A Revision Aversion Toast

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I HATE the revision process.

As a "new" and unpublished writer, I'm still learning what works and what doesn't. With alpha and beta readers, I'm getting a handle on the what works on that aspect of the writing process, but revising and what works for me? Let's just say I'm as motivated to sit and revise as I am to scrub powder cleaner in toilets with my bare hands. With motivation that low, no wonder it's taken me over a year to not finish even one revision.

I can only complain so much. Right? Right. So, I'm finally doing something about it. Beside moan and grit my teeth when I sit down to revise.

I signed up for Fast Draft, Revision Hell, an online writing workshop with Candace Havens. Her short description of the class ... "Fast Draft uses tools and psychology so that you can write a first draft in only two weeks. A rough draft. Revision Hell teaches you how to take that draft and turn it into something golden in an equally fast way."

While drafting hasn't been an issue for me as I usually draft during NaNoWriMo, I'll be glad to pick up tips and tricks in that area. It's the Revision Hell side of things that I'm interested in. I'm under no illusions that I'll finish a revision in two weeks with family and summer right around the corner, but wouldn't that be heaven? However anything is better than my current rate.

In the workshop chat loop, introductions have begun; one author lives in Australia while most of us are scattered throughout the US, there are a few published authors as well. Work starts in earnest on 14 May, right near the culmination of our school year and some of my volunteer activities, so I'll be busy.

Until then, I will be developing a protagonist with a deep need, an antagonist that stands in her way, and hopefully, a way for the protagonsit to achieve what she needs. My planning worksheets are all printed and primed.

So, here's a toast, or a couple, to finally doing something to address my revision aversion. Let's hope this works!

A Few Words of Thanks

Last week I received a call from my dad. A surprise in of itself as we don't really talk much, and most of that on major holidays and visits. Even more surprising was the reason he called.

I'd sent him a revision draft of the story I'm working on, you know ... where computer specialist and financially broke Angie must take a contract to catch an identity thief that requires her to work with the love-of-her life that she left, tentatively titled "Broken Identity."

Before I get too far, you need to know that my Dad reads just about any sort of science fiction and fantasy you give him. (He actually introduced me to the fantasy genre long ago, to my mother's chagrin as I'd lie in bed and read and read.) The story I'd sent him has ZERO elements from those genres, unless you count the fact that people are in it.

Knowing that I'm a voracious reader with a writing habit, he'd inquire from time to time how my writing was going, give me suggestions for issues I was having, and ask when he could read one of my stories. When he got a Kindle Fire this past Christmas, I told him I'd send him something. So I sent him an mobi version of what I'd revised on "Broken Identity" to his Kindle Documents email. (BTW, Scrivener does a great job converting to mobi and ePub.)

So, back to his call...

He said he was mad at me. That he'd read what I'd sent him and he was disappointed when he got to the last page of the revision (maybe just eight scenes) and realized he didn't have the rest of the story, just when he was really getting into it, there wasn't anymore.

For a long time after his call, I couldn't stop smiling. That he would like my story, knowing it wasn't his ususal type of fiction, was just so ... thrilling. On so many levels.

A love of reading, and by extension my writing, are a few things that my Dad and I have in common. He's the only one of my family (besides my husband and children) that shows an interest in my writing, taking the time to ask about it and actually read it. And he doesn't tell me ideas are strange like others have, if anything he helps me see new ways of strange, suggesting other authors to read for even more ideas.

I know that creating something is not supposed to be all about the reactions of others, but anyone that creates something, be it photography, art, music, or writing, and puts not a small bit of their heart and soul into it, knows the joy that comes when someone says they enjoyed that art. When that someone encourages the craft and is a parent, that happiness warms the creator's heart. Or at least this creator's heart.

Now I have this gift in my writer's toolbox for those days when the words don't flow as easily, a memory of those few words of enjoyment and encouragement.

So, Dad, I hope you enjoy the rest of the story. And Thanks for the call!

Photo: A Holiday Wish for You.

Stuff and Revision

It's been quiet around here, as in here on the blog not here in my life. Life has kept me busy with family stuff, kids' school stuff, and general life stuff. My 3rd grader, as well as her teacher, would gasp in horror if they saw all the times I used the word stuff rather than descriptive wording. But sometimes you just gotta use those words.

But not in writing a novel. No, not in a novel. Or at least not often.

Now that I've finished mashing my outlines for my novel, I'm back to revising. (One day, I'll finish this dang story. Honest.) I've gone back to the start of the story, making sure that the story fits with this new outline, changing the plot as needed. In doing so, I've realized that I've minimized the stuff in the story. If I wrote a detail in, it's because gives a clue to the story, to the characters and their outlook.

I've been thinking how I use detail and stuff for the past few days. My husband started to read one of my favorite books, and commented that the author spends more time developing her characters than I do. While I strive to deliver a story that sticks to readers like hers do, I'm not sure that I want to write like her. She likes detail. Me, I'm not such a detail person, I'd rather read/write dialogue or action. When I said as much to my husband, he shot me a wry glance; between the two of us, I'm definitely the detail person. So maybe, that's an avenue for me to consider: adding more details.

My gut reaction is to ignore that consideration. But it's really not about me, is it? It's about the story's need. It certainly doesn't need details for the sake of bloat, but to make the story colorful and lively, to keep the reader from putting the story down, to leave the reader wanting more.

