Craft Notes
Michael Kimball Guest Lecture #2: Keeping Going
So let’s say we have a great opening and maybe even a good idea or an interesting voice to go with it. Now what? How does the writer keep going? One of the things that has helped me keep going while I’m working on a novel is not thinking about it. That is, I try to not think about what I’m writing when I’m getting it down (the thinking, so to speak, comes later). For me, it’s just a voice speaking, a way of talking, and I’m trying to be receptive to it, open. I’m just trying to get from one sentence to the next sentence. Often, I do this by looking at the previous sentence—its syntax, the words in play, the acoustics of it—I’m thinking in these small ways, but not so much in bigger ways (say, story or plot or idea). I’m just trying to get material down, which is the hardest part for me. After that, after I have something to work with, then I feel like I can do something with whatever I have on the page. It’s the blankness that is difficult for me, filling in the blankness.
Here are some quotes from Sam Lipsyte, Gary Lutz, Joseph Young, and Blake Butler that discuss a similar process in somewhat different ways.
Sam Lipsyte: “When it’s going well it’s often a compulsive experience. Like having a secret lover or a drug habit. That’s all pure feeling. Objective questions will of course intrude. Has this been done this way before? What is it exactly I’m trying to do? These are good questions, but I have to be careful. I’ll start thinking like a critic, as opposed to just thinking critically. I’ll begin to categorize, contextualize. This is all interesting when it pertains to other writing, but it can paralyze me when I apply it to my own.”
Gary Lutz: “When I was writing the stories in my first book, I often worked on runs of consecutive sentences (maybe a couple of paragraphs’ worth) at a time, but when I was halfway through my second book, I started to fixate on stand-alone sentences that I only later pieced here and there into the arising paragraphs. I wanted to get away from the long, streamy sentences and paragraphs, and the unsegmented stories, that I had got into a rut of writing for the first few years after I finished my first book. So I started composing in a different way. These days, after I’ve got going on a story, I might be working on a dozen nonsequential sentences at a time over the course of a week. I’ll labor at one sentence until I get frustrated, and then I’ll move on to the next and toil away at that until I find myself getting nowhere. Sooner or later, I might trash half of two sentences and graft the surviving halves together, or I might take one phrase from each of three sentences, discard everything else, and fit the three phrases together into one new sentence. … At that stage, I will have no idea where any of these sentences will later belong in a story. In fact, each sentence will likely end up in a completely different segment. I proceed largely by hunches, by intuition. I try to heed any emerging rhythms or patterns of sound, and I do my best not to think.”
Joseph Young: “I work by feel a lot, trusting that if a line of dialogue and a certain image give off an energy when put next to each other, then they are worth pursuing as parts of a story. If these things radiate any kind of meaningfulness then I’m okay with not knowing what they mean. But it’s their sound, the rhythm of the words, the balance and dissonance between hard sounds and soft, that lets me know I’m on the right track. If the story fills the ear in the right way, it’s got to fill the head correctly too. … The mystery of the things you write, how they got there, out of your head, on to the paper, and then, whatever does the heavy lifting in the writing process, the thing that makes up the puzzles, back there in the dark of the head, it’s better than me, smarter. I’m wary to disturb it.”
Blake Butler: “If I let myself think too far past the impulse, I find I either will think more things than I can hold (my short term memory, I fear, is blippy, though this is also an extension of obsession, i.e. fear of loss), or that I will think too far into the idea before I get the chance to let it come out of me as wanted and then will overthink it and begin in orchestration. I spent many years trying to orchestrate beforehand before the actual sitting and writing and for this I have a hard drive full of guff, which I have not yet had the heart to delete because I am a holder-on of things. Ultimately, I find that the less I can know about something, and the less I try to interfere with the signal coming off that first illuminating impulse by inserting my dumb head, the more successful I am in actually saying something new.”
I find it kind of fascinating that so much effort goes into not thinking, into letting the words happen, into following the words out onto the page, letting the words take the writer wherever the words seem to want to go. It makes me think of the Ouija board that we played with as a kid—trying to let ourselves be receptive, but the story that we were going to tell coming out regardless. Also, there’s this E.L. Doctorow quote that I’ve always liked: “Writing is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”
The Doctorow resonates with the way that Flannery O’Connor talks about writing in “Writing Short Stories”—writing as an act of discovery. Flannery O’Connor did not know what was going to happen next in the story. Andy Devine gets at this another way: “The reader should never know what the next sentence is going to be.” It is, after all, one of the great things about writing fiction—anything can happen.
