I read a lot of books. This doesn’t make me particularly smart or special; it just makes me someone who reads a lot of books. I read books for fun, of course, but also as a paid reviewer. The reviewing gig is great, because I get to read books I wouldn’t normally choose. Sometimes that is delightful. Sometimes it is … not. But I always get something out of it.
One problem I’ve encountered in some of the books I’ve been reading of late is a tendency to go for AWESOMENESS in the prose style. You might call it Purple, or just overdone — every description is a superlative, every action is incredible, skilled, decisive. It’s like the author dialed their writing up to 11 and then tinkered with the wiring to milk a few more watts out of the power supply IN ORDER TO MAKE IT ALL AWESOMER.
Tip: Don’t do that.
Superlatives for the Loss
It might seem counter-intuitive, but the more you tell me that your character is awesome and the best at what they do, the more adjectives and adverbs you pile into your sentences, the less convinced I am.
This is a case where ‘show don’t tell’ can actually be a very useful piece of advice. The more you have to tell me how awesome your character, story, and settings are, the less I believe you. If you want to convince me I’m reading something epic, you have to demonstrate it.
Some young writers think that they need to ‘punch up’ their writing to convey the excitement they feel when they’re making up the story, but this is the exact opposite of what you need to do. The more ‘awesome’ you drop into the story, the worse the writing gets, as a rule.
The thing about description is that the more AWESOME it gets, the less universal it is, as a rule. Because superlatives and modifiers are crutches. Readers should be excited about your story because it’s interesting, clever, and emotionally resonate. They should care about your characters because they feel real. None of this has much to do with piling 13 AWESOME words into every sentence.
In fact, a good exercise is to write a story with a limited number of modifiers — a restricted vocabulary, maybe, with just a short list of basic adjectives and adverbs, or a certain number you can use per 100 words. Restricted writing like that rarely produces great work, but it’s almost always a learning experience for the author.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to this story I’m writing about Ripper Mojo, whose fists are like steam-powered locomotives humming with violent rage and whose eyes are as deep and unblinkingly penetrative as a midnight sun.
LIKE everyone else in this trash fire of a year, I’ve been bingeing a lot of streaming content to distract myself from our descent into what is almost certainly a prequel to Mad Max: Fury Road. One of the shows I’ve re-watched is Love, produced by Judd Apatow and starring Gillian Jacobs and Paul Rust.
If you’ve never watched it, it’s essentially the story of two incredibly fucked-up people as they meet and eventually fall in love. Neither one is a very nice person, really, and a lot of the show falls under the category of ‘cringe comedy’ as you watch two lo-fi awful people grow and evolve into a more or less mature relationship. It’s kind of a dramedy, not exactly a laugh riot. I recognize myself in the two lead characters, in the sense that they are both monsters slowly realizing how monstrous they are and making fumbling attempts to own their bullshit, and that likely brought the series home for me.
I’m no connoisseur of Apatow’s work; I’ve seen a few things and enjoyed a few things, but I haven’t exactly made a study of his comedic empire. But I’ve noticed that in this series there’s some nice visual storytelling. Writing isn’t just about words; the visuals you use or show are just as important. One mistake a lot of writers fall into is making their visual storytelling very obvious. Love manages to keep it all very, very low key, and it works pretty beautifully.
Clothes
First of all, this show manages to create a very specific fictional universe. All TV shows and films do this, of course—they select settings and costuming that establishes something about the characters and the world they inhabit—but Love did an exemplary job of it.
Mickey’s wardrobe is a prime example. Aside from being on-brand for her character, what’s interesting about it is how limited it is. Many television shows have the characters in different clothes all the time, unless an article of clothing is iconic to their character like Fonzi’s leather jacket—this is especially true of female characters, who are often portrayed as clotheshorses for no other reason than the fact that male writers assume this is true about all women.
But Mickey actually wears outfits more than once, and individual separates appear in different configurations. You know, like a real person’s wardrobe. Mickey doesn’t have a spacious walk-in closet and endless budget for clothes. She buys thrift and is thoughtful, but like a real human being she wears things over and over again. That’s a great piece of visual storytelling.
Another is Mickey’s T-shirts. She wears a wide variety of hipster-ish T-shirts, including one she borrows from Gus when she (platonically) sleeps over at his place after telling him she doesn’t want to be in a relationship and they have an adventure. That shirt pops up again in the series finale when they (spoilers!) get married, which is both a nice callback and an indication that Mickey’s T-shirts tell a story. It’s easy to imagine that each of those shirts, from seemingly random places, are all stolen (borrowed) from people in her life. Ex-boyfriends, ex-roommates, one-night stands, friends—all these T-shirts forming this record of Mickey’s life.
