Picked up my daughter this morning so she could have a few days home from college.  On the way in, I mulled over the inconsistencies I’ve spotted in Wind River and how I’m going to fix them.  There’s a critical scene where Bad Guy A and Bad Guy B pull guns on each other.  How they get to that point is a little believable; how they interact after is not very good.

So, when doing the first-draft readthrough, the temptation is to fix it right then and there.  That’d be a mistake: you kill the exercise’s momentum, and most importantly, you leave the role you need to be filling when you do that.

On the readthrough, you are a reader.  You’re a temporary member of your target audience.  The second you decide to be a writer, you’re doomed to make the same ‘big picture’ mistakes you made when creating the first draft.

Instead of forcing a solution to the conundrum with Bad Guy A and B… and most importantly instead of cutting that really cool scene, I decided to sleep on it.

Bang—right when I passed the big windmill off Highway 275 in Valley, the answer revealed itself.  The scene will now resolve itself in a way that not only fits with the behavior I want from my villains—one where they work against each other as adamantly as they work with each other—but in a way that shows them to be the twisted creatures I want them to be.

How do you battle the impatience that’s natural when you’re waiting for the answer to smack you upside the head?

Keep busy—the brain’s “worry centers” can’t fully engage if you’re knee deep in a different task; Have faith—because if you’ve written anything in the past, you know you’ve come up with some cool stuff before and can do so again; and cultivate inspiration by engaging in activities creative people love.  This is where playing certain video games are a help rather than a hindrance.

Ever get hit in the shower or on the crapper with inspiration?  You’re changing the environment your body is immersed in, and have a task at hand that can occupy a small portion of your consciousness, but not so much of it that you can’t do some top-notch brainstorming.  Do yard work.  Buy an axe and chop down a tree.  If you’re environmentally friendly, chop up one that died naturally and fell down on its own.  Do some demolition work.  Paint your living room.

Don’t worry:  It’ll hit you.  Maybe not when you want it to… but it will come.

Finished my read-through (which I did a post about a couple of days ago) and recognized I have a lot of work ahead of me. 

There weren’t all that many sections of rough prose, and only a couple of passages that needed to be completely excised.  A few needed to get moved around, but not many.  And there are a few inconsistencies that I’ll fix.

Most of my work will be in what I view as my biggest challenge, career-wise:

I can string the words together with proficiency.  I don’t misspell a lot.  I’ve got a tighter grip on grammar, tense, and point-of-view.  Characterization seems good.

But, at least where novels are concerned, I’m working on kicking the big picture up a notch.  On making the book as a whole; fitting the plot shifts and key events together in the right spot; introducing a sense of unresolved goals and jeopardy, both imminent and distant, that builds from beginning to end.

This is the area where otherwise capable writers break down.  It’s also the area that, in a critique group where everyone does 10 to 15-minute readings, can be easily missed.  Because of the long haul that writing a novel represents, it’s also the skill set you can’t hone through doing exercises or workshops.  A writer can remember the key points they make at such things, but do they have the endurance to implement them, and the ability to hold the entire book in summary form in their head from top to bottom?

As a reader, I tend to despise a novel missing these elements more than one with simple prose and typos.  I’ve also noticed otherwise accomplished writers fall short on these qualities a number of books into their careers.  You can get away with it if you have a big name, but otherwise there is no margin for error.

Now that the whole story is once again loaded into my head, I need to get in there and start working on it.  Before I start to worry about how much work it’s going to be.

None of the creative people I’ve been around have ever gone through life with a ‘yeah, I’m the best the world has seen’ attitude.  That’s not to say there aren’t people like that out there… but those with a perpetually high opinion of themselves tend not to be very talented.

So a writer, just like an actor or musician, will find themselves regularly beset by periods of abject self-doubt.  For me, it seems more a function of brain chemical balances than triggering events, but here are some of the top confidence killers writers face.  It may come as a surprise, but Number One is not a rejection letter.

#3:  Rejection.  It’s part of the business.  It’s a necessary one, too: if everything you write gets sold, how can you stay sharp?  Wouldn’t acceptances get boring?  Still, it’s never good for your ego to hear a publisher go:  “Sorry, this story you thought was so great isn’t, um, so great.”  Paraphrased a little there.

#2:  Negative Feedback.  The elation that races through you at getting a story published only lasts so long.  You get a booster to that positive feeling when the story hits the shelves or the web.  And then: someone posts a comment on a story, or writes the editor of your magazine…and hates your work.  Yes, you may be smart enough to realize that no story can be everyone’s favorite, but it doesn’t keep you from feeling affronted by the critic.  First rating I got on a story on Smashwords?  Two stars.  Out of Five.  I resisted the urge to go to the guy’s profile and start giving low ratings to his stuff…not because he gave me a thumbs-down, as much as he didn’t justify the low rating by offering critique, by telling me what needed to be done better.  Thankfully I’ve been faring better from other readers.

