Meredith Sue Willis's Blog, page 12

A New Year's Revision Technique for Your Novel

A New Year's Revision
Technique for Your Novel

Meredith Sue Willis

I've been giving a piece of advice for many years to students in my novel writing classes: go through your manuscript once as a reader, sitting on your hands. This is, of course, another way of saying "Don't tinker. Don't start manipulating the sentences. Don't edit, Just read." Notes are allowed, but only at section or chapter breaks. The aim is to get an overview of plot, story, flow, and momentum.Most of us who love to write are especially devoted to our words and phrases. We are always looking for a better way to say it. We expand here, tighten and cut there. We are often very good at the trees, but we tend to lose our way in the forest. Others of us, of course, are gifted at plot and story line. We may be natural storytellers, or we may have a clear model in mind that gives structure and momentum: a coming of age novel, a life story. Or, we might be mostly drawn to the possibilities of exploring character, slowing down time, going back and forth in time, examining moments and small details.The best novels, in my opinion, do all these things. The writers of the best novels, however, don't necessarily do the things all at once. Thus I suggest different kinds of revisions, some fast, some slow, some focused on only a single thing. I wrote an essay about this called "Seven Layers to Revising Your Novel" that appeared in The Writer. Most of these suggestions for revision come from my own experience. I particularly like one that revises the second half or even the last quarter first. I also often do the "search for details" revision where you search through the whole novel for all appearances of a certain character (or place, or important object) to see how that element changes over the course of the novel. I also do housekeeping like checking for catch phrases or words that I tend to overuse ("shards" and "gazed deeply").What I had never done before, however, was the straight-through read I described at the beginning. Since I'm working on a science fiction novel where story is of the essence, I decided finally to try it, and last month, I read the manuscript on my Kindle e-reader. I e-mailed it as a .doc file to my special Kindle address (if you have a Kindle, you have one of these, usually yourname@kindle.com). I kept a pencil and notebook at my side, and while I couldn't quite make myself wait for the end of the chapter, I did scribble only an occasional note, and tried hard not to copy edit or line edit. I concentrated on the story, and was horrified by various discrepancies: I had made certain revelations more than once, and the first person narrator repeatedly overheard conversations like a regular little spy.The biggest problem, though, was the order in which the characters begin to explore the desert outside their home. I had them learn to ride the local flying aliens out into the desert before they took walks into the desert under their own steam. There was a complicated explanation for why they stopped flying to ride, but as I read, the impatient reader in me said, "Duh, why don't they just walk first and learn to fly later?"I wrote myself a long note about what I needed to do, but didn't work on it till I'd finished reading. For me, this took a lot of self-discipline. I was glad, though, because once I got over some bumps, the story went very well, at least with the kind of speed read I was giving it, so I was encouraged and ready to get back to work.I've now put the events of the story in a more sensible order that also seems to have the advantage of upping the ante, as they recommend in script writing--that is, the farther they go out into the desert, the more danger there is. For those of you who see yourself as artists rather than as suspense-builders, keep in mind that your first several drafts should have given full play to your instincts and inspiration. That comes first: getting out whatever it is that you are interested in exploring. Then, as you step back and begin to reshape and polish your sentences, you may also need to reshape and polish the trajectory of the story itself.This revision technique might help.
Best wishes in your writing in the New Year!

Literature, Genre, and Me

I've been trying to understand the difference between literary fiction and genre for a long time. A member of my writers' group used to bring in science fiction for critique sometimes, and sometimes her avant garde work. It was all meticulously written in her delightful, faux naif style, and we could never tell the difference between avant garde and science fiction, except that occasionally the science fiction had some very human aliens in it. 

In fact, I believe the best fiction, whether literary or genre, has always combined powerful language with psychological and social insight and story. The way we separate genre and literature in the twenty-first century is, to my way of thinking, mostly about selling, and there is no doubt that writing in certain niches sells far better than others.

I've been writing since I was about six years old, and in the beginning, I was above all interested in the stories. What happened to the Indian Princess? What did she do? What happened next? I went through a long period in college and after when I saw myself as devoted to high art. The truth is that I have always loved some high art, admired other high art, and reacted to some with a big "meh." 