Stuff
Love also treats the objects and possessions the characters possess as part of its storytelling. Gus drives an aging Prius, complete with dent in the door, which perfectly matches the character both in terms of self-image and financial straits. Mickey drives a busted old Mercedes, because she’s a broke hipsterish L.A. woman, but it’s also in immaculate shape. Mickey herself is a mess, but she cares for her things.
When Mickey, an addict, makes a first stab at sobriety early in the show, she re-arranges everything in her apartment and organizes her books by color. This is a fantastic visual—it’s a superficial improvement, just like this first attempt at sobriety, and because it’s impulsive and not well-planned, it actually causes her more trouble than it solves. A great little callback joke happens much later where Mickey, having agreed to cook an elaborate dinner, can’t find her cookbook and asks her roommate what color she thinks “The Joy of Cooking” would be.
Gus’s apartment is also a powerful symbol if you’re the sort to think too much about writing and storytelling. After breaking up with his girlfriend in the first episode, he moves into a furnished apartment, the sort of temporary place newly-divorced Dads move into, or people just starting out. On an obvious level, he does this because at the time he thinks he might get back with his old girlfriend (he explicitly says this at one point in the show). On the other, it’s a perfect indication that Gus is very performative. He hesitates to express his personal style (more on this below) and uses a generic approach to hide himself. Whereas Mickey’s apartment is crammed with knick-knacks and decorations and thoughtful style decisions, Gus is literally living in someone else’s (awful) taste. Later in the series, when he and Mickey have progressed in their relationship, she begins to influence his style and he starts to brighten up a bit.
The Rug
Finally, the detail that set off this essay, which might be something I’m reading far too much into. In the first episode of the series, just before Gus breaks up with his girlfriend, he orders a rug for their house. He wants it in gold, she insists it should be in blue. The day he breaks it off and leaves, the rug is delivered, so he takes the blue rug he didn’t want and puts it in his new apartment, a perfect symbol of Gus accepting a generic substitute for what he really wants.
When he meets Mickey, she has the same rug in her place—except it’s the gold version he originally wanted. That’s an obvious but graceful symbol that their relationship is meant to be, a nice visual connection between the characters the show obviously intends for us to notice.
In the seventh episode of season three, “Sarah from College,” Gus and Mickey go to a wedding of one of Gus’ old college friends, and meet Sarah, who Gus was once engaged to. Gus never told Mickey about this part of his life, and tension ensues. That tension gets worse when Sarah gets super drunk and Gus agrees to drive her back to her hotel over Mickey’s enraged objections. At the hotel, Sarah tells Gus how miserable she is, and he sadly tries to comfort someone who was once a big part of his life as he realizes how good he has it in the present.
On the bed is a pillow with a similar—similar, not exact—pattern as the rugs. It certainly could be a random piece of set dressing that I’m thinking way too hard about, but I prefer to see it as a subtle visual lining Gus and a woman he once wanted to marry in the same with the rugs link him to the woman he (spoilers!) will eventually marry.
A final note on Gus and his performative nature: The most telling detail in the show is that when he proposed to Sarah, it was a tragically huge production involving flying both sets of parents out to Los Angeles and having a violinist appear out of nowhere. Gus is performing, overdoing it. But when Mickey and Gus get married, it’s an elopement on the spur of the moment—which is then called off when they have a moment to think, only for them to sneak away from their friends and get hitched anyway all by themselves, with zero production at all. It’s a nice, subtle sign of character development.
That’s it for this episode of Jeff Takes Shit Far Too Seriously. When you write stories for a living it’s hard to turn off that machine in your head, which is, of course, why I drink.
Whenever there’s a lull in the party conversation and you bring up the craft of writing1, someone usually brings up stealing. As in stealing tricks and techniques from other writers in order to make your own work better.
This isn’t controversial, of course; all writers borrow from each other to some extent. There’s one aspect of this sort of literary theft that I’m particularly good at2, and it’s something I think more writers should work at: Mimicry.
Stops Copies Me
Back in college, I was once accused of plagiarism by a professor when one of my papers read a little too sophisticated; my professor didn’t bother checking, he just assumed no normal 19-year old kid would write those sentences3. And he wasn’t wrong, as I was definitely not normal at all.
