robjtriggs posted: " Photo by Callum Skelton on Unsplash There comes a point in a person's life when they must suck it up and read what they've actually written. I mean, there's the whole editing thing; generally it's advised to leave as much space between drafts as po" A Writer's Life
There comes a point in a person's life when they must suck it up and read what they've actually written.
I mean, there's the whole editing thing; generally it's advised to leave as much space between drafts as possible so as to see with fresh eyes what you've written. I'm more of a 'dive straight in' person myself – simply too eager, too impatient to wait. But that's the advice.
But I'm not talking about that right now. I've still the denouement to write before I even consider editing. No, what I'm having to reread is my climax. Typical of me, I've written something long and complex, with numerous moving parts (also known as characters). And, for the life of me, I've been forgetting the details.
Throughout the novel I'm sure to have committed errors of continuity. Did I change that character's name half-way through? Just how many policemen were there anyway? But come to the climax I've got all these cogs in motion and I need to have things straight. How many guns are there? In whose possession are they? Was she shot in the arm or the leg? Things like that – things I could bully ahead and guess, but it's a lot simpler just to go back to the relevant section to ascertain.
I hate rereading my stuff. I mean I can put an editorial head on and read the damn thing dispassionately – that's work, that's discipline, and, truth be told, I'm probably not that good at that anyway. But I've not touched any of my published novels since their release. It's too wince-making, too embarrassing – by which I mean they're all excellent and, if you've not availed yourself already, you should rectify the situation post-haste.
Good books
When I'm creating, though, it's forwards all the way. I don't want to doubt. I don't want to be realigning phase space when I'm already past the divergence point. I want to get to the end. Because this is what I love doing, for all my moaning. I love to make the words fly.
What I'm trying to say is this: don't have kids.
Because my children, though I love them all dearly, natch, are great sources of disruption in my writing life. They, and accompanying things like 'half term', are a big reason why I have to reread my work.
When I'm knee-deep in my writing, it's almost a given that at any moment I'll have to tear myself away from my fantasy world and re-enter reality. I mean, obviously kids are only one reason: small fires, unexploded second-world war bombs and 'work' are others. But recently the doom has been upon me.
It's much worse this time because of where I am in the novel. I'm firmly climaxing, and I need to remember details; the obvious ones are the facts, as mentioned above, but equally (more?) important are the emotional beats that go hand in hand with life-changing events. I want to get inside my character's heads. I want to be rational and logical, except where well-foreshadowed illogic is called for. It's damn hard to do this when you're called away from your computer all the time.
There's nothing to be done about this, of course. I'm just having a bit of a moan.
I'd say more about it but it's time to pick up the Child Formerly Known As Small from school. More (on a completely different subject because I've already forgotten what I was going on about) next week.
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