A Few Thoughts on Editing

As I read through my recently published story, "Swallowed," (Here, in case you want to check it out.) I got to thinking about how I had edited and revised it, and I figured it would make for a good blog post with some practical craft and writing advice.

In its current ("final" I would say, but what writing is final? Perhaps "published" is the best term...) incarnation, "Swallowed" is 5500 words.  A medium length short story.  In the version that I initially sent out to Gulf Stream (et al.) it was 9000 words.  A long short story.  A couple of places rejected it with a note saying: its good, but too long.  Gulf Stream took the time to say: we like it, we want it if you can make it shorter (by ten pages).

So, I began to hack.

At first, cutting off just under half of a story feels a little daunting.  Okay, a lot daunting.  But, in some ways, getting rid of thousands of words is easier than getting rid of a hundred.  You can't tell yourself -- I'll just trim back on adjectives.  No.  You've got to get in there with a machete (and then follow up with a pruning shear).  

So, off I went.  The editors had been kind and suggested I cut the start.  This is almost always where to go when you need to cut something. Get rid of the runway and let the story takeoff sooner.  That was two thousand words gone. 

For the rest, I looked at places where the main character went off on tangents or told about his backstory.  This was much harder for me to cut.  As I took out passages, I kept wavering, thinking: this is good character development... or, this funny!  

Maybe it was.  Maybe it wasn't.  The bottom line was that the story was too long.  Something (lots of somethings) had to go.  I didn't let myself read through the piece until I'd finished making the cuts down to the page limit they had set.  I cut (almost) everything that wasn't related to the forward motion of the plot: getting my character on his journey as soon as possible and then not letting him pause.

Then, when I'd gotten down to the page limit they suggested, I saved it, turned the computer off, and let it sit for a few days.  I worked on other stuff.  I tried to forget it.  Then I went back to "Swallowed" and read it through without letting myself change anything (okay, except for typos).  It was coherent.  It was faster.  It was, perhaps, better.  But the truth is: I missed a lot of what I cut... 

Deep breath.  Cutting your writing is hard.  But here's what I told myself as I made those final edits and sent it back to Gulf Stream:  I'm the only one who knows what's missing.  No one else will say - hey what happened to that awesome joke on page 3?  Maybe that's the author's burden, to know all the orphans and might-have-beens and close-calls and nearly-made-its in the piece.  

What I'm offering is a piece of advice that I often give to my students (and need to take to heart myself).  If a piece is good, it will probably be better if it is shorter.  Almost every story has some slack in it.  And even a little bit of slack can kill a good story.  Set a challenge: trim a thousand words.  Cut a story in half, length-wise.  Make that your writing project of the day.  It almost always makes it better.

Your Favorite Lines

In a recent class, we were reading Coleridge's "Frost at Midnight," and comparing the two endings of the poems.  The original ending read as follows:  

Or whether the secret ministry of cold

Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

Quietly shining to the quiet moon,

Like those, my babe! which ere tomorrow's warmth

Have capp'd their sharp keen points with pendulous drops,

Will catch thine eye, and with their novelty

Suspend thy little soul; then make thee shout,

And stretch and flutter from thy mother's arms

As thou wouldst fly for very eagerness.

Coleridge, in revising, cut everything after "quiet moon."   We discussed the revision and why he had made it (settling on a resonance created with the reiteration of the "secret ministry" that begins the poem), but agreed that the original final lines were lovely (for many reasons).  At this, the professor said: yes, they are.  But it is often the case that one must cut one's best lines.

His words reminded me of advice I had received (and since forgotten) in my MFA program: if you find yourself attached to a line -- remarking to yourself on how much you like it, keeping it in, draft after draft, even as other things change -- then it is probably a line you should cut.  

Now, I'm sure there are exceptions to this rule, but in general, I've found it to be a pretty good one.  And since remembering it, I've gone back over a few drafts of works in progress and made myself stop at every line that I really like and challenge myself: am I keeping it because I like it or because it is what the story/essay needs at this moment.  Generally, I'm keeping it because I like it, not because it is "right."  (This is, for me, particularly true of metaphors.  I come up with some comparison in my mind that just works and I don't want to change it, even when other readers point out that it doesn't work for anyone else.)