But it wasn’t plagiarism, it was my innate ability to absorb writing style and regurgitate it in my own work4. It’s something I do almost unconsciously, and I do it to this day. I’d been reading a lot of dry, erudite works of literary criticism, and I just started writing in the same style.
Today this happens mainly in the monthly short stories I write. If I’m reading a book with a distinct style or technique, it will always bleed into the short story I’m working on. Sometimes this is overt. Sometimes I’m purposefully using a style from something I’m reading or have recently read — sometimes, in other words, the whole point of the story that month is to try on another writer for size. Sometimes it just sort of happens, sometimes even in the middle of the story. It will start off as a run-of-the-mill caper story, and suddenly I’m riffing on an omniscient second-person dream sequence5.
This differs from the usual advice to steal little and steal big because it’s more diffuse, less concrete. It’s not about stealing an idea or a concrete approach, but rather trying on another writer’s whole deal, trying to reverse-engineer another writer’s whole process.
More writers should try mimicry as an exercise, I think. It’s like breaking into someone’s house and walking around for a few days. You wear their pajamas, eat their food, delete stuff from their DVR. Maybe it’s not how you’re going to live the rest of your life, but you see things from a new perspective, and you pick up little tricks of the trade.
Of course, with literary mimicry there’s less chance of expulsion and arrest than with other forms of theft, which means you get the thrill of the crime without the consequences, thus obeying the Beretta Theme Song Rule6.
I sometimes get a kick out of killing off characters. Heck, in the original draft of The Electric Church, written 20 years before the version that finally published, I actually ended it with Avery Cates committing suicide. Considering I’m still writing about Avery today, I’m kind of glad I reconsidered that particular ending.
But I am still overly fond of murdering fictional people. A few years ago while working on the draft of a book I killed off a supporting character and every single person who read the draft protested. Harsh words were used. I quickly reconsidered again, and the character lived.
But here’s the thing: Killing off characters, even main characters, should never be off the table. Even characters who really can’t be killed — characters with Plot Armor, like (usually) your main character. Even if you will never actually kill the character off, you should pretend you might.
Sleep Well. I’ll Most Likely Kill You in the Morning
The thing about Plot Armor is it’s boring. Certainly, if you’ve written an engaging character, people won’t want them to die — but it’s important that the possibility exist. If your readers get the sense that a character can’t possibly die, it gets a little boring.
The secret is to lie to yourself. Forget that your main character can’t die. Act like it’s a legitimate plot bomb you can throw in there.
And, hey, maybe it is! Maybe your main character isn’t really your main character. Maybe they can die. There are no rules, after all.
But even if you really can’t kill a character, pretending that you can will trick you into putting them into dangerous situations that will require some delicate plotting to get them out of. If you go into every scene thinking that anyone can die, you’ll craft a much better story than if you go in thinking you have no choice but to plot around the fact that the main character can never, you know, not be the main character.
The deeper into this writing career you get, my friends, the more you realize everything can be solved by lying to yourself just a little bit more.
I want to tell you about the summer I spent reading James Herriot’s All Creatures Great and Small in the galley of a tugboat.
A writing career doesn’t just happen. You come to writing in your own way, along your own path. By the time I was sitting in that tugboat’s galley, I’d already been writing stories for a few years. Sci-fi and fantasy, mainly, with some weirdo crime stories thrown in for spice. In high school I wrote some stories that threw wild Twilight Zone twists into careworn plots because everything seemed new to me, and I wrote some stories about high school kids who committed terrible crimes, disappeared for a decade, and suddenly showed up at their high school reunion to reveal what really happened while their former classmates gasped and sighed and schemed to seduce them. You know, typical stuff. Pretty bad stuff.
My parents, god rest their souls, insisted that my brother and I get paying jobs once we turned 14. Of course, my brother and I were generally loafing incompetents, so the actual finding of said jobs was kept out of our hands. My father worked at a local bank (this was back when there were such things as local banks), so he got us jobs in the mailroom. I spent a summer walking around an office building delivering mail and listening to music on my Walkman1. Then I would go home and my mother would confiscate my earnings and tell me I was lucky. I didn’t feel lucky, but you couldn’t argue with my mother.
The next year, however, that job wasn’t available, so we had to get creative2. My father had an acquaintance who ran a drilling company, and he finagled a job for me3. The job wasn’t very closely defined, so one Monday morning my Mom drove me to the asscrack of Jersey City4, and a bunch of befuddled and slightly hungover men pondered what in hell to do with me.
