What It's Like Writing a Novel
Hello Funny People (all 15 of you).
Apologies for the abnormally late post. I'm traveling a bit, and for some reason, spending hours in a car crossing state lines isn't conducive to writing. So admittedly, I'm getting this out a day later than normal, but late is better than never as the old adage goes.
Since my normal writing amenities aren't at my disposal at the moment (I'm writing this in a Red Roof Inn hotel room), like proper concentration and safe Wi-Fi for researching, I thought I'd give you a window into where most of my writing energy has been for the last 14 months.
Last February, I began an interesting writing journey: I started writing a novel.
Technically speaking, this is my second attempt at writing a novel. It all goes back to my high school days. As a freshman, I began writing a story, just for myself, which I thought would be brief. However, as I wrote it, it ballooned into what became my first attempt at a novel. And it was crap.
To be far to myself, when I finished it, I was only 18, and I'd never turned my hand to writing long fiction before. So the fact that I finished it is a feat in itself. Nonetheless, I knew nothing about fiction writing at the time, and it showed in the writing style. Now, with a number of years of study and other writing under my belt, I can see some of those problems. Pacing, exposition, over description, point of view breaks--all hallmarks of the amateur.
Still, writing that book, as crappy as it was, got me hooked on the act of writing.
Because I felt I needed to learn how to write before making another stab at novel writing (and in part to emulate my hero Ray Bradbury), I moved away from novel-writing to writing short stories. Stupidly, I thought it would be easier than writing novels. Seven years of making that effort showed me otherwise. Still, the effort taught me many things about writing fiction that I otherwise wouldn't have been able to learn. After eleven years of practice, learning what good criticism is and how to take it and integrate it into revision, and honing my skills by finishing pieces, early last year, I decided to try my hand at the novel again.
Now, I'm 14 months into drafting it, and over 113k words into it. What have I learned from the experience? What's changed? What's remained the same?
Number one, discipline is the key to putting one word after another. One thing I have learned from my previous experience with writing was this: the only way this piece will get done is if I sit my ass down and type one word after another. There are no enchanted writing elves who will come out as you sleep and finish your work. Discipline is key to everything. And clearly all those years of writing must've instilled a certain amount of it. The first time I tried to write a novel, it took me nearly four years to finish it (and it didn't even end up at proper novel length). This time around, I've been at it for a little over a year, and I've got much more work done than before.
My craft, the foundation of all writing, has certainly taken an upswing in quality. One of the reasons I took a long hiatus from novel-writing was so I could better learn the basics. Simple sounding things like gradually dispensing exposition and description, writing realistic dialogue, and remaining in a character's point of view without breaking it, all had space to improve after the first time around. Writing short stories can teach you these things, along with other skills such as jumping directly into conflict, learning what to keep in and take out, and, of course, concision.
Still, there remain the usual problems. Or in this case, problem: the bad days. There remain days when mustering the motivation to just sit down and write is an absolute chore. Even though I do love it--and that hasn't changed in all the time I've dedicated myself to this craft--some days, it feels like work. As any retail clerk or sanitation worker will tell you, work sucks. But, just like that reflex that causes a working-stiff to get out of bed each day they have a shift, make themselves presentable in their dorky-looking uniform, and get there on time, I keep going. I'd rather trudge through a bad writing day like Atreyu through the Swamps of Sadness than do anything else.
Now, I've spoken about this project through all this, but I haven't actually mentioned its title or its content. Instead, I thought I'd do something fun and give you a little snippet.
The following is a scene, one of the first scenes from my novel, titled A Sword Named Sylph, where my two protagonists meet for the first time. It was a joy to write. So without further delay, have a look:
Of course, I must admit that this is still only in first draft form, so it's a bit rough. Still, once the draft is complete, I'll get to smoothing the rougher edges away. Also, if you chuckled a little at that, I appreciate it. (I'm the kind of person who laughs at their own stuff when they find it amusing, so if others do, all the better).
At the moment, I'm into the fourth part of this long piece, and I hope to finish it by the end of spring (or early summer). Then the real fun will begin.
Apologies for the abnormally late post. I'm traveling a bit, and for some reason, spending hours in a car crossing state lines isn't conducive to writing. So admittedly, I'm getting this out a day later than normal, but late is better than never as the old adage goes.
Since my normal writing amenities aren't at my disposal at the moment (I'm writing this in a Red Roof Inn hotel room), like proper concentration and safe Wi-Fi for researching, I thought I'd give you a window into where most of my writing energy has been for the last 14 months.
Last February, I began an interesting writing journey: I started writing a novel.
Technically speaking, this is my second attempt at writing a novel. It all goes back to my high school days. As a freshman, I began writing a story, just for myself, which I thought would be brief. However, as I wrote it, it ballooned into what became my first attempt at a novel. And it was crap.
To be far to myself, when I finished it, I was only 18, and I'd never turned my hand to writing long fiction before. So the fact that I finished it is a feat in itself. Nonetheless, I knew nothing about fiction writing at the time, and it showed in the writing style. Now, with a number of years of study and other writing under my belt, I can see some of those problems. Pacing, exposition, over description, point of view breaks--all hallmarks of the amateur.