Of course, the writing can’t just be anything. It has to be something. It has to accumulate, to increase the tension, to move forward, etc. For that, I’ve always found this Raymond Carver quote from “On Writing” helpful: “There has to be tension, a sense that something is imminent, that certain things are in relentless motion, or else, most often, there simply won’t be a story.” Also, this from George Saunders (via Opium): “The moments when things gets complicated, that’s what we try to move towards.”
So how do you keep going? What do you move toward?
Tags: gary lutz, joseph young, michael kimball, sam lipsyte
i think im more the opposite. i tend to be much more intuitive in openings than continuings. my opening is completely like lets see what comes out just throw words out there, and then something will come out and i’ll sit on what came out for weeks or months and let the atmosphere of it soak my head until ive figured it all out to the end, then once i have a moment that it makes me cry a little i go write the whole soakedness. i think its still intuition but its more like a more controlled intuition that accumulates in my head. i dont 100% rely on a subconscious process happening into screens to get to the end. then once that draft is finished i go through a fucking up phase where i tear it all apart and see whats left and of what was left tear it up again and then maybe
but i dont apply this process always. lately my processes have been as confounding to me as what comes out, and very different from piece to piece, something maybe more along what lutz is saying about grafting and taking whole old pieces and reshaping and colliding them with other pieces, moving more and more toward not being conscious of what ideas i am conveying in a more bunchlike way instead of a pure stream, but sometimes i do pure stream too, digestable moose was that way. but acclimate in new york tyrant was more like the former where i built an initial atmposhere and sat on it until i had the whole party scene in my head later and wrote the rest then fucked it up etc.
i think im more the opposite. i tend to be much more intuitive in openings than continuings. my opening is completely like lets see what comes out just throw words out there, and then something will come out and i’ll sit on what came out for weeks or months and let the atmosphere of it soak my head until ive figured it all out to the end, then once i have a moment that it makes me cry a little i go write the whole soakedness. i think its still intuition but its more like a more controlled intuition that accumulates in my head. i dont 100% rely on a subconscious process happening into screens to get to the end. then once that draft is finished i go through a fucking up phase where i tear it all apart and see whats left and of what was left tear it up again and then maybe
but i dont apply this process always. lately my processes have been as confounding to me as what comes out, and very different from piece to piece, something maybe more along what lutz is saying about grafting and taking whole old pieces and reshaping and colliding them with other pieces, moving more and more toward not being conscious of what ideas i am conveying in a more bunchlike way instead of a pure stream, but sometimes i do pure stream too, digestable moose was that way. but acclimate in new york tyrant was more like the former where i built an initial atmposhere and sat on it until i had the whole party scene in my head later and wrote the rest then fucked it up etc.
i think im more the opposite. i tend to be much more intuitive in openings than continuings. my opening is completely like lets see what comes out just throw words out there, and then something will come out and i’ll sit on what came out for weeks or months and let the atmosphere of it soak my head until ive figured it all out to the end, then once i have a moment that it makes me cry a little i go write the whole soakedness. i think its still intuition but its more like a more controlled intuition that accumulates in my head. i dont 100% rely on a subconscious process happening into screens to get to the end. then once that draft is finished i go through a fucking up phase where i tear it all apart and see whats left and of what was left tear it up again and then maybe
but i dont apply this process always. lately my processes have been as confounding to me as what comes out, and very different from piece to piece, something maybe more along what lutz is saying about grafting and taking whole old pieces and reshaping and colliding them with other pieces, moving more and more toward not being conscious of what ideas i am conveying in a more bunchlike way instead of a pure stream, but sometimes i do pure stream too, digestable moose was that way. but acclimate in new york tyrant was more like the former where i built an initial atmposhere and sat on it until i had the whole party scene in my head later and wrote the rest then fucked it up etc.