After spending some eye-opening days with the functioning alcoholics who worked for the drilling company, I was eventually assigned to help spruce up an old tug boat. The company kept a few tugs in order to tow their drilling platforms around, and this one looked and smelled like it had been bought at auction around 1870 and left to rot for a while.
My ‘supervisor’ for the tug reclamation project was an older gentleman who was also living on the tugboat6. This disturbed me, because I would show up every morning and he’d emerge from the cabin, coughing and scratching himself, which made me feel like I was visiting some distant cousin, because all of my cousins emerged from their own bedrooms coughing and scratching in exactly the same way7.
I don’t remember the guy’s name. Let’s call him Earl.
Earl never assigned me any work. He made a few vague suggestions here and there, usually without any sort of context or explanation, and I quickly figured out that I could ignore these suggestions with impunity. Earl would then go off to do mysterious things in the engine area, emerging frequently to smoke cigarettes. I kept waiting for Earl to burst into flames after spending an hour shoulder deep in gasoline and engine oil and lighting up. As the summer dragged on, this became an increasingly attractive possibility.
I was borrowing my parents’ car to get to work every day, which was a perk. Once, leaving the yard, Earl asked if I would give him a ride to a local bar. About six other guys piled in, and I remember being impressed with how fast Earl could move when properly motivated. He made it from the car to the bar within seconds. I was too young to appreciate the value of this skill.
Anyway, since I had no actual work to do, I spent a lot of time in the tug’s filthy galley, where I found a single book: All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot (a pseudonym). These stories are about a veterinary surgeon who lives and works in a small English town. This is not exactly what 16-year old Jeff would have chosen to read, but I didn’t feel comfortable bringing activities to the job. It’s one thing to sit on your ass all day for minimum wage, it’s something else entirely to flash about how little work you’re doing. So I had nothing else to do but read that book.
And I read the hell out of that book.
It’s delightful! And charming. And completely different from what I’d been reading my whole life, and in that sense, transformative. I’d never imagined I could be so enthralled with these stories of animals and quiet country life. Sure, boredom was a factor. Possibly also fumes of some sort. But it taught me that I needed to be a little more wide in my reading, that perhaps stories that had survive for years or decades or centuries did so because they were awesome in their own way.
Eventually, it was discovered that I was basically doing nothing on that tug. I didn’t get fired, because technically no one had told me to do anything. I was not and am not a lawyer, but I lawyered that situation. And basically managed to get paid to read a book, which makes me a genius under international law.
As writers, many of us turn to Beta Readers to get objective, informative feedback on our work. I don’t use Beta Readers very often, because I dread that moment when someone brings me the slightly damp stack of paper I’ve handed them and starts asking uncomfortable questions, like
Why is this hardcopy in the year 2020?
or
Did you misspell the word ‘calisthenics’ on purpose throughout? Also, do you think calisthenics is a kind of telepathic power, because that’s how you use the word throughout this story.
or
Did you include an entire recipe for goulash in the middle as a metatextual commentary on your main character’s food obsessions or did you accidentally hit CTRL-V and never noticed because you obviously did not proofread this?
You get the point. But I totally see the utility of Beta Readers, and fully encourage their use. Betas can be incredibly helpful in clarifying your weak points — and encouraging you by pointing out what’s working.
In terms of useful partners in the service of improving your writing, something else most of us can use is a Beta Reader for reading.
Let’s Get Weird
One of the most important things a writer can do is read. Reading a lot of books in the genres and styles you work in can help you improve your writing and make it more marketable. Reading outside your comfort zones can improve your writing and make it more interesting.
The latter can be challenging. We all have blind spots, and we all have comfort food when it comes to books and stories and other reading. Even when we make an effort to read authors from diverse backgrounds, or genres we’re not familiar with, we can easily fall into patterns that dilute the effectiveness of the strategy.
Having someone who will gently guide you to books you’d never normally consider reading — a Beta Reader for Reading — can be a tremendous help. My own BRR is my wife, the formidable Duchess. The Duchess reads voraciously, and reads books I wouldn’t normally get anywhere near. But when she really enjoys a book, she puts it on my TBR pile and insists we have a mini two-person book club about it. And because she is The Duchess and she is formidable, I pretty much have to.
