but you may need to sit back and listen with a smile as friends and strangers stop by to review it.

The best thing about this is, most viewers/critiquers will have some great things to say about your manuscript's life. They will also have some less happy things to remember, and since you still have time left before it enters the coffin, you can fix those problem areas. True it can be a little awkward to still be living at your own viewing, but what an opportunity! It's like you get to cheat death and rewrite your manuscript's life. How great is that?

Have you learned to accept critiques with grace and humor? Are you ready to attend your own viewing? I am.

Inspiration, Brushing Your Teeth, and Spit

I sat down at the computer to blog this morning, and this is what I thought: Ummmm.

I'm ashamed to say that it continued for quite some time. I typed three different blog posts and deleted them all. Why? Because they were lame. Very Lame. Lame with a capital L. You are most welcome for erasing them and sparing you the pain.

My three failed posts got me thinking about inspiration. I needed some. So, I called my sister and asked her to give me a writing prompt. She paused, and all I could hear was a swish-brush-mumble kind of sound.

Again, for the second time, I said, "Ummmm?"

She said, "Brushing your teeth."

I silently said, "Say what?"

She rinsed and expectorated. And I had it. The answer to inspiration.

Spittle.

Yup, you heard me.

I thanked her and hung up the phone. I didn't blog about that. Yet. I went and brushed my teeth, cleaned my tub, took a hot bath, and thought about spit and writing. A funny thing happened. All the ummmm left me, and my mind opened up. Ideas started flowing for my novel. I even had an ah ha moment. Pretty cool stuff.

Why? Because I stepped away for a short time and let my mind relax and ponder spittle while my body cleaned the tub. Sometimes we need to let the creative process simmer, or in this case lather, before we set it down in hard words. Every story needs to be created in the mind before it goes in print. I'll remember this the next time I have an ummmm moment, but for now, I'm off to put my new thoughts into my novel.

So, I owe my sis a thank you for getting me to think about spit. I now have a clean tub, clean teeth, and clean ideas for my novel. Oh,and a blog post dedicated to spit.

What gives you inspiration?

Um, Do I Really Need That?

So, yesterday I was working on my WIP, and I came to a major part of the novel, I'm talking a big chunk of it, and I find myself staring at the screen wondering, "Do I even need this? At all?"

This question was followed by a whole lot of this:



Then a whole lot of this:(except I'm a girl)



I haven't decided if I need it or not, but if you hear crying coming from my house, it will be not. Then it will be followed by a whole lot of this:



Wish me luck.

Romance, Young Love, and Books

I'm thinking romance. The early stages that is. You know, the first loaded looks that hint at simmering feelings, the shy almost burning first touches when fingers meet fingers, and the heady, soaring emotions that wipe away fear. Young love.

Why am I thinking this? Well, it's not because I'm young, that's for sure. My hubby and I are celebrating our eighteenth anniversary tomorrow. See, so not young. Yikes. But I was young once. And I have a good memory.

And, I'm working on a romance scene in my WIP. It's challenging and fun. Struggling to find a way to express those first racing moments without sounding cliche and cheesy is frustrating. I delete more than I leave, and find myself turning to other books (and movies) for insight.

Here is a delicious example from Carol Lynch William's The Chosen One:

"But. Here is another secret. Another sin. Because I am not allowed to be with Joshua. I am not allowed to feel this way. Tingly when he looks at me. Weak when his hand is near mine. And the worst part--I couldn't help but wonder how it would be to kiss him.

And when we did kiss, it was all my fault.

Emily in the corner with her baby doll.

Me, in the Fellowship Hall with Joshua.

On the piano bench.

Smelling the soap he uses.

Watching his hands.

Hardly thinking of music.

...I glanced in his direction and saw him looking at me. Not at the piano keys.

"Put your hand like this," I told him. "You have to look here." I tapped the keyboard.

He let me move his fingers to the right position. So warm, those fingers.

"The C and E and G," I said.

But Joshua's hand didn't stay where I put it. Instead his fingers tangled up with mine. The whole side of his body leaned into me. His other arm slid around my waist.

"You can't play the piano holding my hand. Or leaning crooked like that, either," I said, my voice breathy. The words almost didn't come out of my mouth. But I thought, I could kiss you right now and go to hell and it would be worth it. Worth it.

...And then I kissed him. Just fell into him right in the middle of a sentence. Pressed my lips to his. So soft. Then he was kissing me back. And I didn't even know how to kiss, had never kissed anyone in my life but my family, and then only little pecks on the cheek.

It felt like Joshua sucked the breath from me, there on the piano bench, with all the thoughts of sin going through my head, but me not caring at all. Not at all.

"I better go," I said, when I finally pushed away from him. My hands trembled. My knees shook.

And he said, "Don't be scared, Kyra. I'm right here."

Isn't that scrumptious?

What is your favorite first love scene? Me? I'm off to create my own.

My Creativity Hurts

Okay, last week I blogged about how I'm allergic to exercise, because it gives me sore muscles and stuff, well, right now, my creativity hurts. I've been using it a lot, and it's a little sore. Really. Like this:



But, I'm a girl and have been all my life.

Why does my creativity hurt like this? What have I done to the poor thing? I imposed a deadline on myself. Crazy, I know, but I want to be done with my new draft in two weeks. Where am I now? Chapter five--but, they're five all-new chaps with two brand new characters and major plot changes. Sigh.

I only have to write (or revise if they still fit with the new and improved, sparkly plot) 75,000 more words in the next fifteen days. That's only like 5,000 words a day, right? Only. (For you non-writers out there, that was funny. Please laugh. I'll even provide a pic of how I feel about writing or revising 80,000 words in roughly two weeks to help you understand.)



But I'm a girl and a smidge cuter.

So anyway, wish me luck. Wish my family luck. And, pray I don't look like this in two weeks, because I somehow grew into my computer.