Category: Writing

When I think about first drafts, I still think of the opening of the movie, “Romancing the Stone”. Joan Wilder, the heroine, types the final sentence of her romance novel and, sobbing, boxes it up to give to her agent. The impression I got when I first saw the movie was that she had dashed the thing off in one sitting.

Now that I’m older and wiser, I realize the scene must be showing Joan retyping the final version of her book, as one needed to do in the era of manual typewriters. She had to have slaved away at it for weeks to get it into final shape. There is no possible way she could just type up a first draft and send it off to her agent because, my friends, first drafts just aren’t that good.

Basically, I have mixed feelings about first drafts. I like the fact that the story has never been told before in exactly this way. I like that, at this stage, it can go anywhere, be anything. I like how it can completely change from what you thought it would be. You stare at the story, wonder where it came from, and realize it came from inside you somewhere. That is so totally cool.

On the other hand, I tend to flounder a bit in my first drafts. I thrash around with the characters and try to get them out of their messes with varying degrees of success.

See because this book has never been written before, you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. That can be a royal pain in the butt. Here you’ve got some good juice going, you’re flowing man, and then you get to the end of what you’ve written, look back at it, and realize it doesn’t make any sense in the story. Or it’s just, well, bad. Then you’re stuck, out in the middle of an ocean you’ve created yourself, and the boat you built to get you back to shore has just gone down. How are you going to handle that, hotshot? Huh? Go on, tell me!

Yeah. I don’t know either.

I guess that’s both the joy and the terror of the first draft, or, really, of anything you do for the first time. You don’t know what’s going to happen until you do it. You don’t know where in the world you’ll end up. You jump off a ledge using a bungee cord you haven’t fully tested and don’t exactly trust and don’t know if it will bounce or break.

But it’s okay. That’s what second drafts are for.

Unless you’re Joan.

 

It may shock you to hear this, but I can be a screwed up mess of a girl.

In all fairness, I must say that sometimes my messes do not actually originate with me. Sometimes other people are messing and the mess just oozes out and covers me like slime because I’m not quick enough to run away. Then it sticks to me until I can scrape it off again. I swear, sometimes dealing with people is just like herding cats.

Present company excepted, of course.

And most of my messes really do start with me, although I’d rather not believe that. So I don’t.

This is where writing helps keep me (relatively) sane. There’s so much in life that I can’t control, so many things that are bigger than I am. It can be overwhelming. I’ll get thinking about what I need to do, or worrying about the future, or just trying to figure things out. My little mind starts whirling and whirling and whirling like it’s slipped a gear. Then I’ll say to myself, “You don’t need to think about this right now. You need to think about your book. What are you going to put in the next scene? Will they have sex?” And focusing on a problem I can and will solve helps me calm down a little bit and keep me anchored.

Writing as a peace aid became even more important when I decided to stop eating badly. Now that I can’t turn to ice cream — mmmmmmm…ice cream — for comfort, I had to find something else to distract me from obsessing about life’s little problems. Writing is cheaper and less destructive than other alternatives.

However it came about, writing is the thing that helps me hang on to the fragile thread which is my sanity. My mother’s sanity aid is painting and cryptograms. For my sister it seems to be scrapbooking and crafting. Some people I know find the key to sanity in photography. I work with people who are all into running or biking or other kinds of physical fitness. Yeah, I can’t explain it either. But I think we all need something – other than television!! – to take us outside ourselves. Then when we come back, the world seems to be a more manageable place.

The advantage of using writing for this purpose is that I can put people who annoy me into my stories, and then…get revenge.

Not that I would EVER do that.

heh heh heh

 

As soon as I wrote my post last Thursday celebrating the anniversary of my blog and stating, with great conviction, that I would keep on writing, darn it, I found myself with nothing to say. Seriously. I sat down on Sunday to write my normally scheduled blog post, and my mind was a complete blank. Crickets were chirping in there. So I started moving furniture around in my living room instead.

I didn’t get any writing done, but the room looks mahvelous.

That’s the way it always goes for me. It’s one reason I don’t like to talk about works in progress, or, basically, my state of progress on anything. It’s almost a phobia. It seems like if I talk or write about something before it’s finished, there’s a part of me thinking it’s already complete. Then I lose impetus to keep working on the thing because I’ve already talked it all out.

The words themselves have a reality, and I can forget that the reality of the words do not necessarily translate into reality in other, more earthly, forms. If I talk about my book as if it’s complete, I feel that it is already finished and I don’t want to work on it anymore. I talk about writing a blog and – presto! The blog magically writes itself.