The results are good: I read books I wouldn’t normally read, or even glance at. I don’t always love them, but that’s not the point: My world is widened, slightly, but reading them. Having someone who is willing to push my reading boundaries and come at them sideways is a powerful way to do that, to make your reading count more.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to practice using my calisthenic powers to make bottles of beer float over to me, or die trying.
I know this will come as a shock to you, but I have a pretty healthy self-regard. I like myself, a lot. Other people? Not nearly so much. Cats? It’s close … but I still win.
That doesn’t mean I’m not well aware of my flaws, and there are many. Many, many flaws. In fact, it’s probably not crazy to say I am more or less 90% flaw at this point. If I was grading myself as a person, I’d give myself a solid C minus. And yet! I am still my own favorite person. I think this is healthy.
The reason this comes up is because one of my many, many flaws is a tendency to get inside my own head and be a walking Bubble. This means that I sometimes lose objectivity, because I do things a certain way and I’m the only one aware of it, so there’s no pushback. There’s no one there to tell me I’m full of shit.
Which is fine if it’s just me, wearing an old school backpack as underwear and generally living like an animal, as one does. The problem comes when this sort of Bubble Thinking makes its way into your writing, because the worst time to discover you have some very strange blind spots is immediately after you’ve pressed PUBLISH on a story or novel.
AAYAAJ
Here’s the rule: Always Ask Yourself ‘Am I a Jackass?’
Look, we all get some strange ideas, habits, and attitudes. Normally, social interaction will correct these over time. You go out with other human beings and pick your nose at the dinner table, someone will gently correct you. If you go out on a date with someone and tell them that you believe the world is flat and secretly ruled by the Moon Men, they will probably correct you. Or back away slowly while dialing 9-1-1, but either way you at least get the general sense you’ve fucked up, and over a long enough timeline this should lead to introspection and adjustment.
But sometimes we manage to smuggle some serious weird shit into our writing, and if we never question it, it’s gonna get published that way. And you may not even be aware of your odd attitude towards women, or ethnicities, or economics. That is, until you publish a book filled with pervy male-gaze bullshit or elaborate justifications for racism or secret Moon Men conspiracy theories presented as fact, and that correction comes far too late.
This isn’t an endorsement of censorship, self- or otherwise. But when you’re working in the silence of your own brain, it’s easy to sometimes to lose objectivity and believe some seriously Moon Man-esque stuff. The challenge is that when you are your only audience for ideas, it seems like it all makes sense — until you unleash those views and crash into reality.
I read a lot of books. Some for pleasure, some for work. I get sent a ton of ARCs and galleys and such. And I can’t tell you how often a writer — usually, though not always, self-published, because when you self-publish you sometimes lack the people who are being paid by someone other than yourself who will be happy to tell you how full of shit you are — will drop a nuclear bomb of insanity in the midst of their story, and do so casually because they assume everyone shares their serene opinions, or their way of describing women, or their theories on proper behavior. A single conversation with another human being might have demonstrated how wrong they were, and saved us all a lot of trouble.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish my story about how everyone is mean to middle-aged white writers because we are universally awesome.
Research. Some writers love research, and dive into it with relish, excited to learn everything they can about whatever subject they’re digging into. Some hate research and its superficial similarity to schoolwork, finding it more fun to just make stuff up. And many of us writers fall somewhere in the middle, moving up and down on the spectrum depending on our goals for the day and our level of hungover-ness.
And that’s fine. Like everything else in writing, there’s a spectrum. Sometimes research is the key ingredient to verisimilitude, sometimes you can get by on a fine mist of bullshit. Sometimes you start a book thinking you can get by without research and then have to shift gears halfway through when your bullshit fails you, and sometimes your research into a subject actually kills your interest in writing about it.
The only reliable way to screw up research is to show your work.
S-M-R-T
Research can be hard work, and invariably your research will lead you to knowing way more about a subject than your story probably requires. But that’s how it goes: You’re writing a story with a character who is a beekeeper, and you realize you need at least a passing familiarity with beekeeping to pass the smell test. So you start reading, and three weeks later you emerge visibly thinned and malnourished but just bursting with beekeeping knowledge.
After your stay in the hospital, you come out better able to write that story. But suddenly the three or four passing details that give your beekeeping character a sense of realism seems kind of a waste. You are, after all, now an expert. You worked hard for this knowledge. You want to get it all in there.