#1:  Long Periods of Silence.  It’s a ton of work to write a novel, and as much—if not more work to go from first draft to something you can try to sell.  Months of work.  Yet, when you send that first query, sample chapter set, or manuscript off in hopes of a publisher or agent biting, it takes a much shorter time for self-doubt to creep in.  They hate it, you start to think.  They have so many other submissions to read—mine is going to get lost in the slush pile.  And the response you get to counter those doubts?  Nothing.  Even a rejection is welcome at that point, so you can get on with sending it elsewhere.  When you’re able to do something, after all, you feel less helpless.  But waiting for an answer?  There is no proactive way to do it, short of nagging the publisher or agent.  And nagging isn’t a good way to demonstrate to a publisher that you’re someone they want to work with.

So, your confidence gets battered.  Get a helmet, you wimp!  Or, if you prefer:  wallow in the self-pity for a brief time so you can burn it off, then get back up by:

- Doing something: Got a story rejected?  That just means it’s available to submit to someone else!  You should incorporate any comments, if you actually got ‘em, that make sense.  Research more potential markets for a better fit.  Just do something so the work doesn’t sit idly by, not trying to get you another publishing credit.

- Networking: Go to a writers’ workshop or critique group.  Just hang out with other writers.  I have yet to belong to a group that looked at a newcomer, sneered, and said: ‘eww… you don’t belong with us, you talentless pile of dog crap.’  The simple presence of other writers can serve as a reminder that you belong.

- Write:  Hey, you’re a writer!  Every word you commit to paper or hard disk is one more than existed before.  It’s an increase to your body of work.  It’s an enhancement of your writing skill.  It might be the first word of the passage that lights you on fire and inspires you again.  You’ll never know if you don’t write it.

Okay, it’s kind of a joke.  I seriously am reading my own novel, but this is important.  It’s what I call the second read, though I’m sure if I’d have gone through an MFA program I’d have learned what the “established” term for it is.

When I sit down to write a novel, I generally don’t outline it beginning-to-end.  I do some character writeups, as well as a background.  The end result of that initial work looks a little like a dossier made up near the beginning of the novel by someone who has my characters and setting under surveillance.  I refer back to that dossier a lot as I write, occasionally changing it, frequently adding to it.

But when I write, I let the story take me where it wants to go.  Since I don’t write a hundred percent in sequence—I often jump ahead after the book’s about twenty thousand words into the first draft and then step back to fill in holes—I don’t fully understand if I’ve got a complete story until the second read.

I put the finishing touches on the first draft back in June.  Now that it’s September, enough time has elapsed—at least for me—that the characters are no longer occupants of my brain and the ‘what happens next’ from scene to scene has faded.  I know I’m ready for the second read when I write a synopsis of the book, and can’t remember if I killed off a bad guy, for example, or just subdued them.

Now a third of the way through this read, I’ve already spotted several holes and timing inconsistencies in the story.  Why would I want to waste an editor’s time with these glaring issues when I can catch them up front?  The better the product is that I pass on to an editor, the better job they can do.

I gotta tell you right now:  I’ve forgotten half of the funny parts I put in there, and a bunch of the really cool passages.  While my red pen lost a little blood today, overall it isn’t going to take a herculean effort to tighten it up.

I try to do this in an immersive process, meaning I have to digest a 100,000-plus word novel in under three days.  I’m fortunate I found myself motivated enough to do a post today—hopefully that continues as I finish up the read-through.

If all goes well it might be ready for an editor in another two weeks.

This is the start of a short story that I put together while sitting in an airport.  Newark, I believe, or maybe it was New Orleans.  Someday, my main character is going to step through this teleporter and into an adventure, but for now… it’s still a nice scene:

The stranger said:  “You’ve been around long enough to remember the old airports.  Remember how all this was supposed to be a thing of the past?”

Mikey didn’t like strangers.  And he liked conversation with them even less.  He wasn’t so committed to his inclinations, however, that he could ignore the guy.  “Yeah.”

The one-word answer didn’t discourage the chatty fellow traveler.  “At least it’s one at a time, huh?  No cramming into a tin can for hours at a time.  No sitting on the runway.”

The nod Mikey gave the guy must have been all he needed to continue.

“Nope, just an agonizingly long line before you get your turn.  The least they could do is provide seats, huh?  Why do you think they don’t?”