Yeah, the post doesn’t talk about the conscious part of this, that is necessary, of course. I think all of us, to varying degrees, go back and forth between intuitive and conscious thought throughout the process–and those different degrees, different emphases, is part of what makes each writer different.
Darby, I’d like to hear more about the fucking up phase–what gets torn apart, how, etc.
Yeah, the post doesn’t talk about the conscious part of this, that is necessary, of course. I think all of us, to varying degrees, go back and forth between intuitive and conscious thought throughout the process–and those different degrees, different emphases, is part of what makes each writer different.
Darby, I’d like to hear more about the fucking up phase–what gets torn apart, how, etc.
Yeah, the post doesn’t talk about the conscious part of this, that is necessary, of course. I think all of us, to varying degrees, go back and forth between intuitive and conscious thought throughout the process–and those different degrees, different emphases, is part of what makes each writer different.
Darby, I’d like to hear more about the fucking up phase–what gets torn apart, how, etc.
When walking in a forest and crossing a stream, it helps to see at least a single stepping stone ahead — once sort of balanced there, further stepping stones become visible and you one is chosen intuitively based on attraction to a likelihood that it won’t plunge you into the water. But if all goes well, you don’t need stepping stones — you walk across the surface of the water, look back, and can’t possibly trace your tracks.
When walking in a forest and crossing a stream, it helps to see at least a single stepping stone ahead — once sort of balanced there, further stepping stones become visible and you one is chosen intuitively based on attraction to a likelihood that it won’t plunge you into the water. But if all goes well, you don’t need stepping stones — you walk across the surface of the water, look back, and can’t possibly trace your tracks.
When walking in a forest and crossing a stream, it helps to see at least a single stepping stone ahead — once sort of balanced there, further stepping stones become visible and you one is chosen intuitively based on attraction to a likelihood that it won’t plunge you into the water. But if all goes well, you don’t need stepping stones — you walk across the surface of the water, look back, and can’t possibly trace your tracks.
I tried to write a book like that, using the headlight method, and found that after a short while I started getting itchy and panicking because I had no idea where the story was going. Which isn’t a bad thing, mind, I think just not in my hands. I’m a sprinter, not a marathoner (is that even a word?) The intuitive part for me comes in the prewriting. If there’s a notebook, napkin, notecard or some other semi-blank writing surface, I can let my brain slough off the dust to reveal the story. Once in front of the laptop, though, I need some purpose. Conversely, my outlines are usually only a sentence or two per movement/scene/chapter. Just ‘We go from this point to this point.’ More than that and I feel like I’m painting by numbers.
Do you think the type of writing (heavier on narrative vs character) you’re doing influences the method you use? Method influencing story?
I tried to write a book like that, using the headlight method, and found that after a short while I started getting itchy and panicking because I had no idea where the story was going. Which isn’t a bad thing, mind, I think just not in my hands. I’m a sprinter, not a marathoner (is that even a word?) The intuitive part for me comes in the prewriting. If there’s a notebook, napkin, notecard or some other semi-blank writing surface, I can let my brain slough off the dust to reveal the story. Once in front of the laptop, though, I need some purpose. Conversely, my outlines are usually only a sentence or two per movement/scene/chapter. Just ‘We go from this point to this point.’ More than that and I feel like I’m painting by numbers.
Do you think the type of writing (heavier on narrative vs character) you’re doing influences the method you use? Method influencing story?
I tried to write a book like that, using the headlight method, and found that after a short while I started getting itchy and panicking because I had no idea where the story was going. Which isn’t a bad thing, mind, I think just not in my hands. I’m a sprinter, not a marathoner (is that even a word?) The intuitive part for me comes in the prewriting. If there’s a notebook, napkin, notecard or some other semi-blank writing surface, I can let my brain slough off the dust to reveal the story. Once in front of the laptop, though, I need some purpose. Conversely, my outlines are usually only a sentence or two per movement/scene/chapter. Just ‘We go from this point to this point.’ More than that and I feel like I’m painting by numbers.
