. Spinning .

Well, nothing is more telling to a writer than a lukewarm reception, or this:

"Your story is very descriptive akin to the popular and enjoyable stories I read when I was younger. Very melancholy—keep on writing."

And that’s from a sibling, and the one still speaking to me.  I think I’d be devastated to hear this from an editor, but aren’t sisters supposed to support? 

Of course, this was the first draft which I should never ever ever have asked her to read, especially seeings that she lives in the cultural center of Florida.  (I’m being not nice.  I don’t care. The statement shriveled me just as being called "cute" used to do back when I was.)

So I guess I’d best put down my crayons and go read some stuff and learn what grownups appreciate.

I killed him, so there’s some obligation I suppose, to eulogize him in his story.  To add closure, to present him in his best light to the best of my knowledge of him. 

It is my particular tendency to stick with a story until it either is what I believe is the best it can be or I’m sick of it.  With Big Tim Dawson, I’m still tweaking, though the grammar of tense and each best possible word has not been addressed to decision.  But I like him.  I still like the ending, though cut it down quite a bit to not drag it out.  And  it might still be cut down some more.  But with his death on page 2, there will be no amazing ending. 

There should be only an understanding of sorts.  A reason to have told the story.

I would say that I’m fairly competent on grammar and punctuation skill, but aside from the semicolon–a fairly simple set of rules to comprehend that I hope to master and have the fact proudly emblazoned on a rock above my remains some day; it is more of a stubborn mental block rather than a question of understanding–I do admit a problem with verb tense. 

In a piece I’m currently working, the story opens in the past tense.  A man is dead.  The bulk of the piece then goes to the backstory, or the prior week leading up to this, which both naturally and properly would call for the use of the past perfect tense, "used to refer to actions that took place and were completed in the past. The past perfect is often used to emphasis (sp., their’s) that one action, event or condition ended before another past action, event, or condition began."  (Using Verb Tenses, University of Ottowa)

I don’t think you’d find a more clear-cut example of past perfect than the relating of a story of a dead man and his actions prior to his death. 

The problem is, the necessary "had" prior to the verb, even allowing for a few contracted " ‘d"  (he’d, she’d, they’d, etc.) may be inhibiting the flow of the story. Maybe it’s just my own thing after several readings, and I am still finding spots where I’ve settled into the past in a sequence to sound out more natural, less formal.  Here then, I’m mixing tenses improperly.

I like the past perfect tense, I like the italicized dialogue in lieu of quotations I’ve used; but the decision must be made where consistency and readability are at odds.  I believe there was a post somewhere some time ago about the current trend in fiction to forget the whole past perfect dilemma, but I think it’s important, especially in this day and age of anything goes, to adhere to at least some of the rules. 

NOTE:  Excellent site by the way, the University of Ottowa’s "Hypergrammar," and I’ve both bookmarked it and linked it here under Resources. 

So I make a statement about how I do drafts, then proceed to break my own rules.  But then, sometimes there’s a very good reason; like, what I’ve done so far on Draft #3 is definite improvement so it’s been incorporated back into Draft #2 which makes it just as up-to-the-minute as the next.

What I’m trying to do, besides trying out a new ending, is make sure the story flows well.  And I’ve chopped out the words, sentences, scenes and all that just stuttered and strayed from the path. 

But there’s always more.  Always, more.

Why write that short story, that novel, that poem?  There’s certainly no lack of supply to fill the demand.  How many millions of short stories are written?  How many billions of poems?

What constitutes the demand?  Readers seeking entertainment, something thought-provoking, escape, or appreciation of art.  Publishers need to fill their pockets to justify being in a business that fulfills this demand.  Self-publishing fulfills both the vanity of the writer primarily, and secondarily, allows some gems to be displayed that may not have ever been seen if the trend or the preference of major publishing houses might have passed on them simply because they did not suit the tastes of the time nor been worth the risk to find out if a new following (sales) could be anticipated.

So the writer must be convinced that his own work is fulfilling more than his vanity, but the demand of the reader.  Otherwise, the efforts and the time expended, unless accepted as fulfilling the sense of self-satisfaction in the writing alone, would better be spent elsewhere.  Think of it, the hours–maybe sixty, I didn’t count–I’ve spent on this single story used instead at working to discover a cure for cancer.  But I don’t know the first thing about how to do that and had I been more moved in that direction when younger, I might have achieved some level of competence, so I must leave that to others–those who aren’t driven to write stories, perhaps. 

Write for yourself?  Okay, if you must.  That’s what I do, here at Spinning and elsewhere (though still undeniably hoping for audience).  But that’s rather a selfish viewpoint if your talents lie elsewhere and is taking a huge amount of time away from an area where you can do more good.  Our lifetime is limited.  Writing takes a lot of time within it.  At some point I think it is necessary for me, at least, to decide if it is vanity driven and thus could be allotted hobby time, or more seriously taken to strive towards a valuable and viable fulfillment of a larger need than my own.

Just as Story is conceived and set down differently by each writer, Draft has a multitude of meanings as well.  The word "draft" brings to my mind the blowing of wind, changing levels and places and the rather rude but appropriate idea of "windbag."  Editing takes over the grammar and tense and narrative structure, but true revision and rewriting should change the power of story, and that includes changing a windbag into a tale teller.

I usually edit and do minor revisions as I go along until I have a first draft that appears to be finished–has a beginning, middle and end.  Then I read it over several times, may ask someone else to read it as well (feedback being the prime instigator and motivator to "Save As" a new draft) make more minor revisions, and blow outta there into Draft #2.

Big Tim Dawson’s Draft #2 is complete.  But complete in this case means that it’s been taken as far as it can go, has been polished, and as this polishing has been going on, the more apparent the big changes that could be implemented to improve the story and character become.  With the little minutiae of word changes complete, it’s time to take out the axe.  Onto Draft #3.

Moving on to a new Draft, for me, means that the previous drafts should be saved since the changes made now may impact other areas, and the base of the story need be available in case it is needed to go back and see if something that has been deleted was necessary to the flow.  otherwise, the writer can become hopelessly lost.  I’ve cut out characters entirely and then found them referred to in a better sequence or scene that I’ve left in.  Right now, I’m about to eliminate Big Tim’s father after cutting down his part in the story to a point where I’m asking myself Is he necessary to be there at all?  I found that he isn’t, and like Tim’s mother before him, he’ll be chopped out.

I need to remember that no matter where and how much you trim, there’s still left a trunk that branches out in an intriguing and interesting pattern that can easily be likened to the art of Bonsai if it is creatively planned.  So any phrases, scenes, dialogue are being questioned now, and if they disturb the balance of the tree of story, they’ll be cut.

And now I’ll admit the secondary purpose of moving on to a new "draft" and retaining the old ones intact though defunct:  Watching the word count go up and up to build a feasible story is exciting.  Those words were crafted by style and voice and sometimes the results have been exquisite to a writer’s own ears.  Once recognized as extraneous, they’ll be lost; except in the saving a copy to the hard drive where they’ll likely never be read even by the writer himself.  Then, the excitement is found as the word count goes down in concise and precise and development of a much clearer and hard-punching story.