I find myself increasingly, in my later years, reverting to the pleasure of novels with a lot of narrative momentum. In our present literary landscape, this often, although certainly not always, means well-written genre books. The problem with highly polished art writing is the danger of creating only static set pieces– bijoux for contemplation and admiration, rather than a river that sucks you downstream through its rapids and sluices.

The novel I'm working on now is science fiction, and I've been trying hard to master how to create that river. I'm writing just as carefully as ever, at least in the later drafts. This probably means I'll never be a commercially successful genre writer because it will always take me too long to write a book, and a prime characteristic of successful genre writers is that they keep new product in the pipeline.

How is writing this book different from writing my other fiction? Occasionally in the science fiction novel, I choose to simplify language for action--but I do that for action in anything I write. I am probably more careful about the geography of my settings because I want them to be very clear in the reader's mind as the action plays out. In language, I pay a great deal of attention to using words that fit the material culture of the world I’ve created. I avoid images that include objects or ideas that don’t exist on this planet. This is part of the pleasure though: I delight in world-creating as much now as I did when I was five years old and my parents bought me for Christmas a miniature ranch with horses and fences and people.

Much genre writing is simply sloppy–hastily written, to meet deadlines, or in the case of some of the mass of self-published material appearing now, written to satisfy personal needs of the writer. This may, on the other hand, also explain some of the popularity of even badly written genre: it is probably scratching some widely shared itch. If I'm going to read it, however, I need a level of clarity and clean writing at a minimum. Along with science fiction, I like good detective and crime fiction and I like also like fantasy, if it abides by some set of internal rules.

All novels, of course– and this is why genre and literature are more alike than different– create worlds, whether alien planets far far away or south central Los Angeles just after the Watts riots of the late sixties. In my science fiction novel I have to spend more time describing my created world that I would if the novel were set in New York City, but frankly, it's a trivial difference because even though I can expect my readers to fill in a lot of blanks about New York City– that there is one sun in the sky on a bright fall day, for example (in my science fiction novel, there are two), there are still particular streets and waterfronts and restaurants that have to be built out of observation and imagination. A failing of much student writing I see is to assume a frame of reference: that we all know certain clubs or monuments, or what certain catch phrases mean, or that we feel the emotion the protagonist does when listening to a certain song from the nineteen-nineties.

Genre writing gives me that satisfaction of play from my childhood. I am, at least in the initial drafting stages, manipulating the riders and horses of my little plastic ranch, and clopping them over the floor on great quests by the light of the Christmas tree. But as I play, I’ve also discovered that, for me, science fiction in particular, offers a more direct way to write about ideas and power relationships. In my real-world novels, I've been self-effacing in the sense that I am scrupulously honest about writing about people and experiences and social action that I am familiar with. I don't know– for example– what it would be like to have my community destroyed by an enemy. I can imagine it– and indeed, in my science fiction novel, I'm doing exactly that. What effect will it have on the characters? How will they be changed from their ideology of non-violence?

So in my science fiction novel, along with fun of imagining lavender shadows from the double suns, I can explore directly the potential results of decisions based on ideology among the humans and the mistakes different sentient species make about one another's motivations. I can experiment with political structures, and I can have my characters be major figures in the world’s history. 

That's not what I sat down to do when I started my genre novel. I think I sat down with the urge to play as I played as a child, but since I'm an adult, the topics I play with tend to be issues I see unresolved in this world. In genre, I can write more directly about the forces that mold and limit us by having them play out in my invented space.