Still, writing that book, as crappy as it was, got me hooked on the act of writing.
Because I felt I needed to learn how to write before making another stab at novel writing (and in part to emulate my hero Ray Bradbury), I moved away from novel-writing to writing short stories. Stupidly, I thought it would be easier than writing novels. Seven years of making that effort showed me otherwise. Still, the effort taught me many things about writing fiction that I otherwise wouldn't have been able to learn. After eleven years of practice, learning what good criticism is and how to take it and integrate it into revision, and honing my skills by finishing pieces, early last year, I decided to try my hand at the novel again.
Now, I'm 14 months into drafting it, and over 113k words into it. What have I learned from the experience? What's changed? What's remained the same?
Number one, discipline is the key to putting one word after another. One thing I have learned from my previous experience with writing was this: the only way this piece will get done is if I sit my ass down and type one word after another. There are no enchanted writing elves who will come out as you sleep and finish your work. Discipline is key to everything. And clearly all those years of writing must've instilled a certain amount of it. The first time I tried to write a novel, it took me nearly four years to finish it (and it didn't even end up at proper novel length). This time around, I've been at it for a little over a year, and I've got much more work done than before.
My craft, the foundation of all writing, has certainly taken an upswing in quality. One of the reasons I took a long hiatus from novel-writing was so I could better learn the basics. Simple sounding things like gradually dispensing exposition and description, writing realistic dialogue, and remaining in a character's point of view without breaking it, all had space to improve after the first time around. Writing short stories can teach you these things, along with other skills such as jumping directly into conflict, learning what to keep in and take out, and, of course, concision.
Still, there remain the usual problems. Or in this case, problem: the bad days. There remain days when mustering the motivation to just sit down and write is an absolute chore. Even though I do love it--and that hasn't changed in all the time I've dedicated myself to this craft--some days, it feels like work. As any retail clerk or sanitation worker will tell you, work sucks. But, just like that reflex that causes a working-stiff to get out of bed each day they have a shift, make themselves presentable in their dorky-looking uniform, and get there on time, I keep going. I'd rather trudge through a bad writing day like Atreyu through the Swamps of Sadness than do anything else.
Now, I've spoken about this project through all this, but I haven't actually mentioned its title or its content. Instead, I thought I'd do something fun and give you a little snippet.
The following is a scene, one of the first scenes from my novel, titled A Sword Named Sylph, where my two protagonists meet for the first time. It was a joy to write. So without further delay, have a look:
Roderick kept his eyes fixed on the damp muddy earth
beneath his feet as he meandered, occasionally sidestepping small puddles.
Gordon’s words agitated him, like a nagging stiff joint that will not pop. The
fact that the fat man had managed to rattle him at all also annoyed him.
He wasn’t
a penned-pig and there wasn’t a sow’s chance in a slaughterhouse that he was
going back there for a third time. Of course, he had to admit, he’d believed
the exact same thing after he got out the first time. Still, this time, he
would stay out, for good. All he had to do was—
He felt his shoulder collide
with something. He stumbled sideways briefly before regaining his balance. He
looked up and to see what he had actually struck.
It was a person, who stood
there rubbing their head. They wore a violet cloak so long its trim touched the
ground, with a hood that veiled most of their face, save for their small chin
and thin lips. Most notably, they were short—at least a foot shorter than him.
The only word he could think to describe them was strange.
“Watch where you’re going,
Scat-Bwain,” the cloaked person said.
Scat-Brain? At least that’s
what he assumed they meant. No one from South Mason said that, and their voice
was high-pitched. “I’m sorry,” Roderick said, “…ma’am?”
They put their hands on
their hips. “Yes, I’m a ma’am. Can’t you tell?”
“Not really,” he said,
inspecting her. The clothes she wore were baggy, giving no obvious physical
indication of femininity. “No offense, but you seem a little…well…petite for
those clothes, especially that cloak.”
She stomped over and kicked
him in the shin, sending pain up his leg like an arrow from a bow.
“It’s wude to wemark on
people’s appeawance,” she said, and turned and continued up the road.
“Especially their height.”
He wanted to say, as drolly
as he could, sorry for pointing out the obvious as he rubbed his leg—but he
didn’t. He watched her tromp away. Slung over her other shoulder was a silver
crossbow, an object that served only to compound her strangeness. Perhaps, he
considered, she was some kind of hunter.
Once the pain had reasonably
subsided, he turned. South Mason’s heart-street was within sight now. Before he
took another step though, a question crossed his mind. Why would someone be
heading up this road? The only thing in that direction was the prison.
He turned back, but the road
behind him though was empty. It was as if the little woman in the cloak had
just vanished.Of course, I must admit that this is still only in first draft form, so it's a bit rough. Still, once the draft is complete, I'll get to smoothing the rougher edges away. Also, if you chuckled a little at that, I appreciate it. (I'm the kind of person who laughs at their own stuff when they find it amusing, so if others do, all the better).
At the moment, I'm into the fourth part of this long piece, and I hope to finish it by the end of spring (or early summer). Then the real fun will begin.
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