“Because it wouldn’t do any good.”  Sadly, the question couldn’t be answered in one word.  “People would have to get up and sit down more often than Catholics at Mass.”

This must have struck the stranger as inordinately funny, because the laugh took up most of the next ten seconds.   “Y’know, my brother still goes.  He keeps trying to talk me into coming with him.”

He left Mikey alone for, at most, another minute.  In that space, they’d advanced at most ten feet with the rest of the queue.

“You’d think Omaha would warrant a second chamber.  Hell, Times Square has six.”

“Yeah, and the good people of New York pay twelve percent sales tax and their State income tax returns are on par with their Federal.”

“You must be a local, then?  Heading out?”

“Kind of,” said Mikey.  “This is just an in-and-outer.”

“Spending more time in line than at your destination, huh?”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

I’m afraid of a story right now.

Perhaps I should clarify: I’m 1700 words into a 3000-word short story, and the first half has turned out so well… I’m a bit afraid of the second half.  I’m afraid I won’t do it justice with an ending that doesn’t hit as hard as the beginning.  I’m afraid I can’t seize on the emotional tone I’ve set and continue building on it.

It’s laughable, when put it in those terms.  After all, I could write the rest of it and simply delete it if it doesn’t work.  But this isn’t fear of failure, or fear of success: it’s the knowledge that whatever I do to finish it is going to take a lot of work.

Are you also one of those people that dreads a meeting or chore for days or weeks leading up to the event, but is fine once you actually start?  Yeah, that’s me.  The older I get, the more frequently I remember that.  It doesn’t make the dread go away, but it does push it down a little.

So, it’s time to work on an ending.  If I don’t like it, it’ll be time to rework it.  I know what it should feel like when it’s done, so as long as I have that clear, there shouldn’t be anything to fear.

Okay, I’m ready.  Motivate me, R. Lee…

Thanks, Gunny.  You know how to put things into perspective.

One of my fellow Writers Guild members posted a link to Irene Watson’s article on ezinearticles.com.  The web and publications such as Writers’ Digest are full of articles like this, aimed at other writers seeking to get serious about their craft.  Though there are a few passages that sound a bit elitist, overall it’s well-done. 

And, honestly, if you’re seeking to get your work published—or more importantly, sold—you’re going to have to get used to a little elitism.  Until you publish work, people are going to say:  “How many books have you published?” as a reason why they don’t want to look at your story.  Then, if you do get published—in this era, most likely self-published or through a service such as Lulu, the statement “But it’s not through a legitimate publishing house” gets thrown at you.

You just have to battle through it.

Let’s face it: no matter how many times you’ve gone through your early work, it’ll be a bit rough.  You probably won’t have completely found your voice yet.  That’s fine—if your initial stories were perfect, you’d get bored, I’d think.  That’s just speculation, because I was (and still am) far from perfect.

You work your way out of the jaundiced look the establishment gives you by working your butt off.  Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean by just writing nowadays.  You may write the perfect novel, but the chances of it getting noticed in a slush pile are slim at best.

If you’re going to self-publish—and 99.999 percent of the time you’re going to have to do so if you want your work in front of eyeballs—you’re building a ship for a cross-ocean voyage, and then have to sail it over yourself.  it may be the best-built vessel of all time, but it’s not moving until you smack it on the prow with a bottle of bubbly and get aboard.  Were you to be picked up by a publisher, they’d handle a lot of the work for you, but not all of it.  So you might as well understand, and try your hand at, every aspect of getting your work to the reader.

Irene Watson derides ‘getting your English-Major daughter’ to edit your work, and ‘hiring your artistically inclined brother-in-law’ to do the cover art.  She even uses the classic statement of publishing elitism:  “How many covers has he done?”  I completely agree with her point, which is if your book is full of typos and your cover is ugly, it’ll be a blow to your career aspirations that will take a long time to recover from.  But I don’t agree with the idea that you suck if you don’t pay top dollar for established professionals.

Instead, take stock in what your assets and liabilities are.  Then, legitimately assess what abilities of friends and relatives will best complement yours.  Finally, there will be some areas where nobody in your circle is qualified.  If you want a professional job, you have to grit your teeth and get it professionally done.

Are you good at self-editing?  Come on: be honest.  Maybe you’re not, but you understand good artwork when you see it.  Can’t paint to save your life, but you know what good painting looks like.  Great… then you can work with that brother-in-law or neighbor to get what you want to see on your cover.  Pay ‘em in whatever makes sense—beer, yard work, whatever.  Wait—don’t go to press with it yet!  Bounce it off a few other people whose opinions you trust, and who you can count on to deliver honest criticism, and if it doesn’t bowl ‘em over, get it fixed.

