Finishing the Book (Article, Chapter, Scene)

It is a lot easier for me to get started than it is for me to get finished. Piles and files of bits and pieces testify to this. Some of the work is experimental or done before I got more methodical, but I still find that, when a work is 80-90 percent done, barriers appear. Some of these are physical (hard disk crashes, corrupt files). Some are environmental -- life events and illness. Some are creative or conceptual, such as painting myself into a corner. Most are in my control and could be considered organizational or psychological.

Yesterday's barrier was definitely an organizational problem. I had set myself the task of rethinking the structure of my current novel. This required inserting scenes and mostly complete scenes that were sitting in an auxiliary file, as well as reordering for effectiveness, tension, and stakes. This was an ambitious goal, but I was working against a timer not a word count goal or even a requirement to complete the to-do list. This usually reduces stress, but not yesterday.

The starting point didn't feel right. I had a list of scenes, in full sentences, ready for shuffling. My intent was to cut-and-past until the flow felt right. With over 30 scenes to reorder, the list looked too big. This was especially true since a few remained to be written. I stopped my timer and paced.

Moving around helps me to think. I have another work that exists as an outline of Post-Its. Was that a good option? I looked over a blank Blake Snyder Beat Sheet. Would filling that in get me going? By the time I was finished pacing, I had decided to put all the scenes onto index card. It was a gut decision that forced me to write out each scene sentence, but it worked. Something about the tactile experience of lining up, shuffling, and reshuffling those cards, made a difference for me. Scenes found new places. A few scenes were cut. Some holes were visible, and I created new cards for those.

I did one more thing. I marked each card to indicate the level of completeness. Scenes to be written got empty circles. Scenes partly written got checks. Completed scenes got Xs.

I'm on my way now, with a quick check (and a few changes) after sleeping on the new structure. I've added reminders on emotions, as well as some ideas on what might happen.  Now I'm methodically going through adding text to incomplete scenes and writing the new scenes, all in sequence. 

Usually, I dodge organizational problems by following my processes (collected in my process diary). Common organizational problems include:

• Not knowing what your next step is. When the time dedicating to writing comes up, this can freeze you in your tracks. Which project? Which scene? Compose? Fill a hole? Rewrite? Since I always have too many ideas (especially for new projects), this one was the bane of my existence. That's why I always decide what I will write the day before, not minutes before, my next writing session.
• Not having an approach for the next piece of work. As a writer, I'm always learning. I find new ways to look at my material, and this sometimes demands that I find or develop a new process. For instance, it was years before I had a file of "junk words" I could use to methodically polish my text. (And I am experimenting now with using AutoCrit Editing Wizard to help me with this job.) Right now, the biggest target I have is building a tool box for improving emotional content in my work. I have a few techniques, but I'm trying to develop more.
• Having too many options for the next step. In a way, this was what got me dithering yesterday. I knew there were other options for working on my structure. If I'd only had one technique, I would have pushed forward with it.
• Having the wrong approach or doing it out of sequence. My process diary is a graveyard of approaches that did not work well for me and ended up being rejected (or severely modified). Someone else's favorite approach may not work for you. And some approaches do not work for all material or for you whole writing career. And, at times, material that will ultimately be improved with a process, is not ready for it when you think it is. Often this is because another step was not executed correctly, but sometimes it is just a quirk driven by story, character, or circumstances. I often find jumping back to an earlier process or forward to the next process in my journal can be the answer.
• Having an approach that is not detailed enough or too ambitious. I am a big believer in divide and conquer. In particular, I found that process steps for short stories needed to be looked at more closely and better defined when I began to work on novels. And with more ambitious works, a process step may require more from me than has ever been the case. In those instances, I have had to scale back a day's work so that the step got the attention it needed.

I would have made progress if I had gone with my original plan, but I had time yesterday to reconsider and follow my gut. If I had not had that time, I would have moved forward, but not as productively. Process is a tool, but the writer's instinct is valid. As long as the instinct is not an excuse for procrastination, it can help you work more efficiently.

Psychological barriers are the other main reasons for not finishing a work. I'll discuss them in my next post.

What stops you from finishing a work?

Post Mortem for a Writing Project

What went right? What went wrong?

In the lab and later in consulting, I was taught the value of looking over a project when I completed it. Asking a series of specific questions after finishing a work of prose (novel, short story, article, script, speech) can also be valuable, and it is a great way to gain efficiencies that will help you be more productive.

When you do a post mortem presents interesting choices. I like to do them after I've sent a manuscript into the world, when there is potential for a check coming back. But you can do a post mortem just before you submit it to a critique group or when you decide to shelve it or when you decide it should be shredded.