On the Differences Between Literary Fiction and Genre I

I've been trying to decide the difference between literary fiction and genre. I believe the best novels have always had story as well as psychological and social insight and graceful diction. The way we separate genre and literature in the twenty-first century is, to my way of thinking, mostly about what sells best.At the same time, in my latter years I've come to enjoy reading books with a lot of narrative momentum more and more. I think I always did--certainly as a child reader-- but I spent many years trying to convince myself that what I was really devoted to was high art, and the truth is that while I love some high art, some high art leaves me with a big "meh."In my own writing, I've always been able to tell a small story, but have not necessarily been able to maintain the narrative momentum that I love through a whole novel. The problem with highly polished writing is the danger of creating a static set piece-- a bijoux for contemplation and admiration rather than a river that sucks us into its rapids.The novel I'm working on now is science fiction, and I've been trying hard to create that river and rapids. I'm writing just as carefully as ever (and this will probably mean I'll never be a commercially successful genre writer because it will always take me too long to write a book). Occasionally I choose to simplify language for action--but I do that for action in anything I write. Mostly, I delight in creating a small world for myself as I did when I was five years old and my parents bought me a miniature ranch with horses and fences and people. I love world creating. I love this world too, but part of this world, for me, is the possibilities of imagination--of going into another world.Much genre writing is simply bad --written hastily, written to satisfy personal needs (but this may also explain the popularity of even badly written genre: it may be scratching a widely shared itch). Some genre also sticks slavishly to industry-standards (the Christian romance in which the lovers don't have sex before marriage). The genre I've been reading isn't romance anyhow. I like good detective and crime fiction and I like excellent science fiction and fantasy that abides by the rules it creates.All novels, of course--and this is why genre and literature are not so different after all--create worlds, whether alien planet far far away or south central Los Angeles just after the Watts riots of the late sixties. In my science fiction novel I have to spend more time describing my created world that I would if the novel were set in New York City, but frankly, it's a trivial difference because even though I can expect my readers to fill in a lot of blanks about New York City– that there is one sun in the sky on a bright fall day, for example (in my science fiction novel, there are two: a bluish one and a pinkish one)--there are still particular streets and waterfronts and restaurants that have to be built out of observation and imagination.A failing of much student writing I see is to assume everyone shares the same frame of reference that they do: that we all know what certain catch phrases mean, that we all feel the same about the present president of the United States. More conscious effort in my genre novel goes into creating the illusion of a world we can step into.This is also one of the main reasons I write genre. It allows me to continue the satisfaction of play from my childhood reading: to go have adventures in another place. I am, at least in the initial drafting stages, manipulating the riders and horses of my little plastic ranch, and imagining power I don't have in my real life.For me, science fiction in particular, also and maybe paradoxically, offers a more direct way to write about ideas and power relationships. In my my real-world novels, I've probably always been too self-effacing in the sense that I am meticulously honest about writing about classes and experiences and social action that I am familiar with: I have an abstract knowledge of how politics work, and some less abstract knowledge at a local level, but I don't know what it is like to have my community destroyed by an oppressor. That is, if I am honese, I can write about things like that in the real world, but only a a distance, with great care and bracketing explanations.In my science fiction novel, along with fun of imagining lavender shadows as the day wanes, I can explore directly the potential results of decisions based on ideology among the humans-- and the mistakes different sentient species might make about one another's motivations. I am also experimenting with political structures and the influence of history on human lives.That's not what I sat down to write when I started in on a genre novel. I think I sat down with the urge to play as I played as a child, but since I'm an adult, the topics I play with tend to be issues I see unresolved in this world.In genre, I can write more directly about the forces that mold and limit us by writing in an invented place.