Do you think the type of writing (heavier on narrative vs character) you’re doing influences the method you use? Method influencing story?
probably i just mean a revision process, but i like thinking of it as a more severe process, more violent so i can get angry at things and make it easier to tear out bigger sections and feel like edward scissorhands cutting peoples hair. anything where i feel like something is being explained even slightly. sometimes i have to not read a piece for a month or something until i can see i am explaining something and then i get mad and fuck you too. if i feel a sense that something is going to be even barely predictable i want to destroy it. i dont want any words left at the end i just want carnage
probably i just mean a revision process, but i like thinking of it as a more severe process, more violent so i can get angry at things and make it easier to tear out bigger sections and feel like edward scissorhands cutting peoples hair. anything where i feel like something is being explained even slightly. sometimes i have to not read a piece for a month or something until i can see i am explaining something and then i get mad and fuck you too. if i feel a sense that something is going to be even barely predictable i want to destroy it. i dont want any words left at the end i just want carnage
probably i just mean a revision process, but i like thinking of it as a more severe process, more violent so i can get angry at things and make it easier to tear out bigger sections and feel like edward scissorhands cutting peoples hair. anything where i feel like something is being explained even slightly. sometimes i have to not read a piece for a month or something until i can see i am explaining something and then i get mad and fuck you too. if i feel a sense that something is going to be even barely predictable i want to destroy it. i dont want any words left at the end i just want carnage
I’m with Lutz and glad you posted this. I have so many sentences and fragments, and I get angry at them if they don’t become the thing right away like Lipsyte’s lover. So I like what Lutz said about grafting and about having no idea. Sometimes I am paralyzed by having no idea.
I’m with Lutz and glad you posted this. I have so many sentences and fragments, and I get angry at them if they don’t become the thing right away like Lipsyte’s lover. So I like what Lutz said about grafting and about having no idea. Sometimes I am paralyzed by having no idea.
I’m with Lutz and glad you posted this. I have so many sentences and fragments, and I get angry at them if they don’t become the thing right away like Lipsyte’s lover. So I like what Lutz said about grafting and about having no idea. Sometimes I am paralyzed by having no idea.
Anything longer than a short story (say 5K words) I find myself needing some structure–some idea where it’s headed… But the point of structure is to keep the end in sight, while allowing us to experiment. Structure is meant as a backbone, not anything that prevents us from indulging a brain-thread until it runs its course. I’ve found that works, while still allowing me room to write a littl emore lyrically at times and allows characters to surprise me.
Anything longer than a short story (say 5K words) I find myself needing some structure–some idea where it’s headed… But the point of structure is to keep the end in sight, while allowing us to experiment. Structure is meant as a backbone, not anything that prevents us from indulging a brain-thread until it runs its course. I’ve found that works, while still allowing me room to write a littl emore lyrically at times and allows characters to surprise me.
Anything longer than a short story (say 5K words) I find myself needing some structure–some idea where it’s headed… But the point of structure is to keep the end in sight, while allowing us to experiment. Structure is meant as a backbone, not anything that prevents us from indulging a brain-thread until it runs its course. I’ve found that works, while still allowing me room to write a littl emore lyrically at times and allows characters to surprise me.
This is great, Darby. What you’re describing is how I think of the revision process. A little phrase that I’ve always used when working through that is “imposing my will” — something handed down to me by a science journalist.
This is great, Darby. What you’re describing is how I think of the revision process. A little phrase that I’ve always used when working through that is “imposing my will” — something handed down to me by a science journalist.
This is great, Darby. What you’re describing is how I think of the revision process. A little phrase that I’ve always used when working through that is “imposing my will” — something handed down to me by a science journalist.
Hey Nik, Absolutely, the type of writing, where each writer places different emphases on the different elements of fiction (say, language v. plot), and those emphases lead to different compositional methods, which leads to different stories and different ways those stories get told. I see all of this on a continuum, like mental illness.
Hey Nik, Absolutely, the type of writing, where each writer places different emphases on the different elements of fiction (say, language v. plot), and those emphases lead to different compositional methods, which leads to different stories and different ways those stories get told. I see all of this on a continuum, like mental illness.
Hey Nik, Absolutely, the type of writing, where each writer places different emphases on the different elements of fiction (say, language v. plot), and those emphases lead to different compositional methods, which leads to different stories and different ways those stories get told. I see all of this on a continuum, like mental illness.