A good post mortem starts with the question at the top of this post. Begin with the positive, so you don't fall into a guilt spiral. Even the most disastrous work has some successes, and it is easy to forget them unless you intentionally call them out. On the other hand, what went wrong may be driven by the actions of someone else, but you can always look to yourself for a deeper understanding of where you may have let the wrong person in too soon, pressed the wrong button, or signed up to work with the wrong people.

Beyond these general questions, here are the specific ones I use when I do a post mortem.

• Was this project worth my time? Did I make the right choice in taking it on? I have at times become enamored with a second rate idea. At other times, I've accepted an assignment that was a drudgery. Bad choices in both cases (except the time I did a tedious assignment at ten times my normal rate).
• Did I succeed in what I intended to do? Did I explain something, illustrate a theme, create an emotion, or bring a fascinating character to life?
• Did I succeed in bringing the ten things I love most to my audience? (I always list the things that make me passionate about a project before I begin it, and often as a step along the way. I'll write more about this in a future post.)
• Did I find a practice I should adopt or did I vary a current practice in an interesting way? This is often where my process book gets a new entry or a reliable process gets retuned so it becomes more effective. It was a post mortem that added text to speech as a part of my regular proofing process.
• Did I learn a new skill? Did I try something new? You don't get better if you don't put into practice what you learn and find opportunities to stretch. One of the hardest things I did was write a novel from a single point of view. All the energy I got from switching between different characters and leaving them in cliffhanger situation was gone and I had to find new ways to build tension -- ways that have served me well since.
• Did I go off course? Sometimes a yes here means I wasted time -- time I might save in the future. Sometimes going off course is a good thing.
• Did I leave something undone or underdone? No poem is finished, it's abandoned, right? If I had more time, what would I work on and why?
• Was I the right person to do this project? A tough but necessary question. There are many works I admire that I would make a hash of.
• Is there an aspect that I'm not ready to do yet? On the other hand, if I keep at this writing thing, I may be able to write scenes and arguments that are currently beyond my grasp. I met a writer who, every year or so, wrote from the point of view of a black man. (He is white.) These attempts ended up in a drawer. Then I read a story where he pulled it off brilliantly. He had developed empathy and knowledge because of many years of trying.
• Did I improve as a writer? I hope the answer is always yes. Truthfully, it isn't. But I keep asking.

These questions represent a mix that leads to positive and negative answers, and answers that probe the art, the craft, and the professional processes. Together, they encourage me to grow and learn. I write the answers, and I take a hard look at what I've written. This work doesn't count as my writing for the day, but it is essential to my productivity.

Have you ever done a post mortem of a writing project? Has it helped? Do you use different questions?

Writing Prep 7 - Dreams, Dialogue, and Disasters - Observation that Counts

My muse stalks me. She is always dropping ideas, concepts, and images into my brain. More often than not, I don’t pay attention. At times, I say “aha!” but I fail to capture the bits that give me goose bumps. But as I’ve grown as a writer, with a particular eye to being more productive, I’ve gotten better at claiming these gifts.

They can come to me at any time, but they typically arrive in dreams (rich in images), good conversations (which generate unexpected ideas), disorienting experiences, and disasters that force me to improvise (both of which challenge my perspective, often in wrenching ways).

Here are my guiding principles:

·      At ease – I give myself permission to be in the moment, especially when I am in distinct situations that are not likely to be repeated. When I visit a strange place. When I get into a conversation with or see the actions of someone who is eccentric or strong-willed. When I have one of those moments in a relationship when there is a surprise or a big decision is made.

·      On notice – I usually pick up the narrative of my life. I can tell you what happened and why it interested me. But I often have to remind myself to pay attention to the five senses and my emotional state. Not only are these valuable additions to any story, but they also help put me back into the moment, deepening my recall of the experience.

·      In words – I write down my observations in complete sentences (a tip found in Ray Bradbury’s advice to writers). This is wonderfully helpful in saving the time lost in trying to figure out what I meant when I jotted down single words.

·      In time – Getting things down why they are still fresh is essential. Much of the best the muse offers comes as smoke that is carried away by the slightest breeze. So getting to work without excuses (of course I’ll remember later) is an essential discipline. (Applying the experience immediately is usually a bad idea. Bad experiences, in particular, need to age and change shape over weeks, months, and even years.)

Most writers are obsessive about gathering notes. Some transcribe overheard conversations. Some keep journals. Some are obsessive picture-takers. When these gifts of the muse are regularly gathered, put into shape, and filed in a retrievable fashion, you have a resource to draw upon whenever there is a dry spell or a hole in a story that needs to be filled. Best of all, the habits of effective observation build over time, making it possible for you to see things other people can’t and to make connections that add spark to your work.