Current reading: All this and more on my e-reader

I am presently reading three things, all on the Kindle– which, by the way, has been a godsend during these past two months of preparing to move, moving, and unpacking.  Everything I needed in one handy device.
So here’s what I’m reading: (1) a manuscript I’ve been asked to blurb; (2) a Michael Connolly Harry Bosch mystery (this crime-procedural-mystery series recommended to me by another writer as decently written and dependable; and (3) To the Lighthouse.  I am under the impression that I read To the Lighthouse shortly after we moved into the house on Prospect Street–at least, that’s my little memory-narrative.  I believe I remember  reading it sitting back near the big plate glass windows before someone pointed out to me that the best way to deal with a big room is to group furniture together.  Duh.  Anyhow, I associate To the Lighthouse with new places, beloved places, and perhaps with a return from crisis to serious literature.  Anyhow, it seemed right for the first real reading in my new house.
The house in that book is central, and in some ways the novel is about the house when it is filled with Mrs. Ramsay’s incredible life force and what it’s like when it’s empty of her.  One of the great wonders of the book is the shock of what it means when someone who embodies life the way she does dies.  I remember long ago when I first read the book (before the new house reading), that I skimmed it and panicked because I thought I didn’t understand it.  I was probably just trying to read too fast. My brain was much sharper then, but now it’s a leisurely, comfortable read, only mildly challenging.
          Or maybe it is a book for grown-ups not youth?
          Technically, Woolf does the omniscient viewpoint possibly better than anyone in modern times.  She wasn’t that far, of course, from the magisterial Victorians, and also her own ego was clinically fragile.  She skims from consciousness to consciousness with brilliant ease.  Many things hold it together– Mrs. Ramsay herself, of course, often the object of others’ attention when she herself is not the consciousness.  The characters all share a frame of reference, cultural norms, and even speech patterns.  Is that what omniscience in novels needs to succeed?
Anyhow, it’s sad and sweet and brilliant and captures the whispering passage of time like nothing else.

Current reading: All this and more on my e-reader

I am presently reading three things, all on the Kindle– which, by the way, has been a godsend during these past two months of preparing to move, moving, and unpacking.  Everything I needed in one handy device.
So here’s what I’m reading: (1) a manuscript I’ve been asked to blurb; (2) a Michael Connolly Harry Bosch mystery (this crime-procedural-mystery series recommended to me by another writer as decently written and dependable; and (3) To the Lighthouse.  I am under the impression that I read To the Lighthouse shortly after we moved into the house on Prospect Street–at least, that’s my little memory-narrative.  I believe I remember  reading it sitting back near the big plate glass windows before someone pointed out to me that the best way to deal with a big room is to group furniture together.  Duh.  Anyhow, I associate To the Lighthouse with new places, beloved places, and perhaps with a return from crisis to serious literature.  Anyhow, it seemed right for the first real reading in my new house.
The house in that book is central, and in some ways the novel is about the house when it is filled with Mrs. Ramsay’s incredible life force and what it’s like when it’s empty of her.  One of the great wonders of the book is the shock of what it means when someone who embodies life the way she does dies.  I remember long ago when I first read the book (before the new house reading), that I skimmed it and panicked because I thought I didn’t understand it.  I was probably just trying to read too fast. My brain was much sharper then, but now it’s a leisurely, comfortable read, only mildly challenging.
          Or maybe it is a book for grown-ups not youth?
          Technically, Woolf does the omniscient viewpoint possibly better than anyone in modern times.  She wasn’t that far, of course, from the magisterial Victorians, and also her own ego was clinically fragile.  She skims from consciousness to consciousness with brilliant ease.  Many things hold it together– Mrs. Ramsay herself, of course, often the object of others’ attention when she herself is not the consciousness.  The characters all share a frame of reference, cultural norms, and even speech patterns.  Is that what omniscience in novels needs to succeed?
Anyhow, it’s sad and sweet and brilliant and captures the whispering passage of time like nothing else.

Piano in a Sycamore: Writing Lessons from the Appalachian Writers’ Workshop

I'm excited to have been included in a publication of writing craft essays honoring the 40th anniversary of the Hindman Appalachian Writers' Workshop. Edited by Silas House and Marianne Worthington, it has pieces by lots of wonderful writers who have been at Hindman over the years.  Take a look here.

Piano in a Sycamore: Writing Lessons from the Appalachian Writers’ Workshop

I'm excited to have been included in a publication of writing craft essays honoring the 40th anniversary of the Hindman Appalachian Writers' Workshop. Edited by Silas House and Marianne Worthington, it has pieces by lots of wonderful writers who have been at Hindman over the years.  Take a look here.

Shakespeare & Company Does it One More Time......

