Time Flies, Dung Beetles

The new Volkswagon Beetle raised eyebrows.

I don't often think about time. All I understand about time is that there isn't enough of it and it's running out.

A couple of months ago, I was in one of my local shops and I was chatting with the woman behind the counter, as we often do, and then she noticed my son with me and her eyes lit up and she was all over him: Hasn't he grown et al. This happens a lot.

I momentarily imagined my son walking into his local shop at my age. I wondered if the light in the cashier's eyes would be gone. Does she like him because he's a child, or because of who he is? When he's grown up, it won't be his fault that he's no longer a child.

Anyhoo, I couldn't see the thought leading anywhere so I dumped it.

My son and I just spent the weekend with my mother. For whatever reason, she dug out some old letters that she has kept for almost forty years, and she invited me to read them. One was from her father. It was dated 1973 and was written shortly before he died from, I believe, a stroke. He wrote to express his adoration of his young grandson and explained how his young grandson made his day.

It was nice to know that I had made an old man's day, and had made him very happy in his last days. Although I can't really take any credit.

But I've been thinking that one of the best reasons to write is to make other people happy.

How a wasp might see my son holding a rubber chicken.

Act II is finished (bar all the revisions I need to make). I've just totted up my word total and I'm pretty much on track: together, the first two acts come in just shy of 70k.
I'm estimating that the final act - the shortest of the three - will come in at 20k, or a little less.
And that doesn't seem like a big number at all. And so, to everyone who stands at the doorway to a new ms, I hope you'll take heart: if you write a little bit here and there, whenever the time is available, then you'll soon discover that the job is almost done. Every few words helps to chip away at the total count. Keep plugging away and next thing you know you'll be at the editing stage!

Oh, the editing stage! Currently, there are approximately 7,620 things wrong with my ms. But if I've learned anything, it's that I can deal with every problem my ms throws up, and that it grows inexorably, becoming prettier and more shapely with every passing day. I've battled through a hideous weekend of writer's block, and I've found the heart of my novel, and I've figured out how to bring more conflict and a meatier reversal (charge swap) into my opening, and I've discovered which sub-plots actually add very little and can go, and which strands duplicate other strands and can also go, and how to regulate the reveals such that they build and how to recognise the difference between a standard reversal and a major, end-of-act, reversal ...
And I reckon that the best way to learn all of these things and much more is to throw oneself into the ms and just write.

One last thought, and I'd like to think there's empathy out there:
I seem perpetually torn. There are moments, sometimes days, when I am convinced that I am creating something worthwhile and, dare I say, marketable. (Okay, I admit it, sometimes I think I'm writing something that is quite good.)
And then there are moments and days when I feel that I am pushing this invisible dung ball around with me everywhere I go, and that when I write, I am slapping more invisible dung onto the ball and it is growing and one day somebody will look at it and it will cease to be invisible and they will give me a very peculiar look.
Reckon we need a pic of a dung ball.

I'll leave you with a poem composed by my son:

The Dragon Who Ate Our School

* * *

It all started this morning at eight,

whilst the dragon demolished the playground gate.

She poked the teacher while he was writing the date,

until she noticed a tasty roof slate.

Mr Jones knew his fate,

so he ran away before it was too late.

*

She's undeniably great,

she's absolutely cool,

the dragon who ate

the dragon who ate

the dragon who ate our school.

*

Suddenly the dragon started to chase Miss Lee

while the children were playing elevens and chanted out number three.

The dragon bumped into a massive tree,

and then we looked at it and out popped a bumble bee.

Finally as the teachers tried to run free,

all of the children were full of glee.

*

She's undeniably great,
she's absolutely cool,
the dragon who ate
the dragon who ate
the dragon who ate our school.

Finding the Plot

Nymphs Finding the Head of Orpheus.

Dear Dr Solv,

My protag has been very uncooperative lately, showing blatant disregard for my hard-won plot, making decisions contrary to those I require of him.

Please help!

Anon.

* * *

Dear Anon,

It sounds to me that your protag isn't ready to make the decisions you have chosen for him. Perhaps his motivation is at the wrong place?

I'd suggest jiggling the plot to ensure that his motivation is such that he will make the correct choices. This might mean that you add a new scene, or that you remove/move a scene that is nudging his motivation in the wrong direction.

Hope this helps!

Dr Solv.

* * *

Dear Dr Solv,

Thank you! Your advice was spot on! I wrote out my protag's motivations chronologically and considered his desires at the trouble spots and he wasn't ready for the big decisions!

It only took a minor adjustment to an existing scene to put things right! Now everything is back on track!

Allow me to buy you dinner!

Anon.

* * *

Dear Anon,

Are you a pretty, single woman, ideally with her own Literary Agency?

Dr Solv.

* * *

Dear Dr Solv,

No. I'm a hairy, single man with his own blog. Any good?

Anon.

* * *

No reply.

Losing the Plot

Richard Dreyfuss wonders if he added too many toppings to his pizza.

I'm a good boy! I've reached the climax to Act II!
But I have a problem.
Y'see, that bloody protag won't behave. For all my careful planning and intricate plotting, he keeps making contrary decisions. And these decisions snowball, tainting all that follows.
I need some logic to help me decide how to progress. Hmm ... who to turn to?

Here's an extract from Bob's Story. Here it's without proper context, but assume that this is Bob's ideal report of the perfect Act Two climax:

Drove to an Act Two climax so moving that I thought the story was over. And yet, out of the ashes of the second act, this writer created a third of such power, such beauty, such magnificence I'm writing this report from the floor.