But, of course, this isn’t true. I can talk about my book as if it were finished until the cows come home, but the book is not really finished. I can talk about writing a blog for another year, but the fact is that I haven’t written a blog for another year. I can say whatever I want to about anything, I can make you believe that it is true. I can believe it’s true too. But it is not true and it is not finished unless I get off my duff and actually finish it.

Some people talk about what they’re working on all the time. A part of me is jealous – they seem to be so much more productive than I am (and they probably are more productive). But I also wonder if they are actually working on those things, or if they’re just talking about them.

On the other hand, maybe if I write a blog about having nothing to say, I’ll think that I’m finished with having nothing to say and then I’ll always have lots to say.

Hmmmm.

 

While perusing Facebook the other day, I saw a post from my editor, Rhonda Helms, saying that she has contributed to an anthology of letters by authors written to their teen selves.

That started me thinking. What would I tell my younger self if I could? What advice would I give? Of course, I’ve already written some posts on the subject, but it made me wonder. Then I thought, what if I could only tell young Betsy one thing?  What if I could only impart one priceless pearl of wisdom?

After some consideration, I decided the one thing I would tell my young self would be “DON’T GO INTO DEBT!”

My first real job after high school was working as a clerk in the credit card department of a local bank. I was still 17 when I was hired. As soon as I turned 18, I got MasterCard and Visa credit cards, approved by special permission because I worked for the woman who approved such things. After that, the sky was the limit. I believe I had 10 store credit cards (the ones with the high interest rates) by the end of that year. I also got involved with Time-Life and Columbia House programs, among other things.

I took out my first debt consolidation loan at 19.

The amounts I owed were relatively small, but they set me on the path I’ve trodden for the past thirty years. As I worked through this exercise I was sure I would write, “Debt is a prison! Run away, young Betsy! Run!”

Then I thought about it some more.

I realized that the debt and the spending patterns I’ve struggled with, as well as all of my other mistakes and screw-ups, have contributed to make me who I am. All of the things I’ve done or didn’t do over the years have contributed to making me, well, me. If I’d chosen different paths for some of those things, wouldn’t the whole journey have been different? Sure, I could have avoided some pain. Maybe even a lot of pain. But there’s always pain.

I guess I’m trying to say that regrets are no good. I’ve made mistakes – some of them much worse than buying CDs I never listened to. But the mistakes I’ve made are not wasted if I’ve learned from them. And learning from my mistakes has made me who I am. And who I am is okay. A work in progress, but basically okay.

After doing all of this thinking, I came to the conclusion that my letter to my teen self would be very short. I would only say, “Don’t worry. It will work out. Just get out there and learn a few things.”

But I’m awfully glad I don’t have to start all over again. 🙂

 

Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.

E. L. Doctorow

When I’m at the point I’m at now in a first draft, I cling to this quote from E. L. Doctorow as if it were Dumbo’s magic feather. I tell myself that I’m actually getting somewhere, even though I can only see a few feet in front of me.

 

But one thing Mr. Doctorow doesn’t mention is that, not only are we driving on a dark road lit only by headlights when we’re writing a first draft, but most of us have to turn the headlights off and on every day. Yes, one of the pesky facts of life is that you can’t always focus completely on your book or other creative pursuit for hours at a time.

 

In my world, my headlights turn into strobe lights. I’m able to sink into my writing mind for a little while. That’s when the lights are brightly on. Then I have to think about something else, put the writing part of my brain to bed, and turn the headlights off. Later, I have another moment to write and the headlights come back on. And so forth. *blink…blink…blink*

 

If I’m driving by headlights, there’s a steady stream of light. I might only be able to see a few feet in front of me, but the lights are always on and there’s consistency. However, if I’m trying to drive by strobe lights, it’s much different. You know how things look when strobe lights are flashing? Everything appears disjointed and strange. And when the flashes of light in your creative life are coming sporadically, it’s very easy for your writing to feel aimless and confused.

 

So, what’s a girl to do? The only thing is to try to be as consistent as possible.

 

I am finding that writing every day – every single day – is essential. Maybe it wouldn’t be quite so important if I didn’t do my writing in found moments. But because my writing time tends to be measured in minutes, not hours, it’s essential to stay on task by working every day. Otherwise it’s far too easy for me to lose my way in the flash of the strobes.

 

Don’t get me wrong. I still get lost. I still open my document and say “how did I get here?” But at least I usually know that I’ve been driving.

 

Somewhere.