A Revision Rule-of-Thumb

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In A Writer's Time (a book I recommend), the author Kenneth Atchity describes the state called End Time, when the work at hand is approaching finish. He says:

"End Time is characterized by high energy flow and pressure to finish. ... Think of the slow-moving horse, after an exhausting day in the field, who hears the whistle and gallops at high speed for the barn. ... Lock yourself up if necessary, turn off the phone, leave home, anything to allow End Time its way once you're sure its way can lead to the end."

The Taskmaster (the editor I'm working with now) is cleverly feeding me only three or four chapters at a time to revise. Each section must be right before we move on. With each chunk, I go through all the phases of completing an entire novel, including the exhaustion of End Time.

It's a technique I recommend.

Key to The Taskmaster's technique, as well, is to ask for a slow-motion rewriting of the opening chapters: set the scene, properly introduce the characters, the themes.

In practical terms, for me, it has meant doubling the first 40 or so pages of my manuscript, and doing the same again for the opening of Part Two, where there is huge leap in time and place.

I'd venture to guess that it could be a revision rule-of-thumb: double the first 80 pages of your second draft.

Today I'm in post-End-Time euphoria, the glow that comes with the magical words, The End.

For now ....

Time management for authors

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I love InkyGirl cartoons:

This is, alas, too true! I start my day with a mug of coffee and the Social Net. Then: to work.

Novelists: a magpie mind

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I love Sunday mornings with the Ottawa Citizen's wonderful book pages.

This morning I very much enjoyed an interview of David Mitchell, author of Cloud Atlas and, newly-out, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet. Here are the passages I highlighted:

"Sometimes I try to write a scene, sometimes a sentence, and I can't get to the end of it without half a morning's research."

I often fall into what I call "The Black Hole" of research when writing, and Mitchell's statement makes me feel better about what I sometimes think is a diversion.

"Novelists ... require a magpie mind."

I love this.

I was thinking the other day about a South American author who said, "I'm a writer. Of course I steal." (If anyone knows the name of this author, I'd love to give him credit.) I am incapable of making things up: I have to find each nugget, each tiny detail. Magpie mind indeed.

On the process of writing, Mitchell said: "It's making something that isn't working work. It's like fixing an engine."

And so, with that, I'll head back into the machine shop ... .

A beautiful cover!

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I'm thrilled with the Talpress Czech edition of Mistress of the Sun. It's gorgeous, ribbon bookmark and everything!

In praise of ugly ducklings

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I've been having a beastly time with the chapters I'm working on now. My characters are not speaking to me. That's a writerly, romantic way of saying I've lost contact with them, I'm not seeing them.

I've hit that patch of despond every writer knows:

"I should give up writing."

"I'm no good at this."

When not writing (that is, wrestling), I've been compulsively reading a wonderful novel: The Lovers by Vendela Vida. It's a short, elegant, emotionally gripping story.

And word perfect — the sort of novel that makes any writer envious. In my present mood, I was flushed with a feeling of awe mixed with inadequacy, and so it was with relief that I read in the acknowledgement the author's long list of readers who had helped the novel through "its early and inelegant forms."

This is a beautiful novel, and I find it perversely reassuring to know that it, too, was once an ugly duckling.

Lost and found in revision

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This morning, braced by a good sleep, I went through my manuscript scene by scene, listing the changes I would have to make were I to change the Mortemart mansion to the left bank, where I now believe it did exist. (See my early post: here.)

And decided: I would make the move.

Making the decision is half the battle. Making the changes will be painful, but I like the security of place, the foundation of fact. Plus, there's an excellent floor plan: how delicious.

To see my findings, a map and the floor plan: click here.

The problem writing with fact-based fiction

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The problem with writing fact-based fiction is ... well ... facts. They can really mess up a good story.

I'd read that the Mortemarts, the family of Athénaïs, Madame de Montespan, lived on rue de Rosiers.

Perfect: rue des Rosiers is not far from where Claude des Oeillets, my main character, lived when she first came to Paris. It worked into the story perfectly. Their lives do become entwined; nobody knows how their relationship began, but as a novelist it helped that they were walking distance from one another.

Twice I scouted rue de Rosiers on research trips to Paris. I took many photos, but more than that: I walked the cobbles, dreaming.

Unfortunately, I didn't read the fine print at the back of one of the texts. Hôtel Mortemart was on another rue de Rosiers, a street that is now named rue Saint-Guillaume ... far, far from my heroine Claude.

And that's not entirely certain, either. Some accounts claim that Hôtel Mortemart on rue Saint-Guillaume was built in 1663—three years after the young women meet.

So where were the Mortemarts living in 1660?

I've spent all morning researching possibilities (when I should have been writing). Vivonne, the eldest child, was born in the Tuileries palace. Both high-ranking parents served the King and Queen for three months of the year, and were likely entitled to live there ... so that's a possibility, although they certainly would have had a residence of their own in Paris.

I'm not really sure what I'm going to do about this. I could leave the setting as it is and make a note about the change in the Author's Note or on my website.

Or I could change it, place the Mortemarts either in the Tuileries or on rue Saint-Guillaume ...  difficult, and not necessarily good for the story.

I'm still perplexed.

Beginning, again and again

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Editor Dan, who I will now refer to as The Taskmaster, is taking me through the manuscript revision slowly. The first 40 pages became 100. Now I've only 20 pages to work on—the first chapters of Part II—but it feels like looking up at Mount Everest.

I keep thinking: non-fiction would be so much easier. Easier to describe the dead than to try to bring them back to life.

Once again, I'm somewhat at a loss where to begin, how to begin. One consolation of experience is that I know that once I do, I will feel much more at ease.

Temptation: coffee.  I must resist (I've given up caffeine); I'll console myself with breakfast popcorn, the perfect anxiety snack.