I’m glad you liked the Lutz, Ani. I find his process and the way he talks about it kind of staggering. And those sentences and fragments, I keep them too, but in a kind of separate list from whatever I’m working on and then if I’m feeling stuck I scroll through the list and pull something that makes something interesting happen to whatever I’m working on.
I’m glad you liked the Lutz, Ani. I find his process and the way he talks about it kind of staggering. And those sentences and fragments, I keep them too, but in a kind of separate list from whatever I’m working on and then if I’m feeling stuck I scroll through the list and pull something that makes something interesting happen to whatever I’m working on.
I’m glad you liked the Lutz, Ani. I find his process and the way he talks about it kind of staggering. And those sentences and fragments, I keep them too, but in a kind of separate list from whatever I’m working on and then if I’m feeling stuck I scroll through the list and pull something that makes something interesting happen to whatever I’m working on.
I love how this discussion has started to make a slight distinction between the non-thinking (and often intoxicating?) process of *composition*, and the more-thinking (and for many writers, sobering?) process of *revision*. I love the idea of “imposing my will”– that sounds like a useful way to think.
It reminds me of something I learned from Robert Boswell, Antonya Nelson, and Kevin McIlvoy: the difference between a “story’s intention” and a “writer’s intention.” The idea that, as a writer, when you sit down to write a story you have an intention, however specific or vague, for that work– “I’m going to write a story about baseball and loneliness;” “I’m going to focus on the sound and structure of my sentences”. Your intention is the carrot, maybe, that leads you through a draft. Maybe it swaps out halfway through. Maybe it doesn’t.
Then, in revision, the challenge is to puzzle out the “story’s intention”– to discover what kind of story the story “wants” to be– to listen to it closely, to study the wonderful ways it diverges, digresses, becomes it’s own work– and, when at odds with your original intention, to revise toward that. The story’s intention is king. The story is smarter than you.
(By intention I don’t mean that stories actually have volition. It’s a metaphor, one that I humbly submit because I’ve found it useful in my own writing.)
Thanks for this great series, Michael.
I love how this discussion has started to make a slight distinction between the non-thinking (and often intoxicating?) process of *composition*, and the more-thinking (and for many writers, sobering?) process of *revision*. I love the idea of “imposing my will”– that sounds like a useful way to think.
It reminds me of something I learned from Robert Boswell, Antonya Nelson, and Kevin McIlvoy: the difference between a “story’s intention” and a “writer’s intention.” The idea that, as a writer, when you sit down to write a story you have an intention, however specific or vague, for that work– “I’m going to write a story about baseball and loneliness;” “I’m going to focus on the sound and structure of my sentences”. Your intention is the carrot, maybe, that leads you through a draft. Maybe it swaps out halfway through. Maybe it doesn’t.
Then, in revision, the challenge is to puzzle out the “story’s intention”– to discover what kind of story the story “wants” to be– to listen to it closely, to study the wonderful ways it diverges, digresses, becomes it’s own work– and, when at odds with your original intention, to revise toward that. The story’s intention is king. The story is smarter than you.
(By intention I don’t mean that stories actually have volition. It’s a metaphor, one that I humbly submit because I’ve found it useful in my own writing.)
Thanks for this great series, Michael.
I love how this discussion has started to make a slight distinction between the non-thinking (and often intoxicating?) process of *composition*, and the more-thinking (and for many writers, sobering?) process of *revision*. I love the idea of “imposing my will”– that sounds like a useful way to think.
It reminds me of something I learned from Robert Boswell, Antonya Nelson, and Kevin McIlvoy: the difference between a “story’s intention” and a “writer’s intention.” The idea that, as a writer, when you sit down to write a story you have an intention, however specific or vague, for that work– “I’m going to write a story about baseball and loneliness;” “I’m going to focus on the sound and structure of my sentences”. Your intention is the carrot, maybe, that leads you through a draft. Maybe it swaps out halfway through. Maybe it doesn’t.
Then, in revision, the challenge is to puzzle out the “story’s intention”– to discover what kind of story the story “wants” to be– to listen to it closely, to study the wonderful ways it diverges, digresses, becomes it’s own work– and, when at odds with your original intention, to revise toward that. The story’s intention is king. The story is smarter than you.
(By intention I don’t mean that stories actually have volition. It’s a metaphor, one that I humbly submit because I’ve found it useful in my own writing.)
