. Spinning .

Yeah, choosing the perfect words.  Sometimes, just to get past the hurdle of that perfect word or phrase that your brain left out, you force another part of your brain to throw something in from memory that almost fits the meaning.  Of course, there’s always the Thesaurus or a Flip Dictionary, but I feel like I’m cheating when I use that to come up with a word–although I do use them to confirm the suitability of something I’ve already written down.  After all, I don’t want to look like a total idiot.

And sometimes, just leaving the piece for a few hours and going back to it after a good night’s sleep produces the magical phrase.  I use this one little trick in editing (among others) when I’m reading.  If something bothers me after a couple readings, I’ll highlight it in red and make it obvious that this does need to be fixed.  That way, it’s sure not to get overlooked and mark me as being lazy or sneaky in trying to let it get by.

Did some more work this morning on a story, now cut down to 850 words from its original 1010.   All those extra words?  I don’t miss them.

I come from a long line of seamstresses; from ballgowns for high class society in Poland, to the miniskirts and children’s smocked dresses of my own day.

The initial joy was in the pinning of the pattern to the cloth, the sharpened Smith & Wesson scissors poised, the first cut made.

A story is a bolt of designed material, it wraps around a solid core until it is laid out and analyzed.  The pieces are laid out like the bodice, sleeves and collar, until all the necessary parts are accounted for and cut. The fabric in between is scrapped, or if useable in a quilt, may be stored away.  The parts are pinned and sewn together, assembled into something that is wearable, something to be proud of and enjoyed.

I have slashed a story from 1010 words to 925, and I’m not finished yet.  I am learning to sew a story together. 

Last month, I submitted a story that was roughly in 2nd draft form–only having been edited for phrase, sentence, grammar–the same story I just posted about in the previous entry about workshopping.

Why did I submit for publication–a contest, no less–what amounts to an unworked-on piece?  Well for one thing, I’m able, I think, to do better work in the first draft than I’ve ever before been able to manage.  Secondly, I had really reread it quite a number of times and was evidently not seeing (or avoiding) what was flawed.  Third, while it is foolish to submit to a highly regarded publication during a contest–it’s obviously when they get flooded with everyone’s best, it does serve a purpose.  It produces an immediate deadline.

Yes, I do feel a little guilty sending out crap.  But it’s getting to be better and better crap, and while I sympathize with the publication personnel, it is their chosen career, after all.  Boy, I’d love to spend my days paid to read stories–there’s a lot worse ways to be making a living.  I am also sure that they aren’t obligated to read something to the very end.  These are professionals; they know early on in a story whether it’s something to be considered or pure tripe.  On my end, I hadn’t submitted anything in close to a couple years.  I needed the experience.  Yes, that involved the physical requirements of polishing, the mental efforts of facing rejection, the whole ball of wax that makes you feel like a productive writer. 

Do I feel ashamed of myself for sending in the story now that I see what it truly can be?  No.  I’ll only feel a whole lot better sending it out some more in closer to high standard form.

A story I’d written over the holidays was workshopped last night at our meeting, and the feedback was revealing, confirming, enthralling, sobering, and most of all, motivating.

The bad news:  With a single final phrase, it is obvious that I have not learned as yet to completely relinquish control of a story to the reader’s imagination.  A few years ago, I was forced to face my tendency to explain exactly what I meant in a story, heck, in every sentence. This affected not only my tag sentences that reiterated what I’d just written, but also my lack of giving any imagery to the reader to feel comfortable enough to walk around in the story and pull his own experience into play.  While I’ve slowly disciplined myself to be more creative and less revealing, I may have gone a bit overboard on the use of imagery in overdoing the picture; in other words (here I go again), if I’m not allowing myself to tell you succinctly what’s there, I’m bombarding you with a flourish of color and unnecessary detail.  This, I can fix.