So, I'll keep my gut reaction in check, and add a sticky note to my laundry list of things to watch for while revising, and see how it goes. And, hopefully comments from the beta readers will help me gauge how well I've managed that balance.

#FridayFlash - A Mother's Nature

Living in Tucson, I enjoy the warm winter weather as compared to the "East," everywhere is else is east of here, but this winter we're not the only ones with warmer than usual weather. During a discussion with my husband about the unusual weather pattern, my Muse pokes me with that sword of hers with a story idea. Below is the result of the poke.

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She stretched out in the warm bed, her feet poked out from under the duvet. It was too early to get up. Why couldn’t she just stay in bed? She sighed, it wasn’t in her job description to relax, and these days no one was catching a break, least of all her.

Fatigue still clung to her as she swung her legs off the bed. A snore and shuffling behind her made the corner of her mouth twitch. A glance over her shoulder and she saw him relax back into his pillow. He could sleep through anything. If only she had that ability.

Too many nights of listening for her kids. When they were young, she couldn’t sleep as she would make sure that they breathed in their bassinets, and they didn’t even know about Back to Sleep back then. As the children grew, she would listen for cries for help from the Boogie Man. Then, she remembered too vividly, those times when the children were ill. Many a night she’d sing them back to sleep, only to find that the night had passed with little rest for herself. Then, before they kids moved out, she always had an ear out for the ones that defied curfew. It seemed like eons since those days. To be a mother.

Sunlight streamed into the bedroom making everything entirely too bright, the walls appeared more tan than the chamoisee she’d painted them. Thanks the Stars she hadn’t settled on that wheat color, otherwise she’d be blinded right now.

How late was it? With the angle and strength of the light, coupled with the warmth of the room, she figured it must be late morning. At that thought, her adrenaline spiked, and she jumped out of bed. With long strides, she padded across the mossy carpet to the kitchen.

After the late night work session, she needed to infuse with caffeine. She smirked. Maybe not needed, but certainly wanted. At least science had confirmed what she’d always known, caffeine helped brain function. Not that she needed the added boost, but back in her days of raising children, she’d incorporated the ritual into her day as something to do for herself.

Her bare feet registered the warmth emanating from wooden floor in the kitchen. The sunlight had been working its magic in here as well. Floor to ceiling windows had many benefits, letting the Sun do its job on her floors was one of them. And as soon as she had a cup of her morning elixir in her hand, she’d stand in front of the window basking in the sunlight.

The coffee maker stood waiting for her on the marble counter top. But in order to get to it, she’d have to walk past her laptop. Even though she had a list a mile long to get done today, she wasn’t touching the evil thing until after her routine. Ignoring the whir of the computer as it backed itself, she set about making her morning brew.

Tamping down her grounds, she wondered at all her gadgets. Technology for the sake of technology was an ok thing, heck, she couldn’t live without her espresso maker. But that computer, with it’s ability to crunch numbers was going to drive her crazy. Even thinking about all the data entry they’d done lately made her head pound, and they hadn’t even started to analyze it. No use letting it get to me. There would be plenty of number crunching today, although she should follow up on her normal tasks. Some things, and people, shouldn’t be left to their own devices too long.

With her milk frothed, she stood tapping her fingertips on the counter as the espresso aroma wrapped itself around her. When the percolating finally stopped, she poured the dark liquid into her favorite cup, the chipped one that had been a gift from one of the children, Summer. Not that she had favorites, but Summer warmed her heart in ways the others couldn’t.

Cup in hand, she glided to the window, careful to not spill her brown gold.

Outside, the sunlight filtered through the trees. Tiny buds promised a rainbow of blossoms. Even her raised garden beds showed signs of life.

Through the windows, she heard the chittering of the animals. She chuckled as she watched birds dance from branch to branch and into the sky, luring, flirting. Even the squirrels and chipmunks were busy wooing. She sipped her beverage, reminiscing about her days of courtship with her own sky flirt.

Arms slipped around her, warm against her skin. A mouth nipped at the hollow near her collar bone.

She laughed. “How did you know I was thinking of you?”

His husky chortle blew his warm breath down her breast. “How could I not know? Not even your coffee could mask your scent.” He pulled her closer to him. “You are as beautiful and alluring as always.” His own arousal firm against her back.

As much as she wanted to give in, she said, “Later. We’ve got time to indulge later.”

He pulled her tighter. “My argument exactly. We’ve got time to indulge now.”

She sighed. To indulge now? Or later? There was so much data to go over, so much to set right. Too much was changing, and too fast.

He must’ve heard her thoughts, he could always do that, “Fine. At least let me enjoy Spring’s day with you for just a few moments before you run off to your fixing-the-planet duties.”

In answer, she rested her head against his shoulder. But something he’d said bothered her. “What day is it?”

He shrugged. “The last day of January.”

She clenched her jaw. “They’re at it again.” Stepping out of his embrace, she slammed the coffee cup on the counter, where it sloshed out and puddled. “Damn.

“Isn’t it bad enough that I have to fix everyone else’s mistakes, I shouldn’t have to deal with their mischief as well.”

Her children, while fickle at times, were usually responsible and did their jobs. But sometimes, they got lazy or pulled their power plays over each other. When would a Mother’s work ever be done? Apparently never.

With her sternest voice, she called out, “Spring. Winter.” She might as do an attitude adjustment for all. “You too, Summer and Autumn.”

Mere seconds passed as her children appeared. “You called us, Mother Nature?”