Thanks for this great series, Michael.
Lutz is a wet blanket.
Lutz is a wet blanket.
Lutz is a wet blanket.
There will probably be a post about cliched language later in the series.
There will probably be a post about cliched language later in the series.
There will probably be a post about cliched language later in the series.
Then I hope you’re paying attention.
Then I hope you’re paying attention.
Then I hope you’re paying attention.
I like those distinctions, Joseph–story’s intention v. writer’s intention. And I love this line: “The story is smarter than you.” Can I quote you?
I like those distinctions, Joseph–story’s intention v. writer’s intention. And I love this line: “The story is smarter than you.” Can I quote you?
I like those distinctions, Joseph–story’s intention v. writer’s intention. And I love this line: “The story is smarter than you.” Can I quote you?
i dont want any words left at the end i just want carnage
damn. very nice
i dont want any words left at the end i just want carnage
damn. very nice
i dont want any words left at the end i just want carnage
damn. very nice
From the recent NYT.com article on DeLillo’s new book:
“I feel that a novel tells you what it wants to be . . . It’s really the purest sort of impulse — a question of what the novel seems to want — and this novel demanded economy.”
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/04/books/04delillo.html
From the recent NYT.com article on DeLillo’s new book:
“I feel that a novel tells you what it wants to be . . . It’s really the purest sort of impulse — a question of what the novel seems to want — and this novel demanded economy.”
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/04/books/04delillo.html
From the recent NYT.com article on DeLillo’s new book:
“I feel that a novel tells you what it wants to be . . . It’s really the purest sort of impulse — a question of what the novel seems to want — and this novel demanded economy.”
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/04/books/04delillo.html
Another great post Michael.
Another great post Michael.
Another great post Michael.
Quote away! I’d be honored.
Quote away! I’d be honored.
Quote away! I’d be honored.
I love when DeLillo says this, too: “All I know is that one day I said to myself, ‘I think I’m a writer.’ “
I love when DeLillo says this, too: “All I know is that one day I said to myself, ‘I think I’m a writer.’ “
I love when DeLillo says this, too: “All I know is that one day I said to myself, ‘I think I’m a writer.’ “
Thanks for that, Lee. That’s great.
Thanks for that, Lee. That’s great.
Thanks for that, Lee. That’s great.
ha, it’s all mental illness, ain’t it?
ha, it’s all mental illness, ain’t it?
ha, it’s all mental illness, ain’t it?
Another excellent batch of ideas, Michael, esp. in terms of sentence to sentence, getting the words down. But I have to say, I’m a little confused. Am I the only one here who uses large-scale structural devices within which to improvise or intuit the story?
Here’s what I tried for my 3xbad book: a three-act macro structure (for the overarching narrative and thematic arc) and a micro structure for each chapter, which basically was a bunch of folders stuffed with research, potential scenes, snatches of dialogue, random lines, observations, etc. that I’d collected over time and thought might fit in somewhere at some point (some worked, some didn’t). When I was on a particular chapter, I’d throw all the stuff on the floor, see what I had to work with, arrange a likely path forward, then go for it. If it made sense to rearrange, I would. Discipline makes freedom kinda thing.
I guess my point is that this kind of “outline” (I could never do legit outlines in school, by the way) gave me very specific places to go every time I’d sit down to write, but within this structure, the way I’d write or ultimately what I’d write was wide open to the dictates of the story in the moment of the writing.
As I got to about the last quarter of the novel, I found myself mapping out the trajectory of the various narratives and running themes on a timeline (on a massive hunk of butcher paper), so I could visualize what was going on and better remember where I’d been and where I was going, so I could see what to do next and avoid superfluous tangents. It was almost like graphic scores that composer-improvisers like Rova Saxophone Quartet use. I dunno. I think having such a structure as a beacon throughout helped me set the kind of pacing and intensity I wanted while keeping in mind both the big-picture and minutiae I didn’t want to forget.
Another excellent batch of ideas, Michael, esp. in terms of sentence to sentence, getting the words down. But I have to say, I’m a little confused. Am I the only one here who uses large-scale structural devices within which to improvise or intuit the story?
