Like
everyone else, I had no clue what I was doing the first time I wrote a book.
I’m a fast learner, though, so I thought that I could learn from the experience.
What I primarily learned is this: I write too much.
Machines
of Kali finally clocked in at 139K words, but I’m positive I wrote at least
twice that. Sadly, it was mostly drivel. I had to go back and hack-and-slash it
mercilessly, torturing it into submission before I could take it even halfway
seriously. I combined characters, deleted subplots, and eliminated backstories.
Some characters’ histories I distilled into a sentence or two - in one case,
just a toss-off phrase. Much later, I realized that all this preliminary copy was
not only vestigial, but unnecessary. If I had just written draft seven way back
instead of draft one, I could have saved myself a year or two.
Jeez, I
thought, there has to be a better way.
I know
lots of writers do the chew-and-spew or, as teachers like to call it,
“freestyle” writing. It’s got its place, sure, but IMHO, a novel is a tightly
wound device. How can precision be served by waste? And length is not a factor;
a long book can be extremely tight. No one ever said Mario Puzo’s Godfather
meandered, and that covered three generations of family. I loved The Amazing Adventures
of Cavalier and Clay, because it was long, but never loose.
So, for
the dual purposes of efficiency and efficacy, I swore that the next book I
wrote would be much tighter. I would vividly compose every character, precisely
isolate every telling detail, and thoroughly outline every plot point in
advance. No detail would be too small to be mapped out beforehand. I wanted
there to be no weak spots, no meandering mess, and no missing details.
In the
process of subjugating every writing impulse to this greater purpose, I
discovered something else: it’s really, really hard. I had to tweak out new
characters to carry the story, research new background to fill out the world,
and contort the sequencing every which way. In other words, it was a lot like
the first book, except that this time, all the preliminary junk was a thought
experiment.
I also
discovered something else while I was creating what amounted to one big plot.
There’s a problem with plots. Eventually, they end. The movie director Christopher
Nolan said that when he composes a story, he often begins with the final scene
and writes backwards. If I could do that, I’d be much happier, not to mention
Mr. Nolan. Of course, who doesn’t want to be Mr. Nolan?
Right now,
I’m stuck with a deep beginning and a thrilling middle, but a confused end. How
does the hero figure out the villain’s trap? What is the villain’s fate? Who is
the romantic focus? Questions like these hardly instill confidence in the rest
of the outline, and are hardly the definition of a tight story.
The
suffering continues.
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