I hope that others find this writing tip useful.  If nothing else, it is yet another way to dive into a draft that you're almost done with a pay some close attention to language.

Okay, I know, a Cat Post...

I hesitate to write this blog post because I am aware of the stereotypes regarding writers and their cats... but I'm plunging ahead anyway for two reasons.

1. Recently, I was sent a copy of Revolutionary's jacket with the cover copy and the cats are mentioned in my author bio.  In short, they're legit.
2. I really do believe in the message of this post and how it affects my (writing) life.

So here goes.  Our apartment building has begun an HVAC renovation, which means that every weekday the apartment must be ready for workmen to enter each room at 9am and stay until 5pm.  Hence, no furniture within six feet of certain walls, cardboard taped to the floor to prevent gouging, and (most importantly) the cats locked up in the bathroom.

Every morning, therefore, I set the bathroom up for them -- fuzzy pet cups to sleep in, a litter box, water, and food.  Then I go and write, leaving the cats to roam freely until I hear the workmen in the hall.

Now, just for entertainment, here are pictures of the two of them, hopefully capturing their personalities.

The one above is Magic.  Sometimes spelled Magick.  But never Magique.

And this one is Soda.  They're both sixteen.

Every morning, as soon as I set up the bathroom for them, Soda saunters past, jumps on the bed, and promptly falls asleep on her favorite blanket.  Magic, on the other hand, prowls and paces for the hour until I lock them up.  Both of them know what's coming... neither one of them enjoys being sequestered in the bathroom, but one of them lets the future (the unavoidable, inevitable imprisonment) wreck the last hour of freedom she has and the other one just does her thing.

Perhaps this is a lesson that resonates with me because of the rather looming event in my future (i.e. publication of my debut novel) but even without any large or impending (positive or negative) occurrence on the horizon, I think these cats give a fair reminder. And it's not the lesson that I've often heard (and dislike hearing) about why pets are great... this is not a case of "ignorance is bliss."  Soda knows darn well what's going to happen: she just doesn't let it affect her routine.

Points of Origin

Having just put aside a novel draft, I'm taking a "break" and reworking some creative non-fiction essays.  Perhaps it is this endeavor that made me so attuned to the radio commentary I heard this morning, the excellent broadcast of "On Being" that featured Nadia Bolz-Weber.  (Here's the interview if you want to listen.)

Among the many great comments (on many great subjects) made, this one stood out to me (here in paraphrase): I write from scars and not wounds.  In other words, when trying to get down on paper something that is authentic, something that caused trauma, it is important to leave enough space and time to get to a place where the writing can be done productively (and without generating more injury).

A few years back, I was lucky enough to take a creative non-fiction workshop with Connie May Fowler and Sue William Silverman.  Connie's mantra (echoed and augmented by Sue) was: Write from the hurt place.

I like the combination of these two pieces of advice.  To Connie's point, you do have to write from the place where the hurt occurred (and perhaps where it still resonates).  But to Bolz-Weber's claim: there is no merit (and possibly some danger) to writing to a hurt that hasn't healed.

The language here might sound extreme.  And I wouldn't want to suggest that creative non-fiction writing is all about trauma.  In fact, the broader concept of these maxims is about perspective.  You have to have the proper distance (scar) and you have to have the proper mindset (hurt).  The second point might be more twitchy... it isn't about pain, but about emotional truth.  You have to have something to say - some feeling to evoke and you have to be willing to reside in that feeling. (That is, things don't just happen.  A piece of writing/story/essay/memoir/etc. isn't just a string of events.)

Both of these pieces of advice apply equally, I think, to fiction as to creative non-fiction.  I would call them the values of reflection (scar) and resonance (hurt). For me, at this moment and stage of composition, I found these to be words of wisdom, a reminder not to rush into a piece and not to overlook the important of an emotional center.

Vocabulary and Writing

Recently, a friend of mine forwarded me a link to the following article on archaic words that linger, vestigially, in our modern usage (the article is here).  After enjoying the piece and thinking of some other random and "one shot" words -- words that only occur in a set phrase, I started thinking about vocabulary more broadly.