Here’s what I tried for my 3xbad book: a three-act macro structure (for the overarching narrative and thematic arc) and a micro structure for each chapter, which basically was a bunch of folders stuffed with research, potential scenes, snatches of dialogue, random lines, observations, etc. that I’d collected over time and thought might fit in somewhere at some point (some worked, some didn’t). When I was on a particular chapter, I’d throw all the stuff on the floor, see what I had to work with, arrange a likely path forward, then go for it. If it made sense to rearrange, I would. Discipline makes freedom kinda thing.
I guess my point is that this kind of “outline” (I could never do legit outlines in school, by the way) gave me very specific places to go every time I’d sit down to write, but within this structure, the way I’d write or ultimately what I’d write was wide open to the dictates of the story in the moment of the writing.
As I got to about the last quarter of the novel, I found myself mapping out the trajectory of the various narratives and running themes on a timeline (on a massive hunk of butcher paper), so I could visualize what was going on and better remember where I’d been and where I was going, so I could see what to do next and avoid superfluous tangents. It was almost like graphic scores that composer-improvisers like Rova Saxophone Quartet use. I dunno. I think having such a structure as a beacon throughout helped me set the kind of pacing and intensity I wanted while keeping in mind both the big-picture and minutiae I didn’t want to forget.
Another excellent batch of ideas, Michael, esp. in terms of sentence to sentence, getting the words down. But I have to say, I’m a little confused. Am I the only one here who uses large-scale structural devices within which to improvise or intuit the story?
Here’s what I tried for my 3xbad book: a three-act macro structure (for the overarching narrative and thematic arc) and a micro structure for each chapter, which basically was a bunch of folders stuffed with research, potential scenes, snatches of dialogue, random lines, observations, etc. that I’d collected over time and thought might fit in somewhere at some point (some worked, some didn’t). When I was on a particular chapter, I’d throw all the stuff on the floor, see what I had to work with, arrange a likely path forward, then go for it. If it made sense to rearrange, I would. Discipline makes freedom kinda thing.
I guess my point is that this kind of “outline” (I could never do legit outlines in school, by the way) gave me very specific places to go every time I’d sit down to write, but within this structure, the way I’d write or ultimately what I’d write was wide open to the dictates of the story in the moment of the writing.
As I got to about the last quarter of the novel, I found myself mapping out the trajectory of the various narratives and running themes on a timeline (on a massive hunk of butcher paper), so I could visualize what was going on and better remember where I’d been and where I was going, so I could see what to do next and avoid superfluous tangents. It was almost like graphic scores that composer-improvisers like Rova Saxophone Quartet use. I dunno. I think having such a structure as a beacon throughout helped me set the kind of pacing and intensity I wanted while keeping in mind both the big-picture and minutiae I didn’t want to forget.
Many years ago I took a class from Thaisa Frank and she helped clarify something for me that seems simple now that I know it, but might have remained a mystery forever if she hadn’t put it in clear terms. We were reading a piece of mine in class–very short less than 300 words–and some people were bothered because it wasn’t “going anywhere.” I was kind of petrified because this is the only fiction workshop I’ve ever taken, and even though I teach writing, I wasn’t used to talking about my writing in a class, and especially not in the way it was going. So Thaisa asked me if I thought I was a “voice driven” writer or a “plot driven” writer. Voice. Easy. I didn’t even have to think about it. So if I’m hearing the voice–especially in short pieces–I can keep going.
But now I’m working on a novel and I can really appreciate what Jesus says above. I hope it has a strong voice, but it is plot driven and some days I feel completely lost. I’ve made a lot of outlines and one by one they help me move forward. I throw most of them out when I’ve arrived at a place that feels right as opposed to the place designated on the outline. That is, I make an outline to get me going and feel completely free to toss it when it gets in my way.
The other thing I’ve done with this structurally is to create interstitial chapters in third person. They are always really short–maybe 1000 words at the most. So I get a couple of things out of this: one, I get to write short pieces (my true love) while writing something much longer than I’ve ever written; and I get to take a break from the 1st person narrator whose voice, frankly, I sometimes get tired of. Best of all, the short pieces move the plot forward in a clear way, so they bump me forward to the next stage.