When I first read this, I fell in love with the idea of presenting a 'fake' ending at the end of Act II. Such fakery is the food of reversal! But it strikes me that to 'resolve' the novel at the end of the second act is to finish without a hook. Therefore, I elected to hold this false ending through to the penultimate scene, and then tip everything on its head in the final scene, paving the way for the third act, giving the reader lots to consider in that metaphysical void between acts.
Whether this is what Bob is suggesting or not, I'm uncertain: Where are the 'ashes' of the second act?


Half an hour later ...

Well, I was hoping to find some answers but I haven't. So I'll spend a few hours poring over my synopsis and I guess I'll be back with some more thoughts anon.
In the meantime, here are some random thoughts and worries:


Isn't this such a peculiar vocation! Each writing day I conspire to make my characters as happy as they can be, or I will destroy them. Naturally, I'm going through these emotions too. I'll feel myself welling up and then hurry to the front door with a coffee and cigarette. I feel so bad for Corus and for everyone he has met. Isn't that strange!
A few days ago, I had to draw a map: I had to be sure which village has the cottages with the thatched roofs, and where everyone lives, and so forth. Notably, I found myself rooting through some earlier chapters to remind myself where the sun rises: In front of the cottage or behind it? Devil in the details. This world has become scarily real!
I already had Corus' work timetable written up, but I've had to augment this with the schedules of others so that the fish lady comes round on the same days every week and so forth. I like that this history - this routine - finally settles and becomes another tool available when refining the plot. I was wondering how many novels open on a sunny day with puddles on the ground. Might sound a strange thing to wonder about, but everything and everyone existed before the novel opens, and so it might have been raining the day before the opening chapter.
I couldn't think of a single one!
In the back of my head, I'm coming to terms with the prospect of a big rewrite at the end. Because everything evolves so that it best fits the story, I've made blatant changes to details as I've progressed, and will need to revisit every chapter to ensure consistency. Sometimes this happens from one chapter to the next.

Having absorbed so much information on plotting, I've learned that it is very much a personal activity. Some writers start at the beginning and write through to the end without a plot; some have a notion of where they will end up; some plot in intricate detail. I think I fall under the category of writers who discover what their story is about half-way through, and then write to the conclusion and then rework the first half of the novel.
However, I am quite certain that creating a plot does not hinder one's imagination. On the contrary, I feel secure knowing that the developments and twists work together and I am free to be as creative as I desire provided that I do not deviate from a handful of key plot points in each chapter.

And so I seem to have come full circle.

Off to think some more.

Walking With Crutches

Sleep. Dalí represented his fear of impotence with crutches.

I was reading about crutch words recently. Sure enough, when an author is stringing ninety odd thousand words together, she'll find herself relying on certain trusted words. I remember reading the first few Harry Potters and noticing that everyone was always sweeping everywhere.
I write the first pass of every chapter in my notebooks. At that stage, I'm comfortable relying on crutch words here and there, just to keep the momentum going. When I type up each chapter, I add polish and devote a little more time to seeking the mot juste.
It's no coincidence that we find authors relying on transitory crutch words, such as sweep. With so much transitory information to convey, and given that this information is functional and necessary, I can quite understand how an author might rely on crutch words.
One of the first problems I was faced with was figuring out how my protag moved. It's a key show: it reveals something of the protag's nature. It's also an important first impression. When you meet somebody for the first time, you make all kinds of assumptions simply by subconsciously observing how that person carries himself - how he moves. I've blogged about this a few times:
A Spider Theory
How Nuns Walk
How Lolita Walks

The Enigma of William Tell.

I made a decision a long time ago that my protag would march (by default). At the beginning of the ms, he is rigid, stiff, proud, his shoulders thrown back, his head held high. He is a man on a mission. He moves from place to place with an earnest, perhaps solemn, intensity. So, on writing a first pass, I fall very easily into using the words march, stride, hurry, and so forth.
I figured that a handy list of transitory words would be useful.
So let's cobble one together!
(N.B. List is non-exhaustive [selective], and I've decided on a handful of categories. Will doubtless refine over time!)

CASUAL:
amble
dally
dawdle
drift
meander
plod
saunter
stroll
tarry
toddle
trudge
walk
wander

DELIBERATE:
forge
march
pace
parade
patrol
proceed
stalk
step
stomp
stride
strut
swagger
swank
traipse
tramp
tread

SPEEDY:
bluster
bolt
breeze
bullet
burst
bustle
canter
career
charge
dart
dash
flit
fly
gallop
haste/hasten
hotfoot
hurry
hustle
jog
lope
lunge
race
rip
rocket
roll
run
rush
sally
scamper
scoot
scramble
scurry
speed
sprint
spur
stampede
storm
sweep
tear
trot
urge
whirl
whisk
whiz
zip

PLAYFUL:
bound
caper
cavort
flourish
frolic
gambol
hop
jump
leap
prance
roister
rollick
romp
shimmy
skip
spring
waltz

FALTERING:
careen
dither
falter
hesitate
hobble
limp
lurch
pitch
reel
shuffle
stagger
stammer
stumble
sway
swing
teeter
topple
totter
vacillate
waddle
waver
wheel
wobble
zig zag

STEALTHY:
creep
glide
mooch
prowl
pussyfoot
sidle
skate
skitter
skulk
slide
slink
slip
slither
snake
sneak
steal
tiptoe