In fact, this has been on my mind for a while, ever since Revolutionary went through copy-editing. During those rounds of revision, a copy-editor pointed out that I tended to write "amongst" and "midst" which were deemed "archaic" forms.  I hadn't noticed that before, and I went back to short stories and other pieces I had written.  Indeed, amongst and midst cropped up there as well.  Then I paid attention to my speech... and found that I spoke these words (and others on the archaic list).

All this made me think about what language stands out.  I believe that the goal of the copy-editor is to make the writing smooth, in the sense that no word draws the reader out of the story or makes them say, "what?"  Of course, you don't want to be confusing, but more than that, you want the words you write to fit the texture -- the soundscape -- of the story.

Linking to characterization, all characters should use vocabulary that fits their personality; that's an essential of voice.  But more than that, the narrative voice, the way in which setting and scene are described, should be clear, consistent, and, well, I guess like wall-paper: it's there, and it makes the room look nicer, but, after a while, you forget it's there.

So here's my question to you, dear reader... where do you stand on quirky vocabulary?  Do you every drop that strange word into a story?  Do you do that because it is the right word for that moment?  Or because you just like the word?

I once had a character going for a walk after a rain and enjoying that mineral smell that comes up from the sidewalk. The word for that smell is petrachore -- I love both that smell and that word -- and I had my character use it.  When the story was accepted for publication, the editor X-ed "petrachore" out.  I wrote back: but it's the right word!  Answer: maybe, but no one will know what it means.

That is the point of vocabulary... to communicate and express clearly.  I've had (and taught with) English teachers on both sides of the spectrum, those who say "don't use a dime word when a nickel word will do" and those who preach that you should "dress your words from Saks."

These days, I tend to former.  Simple, direct -- the best word for the moment.  It's just that, sometimes, the best word is a little dressy.

That Old Inner Critic...

I find myself at an odd junction in my writing life as I alternate between the almost finished draft (second pass pages for Revolutionary are soon to arrive in the mail) and a very rough draft of a new piece.

In the past, particularly when I have worked on short pieces, I will stick with a draft, work it through several phases, then push it aside to let it stew for a while before coming back to work on the final edits.

I've never had to work simultaneously on something that is polished and something that is barely emerging.

And the challenge...

Well, it is to hold up the standards on both ends.  On the one hand, the need to be super-picky and minutely focused with that copyediting.  On the other hand, the need to just write, without caring about pickiness, in the early draft.  To switch from one gear to the other is tough.

I find that I'm giving myself the same advice I give my beginning fiction students: turn off the inner critic!  It is easy for me to be super-picky (I have lots of practice as an English teacher... plus, that's just the way I am.) but it is hard for me to let go of that attention to detail and just let the writing flow.

How does one turn off that inner critic?  I've been giving the advice for years, and in my normal drafting process, I have little trouble doing so automatically.  But now, I have to coach myself -- whenever I find my pen pausing over the page, worrying about a word, I draw little brackets around a blank space and tell myself: move on! 

It is particularly tough when I step away from the rough draft (and back to the final draft of the novel).  Immediately, my mind wants to compare and suggest: that other stuff is crap!  Just ditch it! The key is to reply to that voice and remind myself that without rough drafts, there is no final draft.

Perhaps some of you are familiar with this feeling from the reading/writing comparison.  Ever worked on your own piece, then taken a break to read a "professional" short story or novel?  It can lead to feelings of inadequacy!

But it is so important to come to the page (or the screen) with the feeling that the work -- even though it's rough... no, even because it's rough -- is important.  Speak back to your inner critic.  Believe that the process is important, that nothing gets to a refined state without first going through some ugly stages.

Baccalaureate Speech

I've taught for seven years at a wonderful prep school, St. George's in Newport, Rhode Island, and am now excited to head off to new adventures!

This year's senior class generously gave me the honor of delivering the baccalaureate address.  It was hard to choose a topic!  I wanted to avoid the cliched graduation speech, yet I wanted to offer some good advice.  I wanted to appreciate them as an individual class, but also make the message applicable to the whole school. I wanted some humor in there, but I didn't want to be flippant.

So... with huge congratulations to SG's class of 2013... I offered this speech.  I hope you enjoy the video!

The Speech

(Link to video is in the upper right corner)