                        July 30, 2017

Andy and I went to see Cymbeline last night at Shakespeare & Company in the Berkshires.  I read the play on Kindle before going, which made it much easier for me with my bad hearing–the plot summaries make this one sound really ridiculous, as do all plot summaries of Shakespeare’s romances and comedies, but this one is unusually so with an actual deus ex machina (Jupiter on an eagle) and tons of recycled plot material from his other plays (Othello with a happy ending), and unexplained motivations and settings.
       Reading the actual words, though, reminds you that Shakespeare's language is a delight even on his off days, and you get some of the bawdy jokes you might miss otherwise.
       I found, as always, the ensemble playing at S&Co. to be splendid: everyone played several parts, often changing clothes on stage (Nigel Gore was especially terrific at this going from a Roman general with a really big Captain’s helmet to a doctor with hair and shades that made him look like Howard Stern to a pretend rustic-actually-a-banished general).  Jonny Epstein was having a good time as Cymbeline himself as well as a hangman and a Roman aesthete who carried around a white stuffed cat that occasionally wore a little gold helmet.  My surprise favorite was a young, first season actor named Ella Loudon.  She's a big, strong young woman (look up her pedigree!) who does both a bland lady-in-waiting and a totally believable wild warrior prince. I could go on.
      The stage was full of action and color and funny Scotch plaid fans plus all the jokes–but  somehow the ridiculously unmerited sad moments were moving.  One amazing scene ran between burlesque and horror--this was Josh Aaron McCabe as Iachimo (called by one reviewer the cut-rate Iago) in Imogen’s bedroom thinking about ravishing her as she sleeps, but in the end just taking her bracelet and looking under her breast for a mole.  Very creepy.
  Anyhow, I sometimes think Sh & Co. does better with these somewhat lesser plays than with the biggies–I know they are strongest on the ones that depend on the ensemble rather than on name actors.  Everyone has their own ideas for Hamlet, of course, so Cymbeline perhaps has more room for creativity.
    This was one of my favorites.

Shakespeare & Company Does it One More Time......

                        July 30, 2017

Andy and I went to see Cymbeline last night at Shakespeare & Company in the Berkshires.  I read the play on Kindle before going, which made it much easier for me with my bad hearing–the plot summaries make this one sound really ridiculous, as do all plot summaries of Shakespeare’s romances and comedies, but this one is unusually so with an actual deus ex machina (Jupiter on an eagle) and tons of recycled plot material from his other plays (Othello with a happy ending), and unexplained motivations and settings.
       Reading the actual words, though, reminds you that Shakespeare's language is a delight even on his off days, and you get some of the bawdy jokes you might miss otherwise.
       I found, as always, the ensemble playing at S&Co. to be splendid: everyone played several parts, often changing clothes on stage (Nigel Gore was especially terrific at this going from a Roman general with a really big Captain’s helmet to a doctor with hair and shades that made him look like Howard Stern to a pretend rustic-actually-a-banished general).  Jonny Epstein was having a good time as Cymbeline himself as well as a hangman and a Roman aesthete who carried around a white stuffed cat that occasionally wore a little gold helmet.  My surprise favorite was a young, first season actor named Ella Loudon.  She's a big, strong young woman (look up her pedigree!) who does both a bland lady-in-waiting and a totally believable wild warrior prince. I could go on.
      The stage was full of action and color and funny Scotch plaid fans plus all the jokes–but  somehow the ridiculously unmerited sad moments were moving.  One amazing scene ran between burlesque and horror--this was Josh Aaron McCabe as Iachimo (called by one reviewer the cut-rate Iago) in Imogen’s bedroom thinking about ravishing her as she sleeps, but in the end just taking her bracelet and looking under her breast for a mole.  Very creepy.
  Anyhow, I sometimes think Sh & Co. does better with these somewhat lesser plays than with the biggies–I know they are strongest on the ones that depend on the ensemble rather than on name actors.  Everyone has their own ideas for Hamlet, of course, so Cymbeline perhaps has more room for creativity.
    This was one of my favorites.

New House!

I am just in the process of moving from South Orange, New Jersey to Orange, New Jersey. The new house is only six minutes from the old house, half the size, nearer Andy's job and about the same distance to the New York train for me to go to teach at NYU. Everything is smaller and (we think) cheaper, and of course it's a new town, in spite of being only a few hundred yards from our old town.E-mail stays the same