The good news:  Steve has pronounced that I’ve come a long way.  That’s four years of long way–and I don’t kid myself into thinking I’m anywhere near the goal, but it is so satisfying to realize that absorbing some skill by reading, and outputting some skill by practice in writing, that I’m making some strides.  This same recognition by myself was evidenced by John’s picking up of the author’s joy in writing–something I was completely aware of as I wrote.  "Look at me!  Look at me–I’m writing damn fine imagery!"   While I’m sure that some hints of the writer’s exurberance is good, it shouldn’t overtake the story. In our circle, being called an "author" is a dirty word.  This, I can fix.

Several members pointed out what may be a completely unnecessary paragraph in the exposition.  And–what coming off of a Suttree reading gave me the false confidence to do–go back to my run-on sentence days.  One hundred and fifty-nine words is divided into only three sentences.  Think I got carried away?  I knew it at the time, but just didn’t know where to chop.  I can fix this, too.

And one of the most self-satisfying triumphs is that everyone knew what the story was about, followed the arc, and was satisfied by the ending.  The ending!  I may have finally, at least with this piece of work, approached a climax and resolution technique.  Of course, I do have to cut off the tail end of ten words that suggested, "if you didn’t get it, it’s…"

Thanks, gang.

I have three weblogs to write in this morning, and the thoughts are still swirling around in a vortex I must wait for to slow down and settle into place.

A writers group meeting last night, some great thoughts both in discussion and in the aftermath.  The writing process, the workshopping, the urge to submission; all necessary babysteps in the direction of becoming a writer.  From the first subtle hints that spark "What me?  I don’t do that.  They don’t understand," to the recognition but still sliding it through, to the eventual overcoming of bad habits.  It’s a lot of work, it’s a lot of understanding, it’s a ballet that’s practiced and learned to a perfectly spun pirouette.

More to come.

I need a lock on my computers.  Opened only with the magic words, "Then what?"

No problem with the writing, with the going on and on in great big leaps of words that embed themselves upon the page and settle in to sleep.  I’m but a story starter.  Am I that uncurious of nature, so dulled by life that the end no longer matters, so weary of the journey I wave wildly out the window and then promptly take a nap?  Even with some little experience in the shortest forms of fiction, I seem contented with the first few licks of each single icy flavor, forgetting how to nibble at the cone to reach the melted cream that’s gathered in its tip. 

I need to finish what I’ve started because, of course, there will always be another place to go.

Oh boy.  I seem to be developing a behavioral problem here.  A sudden and severe case of the "I don’t wannas" brought upon me by the Creative Writing course again that brings with it, like Christmas, visions of sugarplum stories to the exclusion of all else.

Don’t wanna picture frame, don’t wanna plan dinner, don’t wanna read my History text today, and maybe not till May or longer will I finally agree to toe the line.  "Go ye forth and write!" to me is literary license, overtaking any other semblance of a routine mundane life.  Is Santa watching, I do wonder; and tell myself he is one seeking deeds of words.  There’s only one real Santa Claus, I do believe, and cannot think he cares about the laundry or the bills.

I’ll swipe a cloth across the dusty furniture as I walk through the house; in a beeline for the keyboard, which in truth still holds the warmth of fingers prancing on its plane.  ""Homework," I will mutter, when I’m warned the laptop’s smoldering my robe.  "Dinner’s in the fridge, just go and find it, cheesch," I’ll say, allowing just a second for such a selfish thought intrusion. 

And Patience questions, "Will this be your last math or writing course?" as he finds an orange on the cooler second shelf, and sympathetic to its loneliness, he hums to it as he peels his evening meal. 

There you go.  Down to the last page of the first chapter of the Book of Year.  What was revealed?

Is there a buildup in the setting, is there an incident that leads to more to come, is there a story arc developing at all?  ]

It started out relaxful, a sequel cleaning up the year before.  Tieing up loose ends, revving for the new and yet it seems the words are droning on.  Will the protagonist face more than she has already overcome, will she weaken or will she still land on her feet.  What could be worse, and yet there’s something, something looms to tease the tale; something unimaginable yet familiar in her mind. 

And the beat goes on.