I have a good friend that will be the first to tell you he’s not a great speller, and is grammar isn’t always spot-on.  Know what?  I don’t care.  I trust his sense of what a good story is implicitly.  He buys a lot of books and reads ‘em.  Last I checked, that’s the sort of person I’m gearing my writing for.  He’ll tell me what does and doesn’t work for him.  Is he my only resource?  If he was, I’d be asking for failure!

Trust your gut.  If you’re honest with yourself, it’ll tell you what you’re qualified to do.  If you follow it, you can put out a good product without paying an arm and a leg for outside mercenary help.

And finally, never stop evaluating.  If something doesn’t sell, try to determine why and fix the problem.  If it turns out that you need more work on your writing skills…keep practicing!

I know, I know: I write fiction, so I should read fiction.  I usually do, but sometimes a guy needs to mix it up a little.  The nice thing about the Bathroom Reader series is: you don’t get emotionally invested in anything.  Well-written fiction tends to drag me through the wringer a little… when people started dropping in The Dark Tower, people who had made it through as many as five of the seven-book series, it wasn’t all that different from losing a good friend or relative.

The Bathroom Readers provide a nice break from that sort of ‘uh-oh’ feeling you get when there are characters in a novel placed in jeopardy… and you know they can’t all make it out.

The other enjoyable quality to them is that neat little facts spice up a story.  A novelist shouldn’t overdo the ‘gee-whiz’ facts, but when a character spouts off some bit of trivia the reader wouldn’t otherwise know, it lends a credibility to them… plus, when I’m a reader, there is a bit of an enjoyable ‘no way!’ reaction.

Bathroom readers aren’t the only such books.  Other great titles:  A Macabre Miscellany, by Geoffrey Abbott—a retired Tower of London Beefeater; The Pessimist’s Guide to History, by Stuart and Doris Flexner; The Book of the Bizarre, by Varla Ventura; and 5 People Who Died During Sex, by Karl Shaw.

And let’s not forget the Miscellany books from Ben Schott.

The other beneficial qualities to these books is the tidbit-sized portions in which the articles are served.  I always read at night before going to sleep—a habit I’ve had since I was three, thus unbreakable now—and with these books, there’s no need to push on past midnight to get to the end of a chapter.  When I feel tired, I only have a paragraph or two to complete before I can shut the lamp off.

This post is late because we lost internet for a few hours.  My head hurts.  I’m sore from doing actual physical labor yesterday, and I’m 41 years old and still get zits.

Some days are harder than others, right?

I have to lock in on the positive aspects of feeling like crap:  soon, one of my characters is going to have to feel like crap.  Pain, as well as the aching sinuses, will help me establish a connection between what the character is going through and my ability to vividly convey it to readers.

Still, it does get in the way of my ability to write.

I’ve been working on a sci-fi novel lately, but also have been editing two short stories, both of which I have a strong positive feeling about.  So strong, I wanted to submit one to a professional market, but I need to be at 100 percent and review it with a clear head if I’m going to swing for the fences with it.

Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe Monday.  Remember: Procrastination, as long as it’s calculated procrastination, isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Every now and then I have to make a sports-related comment.  I know sports and writing are often as far apart as two activities can be—except for sportswriters, I suppose—but dangit, I like sports.  And I listen to a lot of sports-talk radio.

Which I why I have to say something about Jim Furyk.  Let me first say that I don’t really follow golf.  I know enough about it that I knew he was a golfer…and that’s about it.  I play maybe once a year—although I haven’t played yet this year—and I never watch it on TV.

But apparently he got disqualified from a tournament for showing up late.  Slept in.  It sounds like kind of a chickenshit deal, but the rule was enforced as it was written.

Now, here’s a guy that’s a sports figure.  Makes a lot of money doing what he does.  Very competitive.  So, when mikes were shoved in his face asking him about it, you’d expect him to either a) go off, or b) throw in a whole bunch of tongue-in-cheek statements that amount to: “it’s stupid, but I’m gonna look like I’m taking the high road while insulting them.”

Instead, he chose “c”.

I don’t have the quote verbatim, but it goes something like this:  “Man, I’m really upset about it, and what makes me most upset is that it was my screwup and my own fault.”  Again, not a direct quote, but it captures the gist of it.

Thank you, Jim, for just owning up to it, not getting into a big, long, circuitous speech where you accept the blame in a tangential fashion while really pointing the finger at others.

You now have a new fan—though you shouldn’t expect me to watch you golf on TV.  Cuz, you know, golf is kinda boring if you’re not actually doing it yourself.