Or, perhaps, you really are an expert, and you’re writing a novel based on your own personal and professional experience. The research isn’t really necessary, then, of course — but you still might be tempted to make an effort to pack in all of your expertise.
Please don’t.
Verisimilitude is a delicate thing, and it’s very easy to drown it in detail. When you experience the urge to gin up endless lecturing exposition and whole scenes dedicated to demonstrating how much your characters (and thus, you) know about a subject, take a step back. Your readers will know when they’re being lectured, and they will keep receipts. If you force them to read fifteen pages about beekeeping trivia and none of it pays off in any way in the story, they will not forget. They will not forgive.
The question you should always ask is simple: Does my reader need to know this, or am I just showing off? There are plenty of reasons information is necessary for your reader, and you as author get to decide what is and what isn’t. But for the love of god, ask yourself this question before you have your POV character lecture me on Bitcoin for 4 pages for no reason other than to impress me with your vast knowledge of cryptocurrency.
Of course, in real life none of this applies. I am a popular dinner guest, for example, because of my exhaustive knowledge of Weird Songs Jeff Put on a Mixtape in 1990.
No, this will not be a post about whiskey. At least not directly. I mean, in a sense every post on this blog is about whiskey, because whiskey is like The Force: It surrounds us and penetrates us, it binds this blog together.
No, this post will about writing a novel, because that’s one of the four or five things I have anything intelligent to say about (the others being myself, baseball between the years of 1978 and 2010, yarn, meatballs, and your odds of ever winning the lottery). Specifically, this post is about the process of writing a large portion of a novel — sometimes the entire novel — only to realize what the damn thing should actually be about.
I’m not saying this just happened to me. But it has happened.
40,000 Words of Hot Garbage
Whether you’re a Pantser or a Plotter, there’s always a point when you think you know what your book is about. And sometimes you discover that you’re wrong about that, and sometimes that moment comes when you’re already significantly along in the novel-writing process. Like, tens of thousands of words. And then you suddenly realize that your focus is off — you’re using the wrong POV, or concentrating on the wrong character, or cutting out the wrong stuff.
Whatever the reason, this is okay. This is a process of literary distillation. You just steamed off tens of thousands of the wrong words. The worst reaction you can have is to view this as wasted time. That’s totally wrong — sometimes you have to write those wrong words to figure out what the right ones are.
That’s the lesson here: When you’re writing a novel, any work you do is worthwhile. There’s no such thing as wasted time. Even if you don’t actually complete this novel, chances are the work you put into it will pay dividends later, either in ideas, or material you can re-use, or simply a better understanding of your craft and your best way of working. Once you boil off the stuff that’s not working, you might be left with pure gold.
Although, full disclosure: I do like to play up the despair when a novel collapses, just to have an excuse to drink heavily for a while and pretend I’m F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Writing is either the greatest and most satisfying adventure in existence or an ongoing existential hell akin to having your paper cuts soaked in rubbing alcohol for ever, I can’t ever decide which. Some of that ties into where, exactly, I am in terms of the writing process. Just finished a story I’m very excited about? Writing is a joy. Mired in month 15 of struggling to force some coherency into an otherwise doomed narrative? Writing is torture.
One scenario that is particularly painful is when I’m making progress on a story but it’s slow, and I keep having to add material to apply new ideas or understanding. The result is what I call the Frog in the Well: Two steps forward, one step back.
To Infinity and Beyond
What happens in this scenario is that the end of the book never seems to be any closer. Even though I’m doing good work, even though I’m eating up plot and moving characters along, there always seems to be a static amount of work to do. And when I do make measurable progress, it usually sparks a new creative line that requires some backtracking and back-filling of the story to shore up.
None of this is bad, really. Progress is being made and I’m generally happy with what I’m producing. But it’s frustrating as hell because I can never seem to see the end. So if you’re dealing with something similar — the apparently endless project — what can you do?
One thing that works for me is to go back and re-read what I’ve already written. I’m often surprised at how much I’ve already forgotten, and sometimes it’s comforting to see how much progress I’ve actually made.
Sometimes I actually jump ahead and work on the ending. Why not? I’m a god here, I can do what I want. This can get messy, because inspirations that occur while writing the ending can require more back-filling, thus extending the length even further. But if I can flesh out the ending at ll it helps me feel like there’s a plan, at least.
Of course, then I finish the story and after three seconds of quiet satisfaction I will panic at not working on anything, and it all begins again. Which, come to think of it, is very similar to my hangover cycle. Food for thought.
