Why?
July 26, 2006
6:45 a.m.
Lisa recently said she thought the last time I was having fun writing was before my Double-Dog Dare. For the uninitiated, the Double-Dog Dare was my wacky effort to write two novel-length drafts in successive months. She thought the process burnt me out. I can't argue with her because it makes logical sense. But the theory doesn't feel right. It feels off-the-rack, a little too easy. My take is different. I could focus on several issues and barriers. But I keep coming back to one thing--the stories I was putting on paper were not satisfying. The question I've been thinking about is why, exactly, was I unsatisfied with my work? Looking back, I think the problem is that I short-shifted the act of rewriting. It's more complex than this, of course. Nothing about the act of writing is ever straightforward. Let me start this way. I always enjoyed the act of making early drafts better. This is a reason I like the idea of writing incredibly fast first drafts (the Novel Dare concept). I'm not as talented as other writers, but I've made what little headway I claim by working hard. I would put words down by the thousands every day, then take a chisel to them and sculpt things until I was happy. Somewhere along the line, however, something changed. It could have been the pressures of the market, or it could have been personal life stuff, or it could have been the Double-Dog Dare, or it could have been one of several other things. But today I'm wondering if arrogance wasn't a piece of it. Yes, arrogance. Time has passed. I have more plausible deniability than Reagan did. But my hypothesis is that a few years ago I arrived at a point where I thought of myself as an accomplished writer. Please don't laugh too hard. The definition of an accomplished writer I'm using here is one who writes brilliant stuff (or at least good stuff) quickly. Now, I understand no one is perfect. I mean, Hemingway I'm sure needed at least two passes, maybe three on a heavy hangover day. But when you're accomplished you can do this stuff in your sleep. This is a fundamental tenant of Process Improvement. Things get easier. I measure it every day at work and plot the data on charts and view graphs. Since accomplished writers finish in just a few drafts (and since I certainly had sold some stories that I managed to complete in just, say, three drafts), it is only logical that I latched onto the idea that I could, lo should, be done with stories quickly. Any good hypothesis needs evidence. So here are findings that suggest I became too arrogant for my own britches: When I got serious about starting over again, I first decided to get my existing inventory back on the market. This would be easy--just address envelopes and lick stamps. Even a monkey could do it. So I separated my inventory into two piles. Pile A consisted of stories I would not be overly embarrassed of if they appeared in public. This totaled 12 pieces of work. Pile B were efforts I thought might best be scrubbed from my hard drive before they rotted my RAM. I wish I could report the number of stories in pile B, but WHOPPER broke while making the tally. Then, just to be sure, I started reading Pile A. After two pages of the first story, I realized it wasn't really finished. Sure, the story was all there, and I found myself passionate about the material (to find that I still love my stories is a blessing, let me tell you), but reading it was like eating cake batter, which can taste great, but leaves me feeling bloated, and with a chalky mouth. The same thing happened with the next story--and the next, and so on and so on. Along the way, I began to notice something. First, let me diverge. I keep drafts stored on my hard drive by attaching numbers to the end of files. The first draft of a story is often labeled "Title_1.doc." The second becomes "Title_2.doc," and so on. What I noticed is that for some of these stories I was reading, the number made it up to four or five, sometimes six. One had eight revisions. When I look at stories I've sold, the numbers are most often double digits. Some are threes. Some are fives or sixes. But a majority of the stories I'm proud of carry much higher numbers. I've got an 11, and a 15, and a 17 in there. Let's not talk about the 23. These numbers are the result of the whole "work harder" mentality. On average, though, these pile A stories had half the number of drafts on file. Exhibit B in my prosecution is word count. The last story I re-wrote went from 6,000 words down to 4,900. My trusty Microsoft-provided calculator says this is an 18.3% reduction. I've worked through nine of the twelve items in pile A. Without exception each is at least 15% shorter than it was a month ago. [ed.--I removed 8 words from the last sentence. It's much cleaner.] Each of these manuscripts is tighter, more streamlined, and more fun to read. Finally, I can report that I enjoyed immensely the act of working on them. So here's what I think: Given how I write, I need the numbers attached to my data files to be large. This may not work for you, but I've come to believe this is the lifeblood of my existence as a writer. I believe I know in my soul when something isn't done to the best of my ability. These stories were not complete--yet I was sending them to editors. Hmmm. Time for corollary number one. There exists a part of me that expects to see progress. Given the copious typos in my journal, I don't need to drive home the point that I am not about perfection. I do not believe in perfection. It doesn't exist. What I am about is achieving goals. This is what progress means to me. So it is important that set good, healthy goals. It is in this area that I think things went haywire. My expectation shifted over time. I began to ignore the concept of shitty first drafts--or in my case, shitty eighth drafts (even I couldn't be arrogant to think I would submit first draft, would I?). I think a strange bit twisted in my head and that I began to coast, to rely on self-assumed talent rather than hard work. I was an accomplished writer. If this was my 4th draft, it must be good. This is what the data says to me, anyway. The other interpretation is that I lost the skill to edit my own work. Ironic recursiveness be damned, I'll believe I was an arrogant bastard before I'll believe I lost my skill. When I gave myself to the process of rewriting this inventory, it was akin to going back to square one. It opened the door to the fun part of writing. I've had a blast working again. What have I learned? Good question. I've learned that writing is about the words. They are all that matters, really. Storytelling is great, but writing is about using words and language to bring that story to its full realization. My stories may, or may not, be very good. But even a good story is hamstrung if the writer gets in its way. I've learned that writing fast drafts is fine and dandy. I'm sure I'll still work that way when I start on new material again. I enjoy the process of writing quick drafts. But I've returned to the understanding that the joy of the craft is in the details. I've learned that I can't stop working on material just because I think something is "due" or that someone of my snooty standing should be finished. I've learned this attitude blunts my joy. I've learned that nothing is more important than paying attention to what I'm doing.   I remember the time before my Double-Dog Dare. If I can be allowed to speak well of myself, I had learned a lot about telling stories. They were literally flowing through me. I had gotten good at seeing structure in most things, and at getting it down on paper. But I got tied up in that bigger picture, and lost the point of it all. I let myself get in the way of the work by not giving it enough of myself. When I look at it that way, it's not surprising that the process became less fun. Things are different today. My writing is in this different place. (Perhaps Timbuktu or Pluto?) I'm happy with it. I'm feeling good and enjoying the process again. Yesterday I said that I never felt like I had stopped writing. I still say it. Don't get me wrong, I know what it means to produce every day and I know when I'm not doing it. There were times where I knew I was not a writer anymore, but I never thought of myself as not writing. There's a difference. I still thought like a writer, I still played with lead sentences in my head every day, still took joy in the language and looked for ideas. Sometimes I even sat down and wrote. Maybe that says something about who I am. I don't know. I'm no psychologist. I'm sure I would fail a Rorschach test because they all look like butterflies to me. Was I burned out? Maybe. Was I oblivious? Probably. The truth is I don't know what was going on. I just don't know. What I do know is that I'm writing again. In the end, that's all that matters. Have a great day.  Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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