(thanks as always Michael for the good conversation)
Many years ago I took a class from Thaisa Frank and she helped clarify something for me that seems simple now that I know it, but might have remained a mystery forever if she hadn’t put it in clear terms. We were reading a piece of mine in class–very short less than 300 words–and some people were bothered because it wasn’t “going anywhere.” I was kind of petrified because this is the only fiction workshop I’ve ever taken, and even though I teach writing, I wasn’t used to talking about my writing in a class, and especially not in the way it was going. So Thaisa asked me if I thought I was a “voice driven” writer or a “plot driven” writer. Voice. Easy. I didn’t even have to think about it. So if I’m hearing the voice–especially in short pieces–I can keep going.
But now I’m working on a novel and I can really appreciate what Jesus says above. I hope it has a strong voice, but it is plot driven and some days I feel completely lost. I’ve made a lot of outlines and one by one they help me move forward. I throw most of them out when I’ve arrived at a place that feels right as opposed to the place designated on the outline. That is, I make an outline to get me going and feel completely free to toss it when it gets in my way.
The other thing I’ve done with this structurally is to create interstitial chapters in third person. They are always really short–maybe 1000 words at the most. So I get a couple of things out of this: one, I get to write short pieces (my true love) while writing something much longer than I’ve ever written; and I get to take a break from the 1st person narrator whose voice, frankly, I sometimes get tired of. Best of all, the short pieces move the plot forward in a clear way, so they bump me forward to the next stage.
(thanks as always Michael for the good conversation)
Many years ago I took a class from Thaisa Frank and she helped clarify something for me that seems simple now that I know it, but might have remained a mystery forever if she hadn’t put it in clear terms. We were reading a piece of mine in class–very short less than 300 words–and some people were bothered because it wasn’t “going anywhere.” I was kind of petrified because this is the only fiction workshop I’ve ever taken, and even though I teach writing, I wasn’t used to talking about my writing in a class, and especially not in the way it was going. So Thaisa asked me if I thought I was a “voice driven” writer or a “plot driven” writer. Voice. Easy. I didn’t even have to think about it. So if I’m hearing the voice–especially in short pieces–I can keep going.
But now I’m working on a novel and I can really appreciate what Jesus says above. I hope it has a strong voice, but it is plot driven and some days I feel completely lost. I’ve made a lot of outlines and one by one they help me move forward. I throw most of them out when I’ve arrived at a place that feels right as opposed to the place designated on the outline. That is, I make an outline to get me going and feel completely free to toss it when it gets in my way.
The other thing I’ve done with this structurally is to create interstitial chapters in third person. They are always really short–maybe 1000 words at the most. So I get a couple of things out of this: one, I get to write short pieces (my true love) while writing something much longer than I’ve ever written; and I get to take a break from the 1st person narrator whose voice, frankly, I sometimes get tired of. Best of all, the short pieces move the plot forward in a clear way, so they bump me forward to the next stage.
(thanks as always Michael for the good conversation)
I am a big fan of structure, but for me it always comes later in the process–and maybe, at that point, it leads me to some chapters or a few pieces that I wouldn’t have written otherwise. I’ve never been able to start there, though. Too much structure too early in the process and there isn’t enough mystery for me, in terms of what the thing will be.
I am a big fan of structure, but for me it always comes later in the process–and maybe, at that point, it leads me to some chapters or a few pieces that I wouldn’t have written otherwise. I’ve never been able to start there, though. Too much structure too early in the process and there isn’t enough mystery for me, in terms of what the thing will be.
I am a big fan of structure, but for me it always comes later in the process–and maybe, at that point, it leads me to some chapters or a few pieces that I wouldn’t have written otherwise. I’ve never been able to start there, though. Too much structure too early in the process and there isn’t enough mystery for me, in terms of what the thing will be.
I like the simplicity of the distinction, Jane–voice v. plot. I have to hear voice too. The plot comes after I have that–and I try to let the voice tell me what the plot is, so to speak.
I like the simplicity of the distinction, Jane–voice v. plot. I have to hear voice too. The plot comes after I have that–and I try to let the voice tell me what the plot is, so to speak.
I like the simplicity of the distinction, Jane–voice v. plot. I have to hear voice too. The plot comes after I have that–and I try to let the voice tell me what the plot is, so to speak.