One Hundred Pages

Maybe this has happened to you. You’re moving forward through the second half of your third-or-so revision of a novel, feeling pretty happy with your process, thinking you finally got the hang of plot. If you’re a writer, you can see where this story is going. If you’re empathetic, you may be stiffening your shoulders as I did listening to the first person in my writing group go through the requisite but always too short list of things I did right in the first 270 pages. I let out a breath as she calmly said that about 100 pages have to go. And I still need to find a plot.

My two other  friends nodded.  I nodded, too, trying to hide my gritted teeth. As I eventually packed up three copies of these 270 pages to go out into the cool spring night, I tried not to look like someone who’d been gently told she didn’t get something she’d been trying long and hard to get.  I can’t say I slept well. In the morning, I reminded myself that if all three in my writing group think something, they’re usually right. I planned to keep writing toward the end of the novel, taking the good advice of dear Dina to try writing my way back from the climax.

But by the following day, I started a slow, gentle tearing in, going through their good notes, looking at my manuscript, ripping out a sentence here, a paragraph and page there. I was buoyed by the “nices” in some margins. It’s not all bad! A little history can go far, and while I love the texture, it can distract from the line I mean to go through, propelling, well, at least nudging, a reader forward. I’ve made some holes where I’m finding ways to wrestle in and bring out more of my character’s heart, making sure each scene isn’t there just because it’s pretty, but is either a roadblock or slide to a forward movement. So while I’ve got out the scissors, and markers to show myself who appears where, and assess how much I need them, I’m using my pen, too. Adding to the impact of scenes.

I’ve got out the pink and sky blue index cards, and at some point I’ll actually use them, I promise. What does she want? What’s stopping her? I murmur, feeling cheered on by all the you-can-do-its from plot-challenged and history-loving friends posted after I moaned on Facebook. Thank you! I know that faith is in my writing group, too. Now it’s starting to return to me, as with every twist of my blade, every new word, I remember my love for my character. I want her story to be told. And with the new holes, new ideas come, too. My shoulders are almost back where they belong. I’m having some fun again.