The first chapter

The Latrobe Reading room at the Victorian State Library is a great place for reflection.  When you look up from your reading, your vision extends to the almost 35 metre dome several stories above.  The acoustics multiply every sound to every point, thus causing everyone to keep very quiet.  It was the perfect place for me to contemplate the beginning of my novel, the first chapter.

Disappointingly, although not unexpected, the first chapter, written over two years ago, does not match the heights of architectural excellence reached by the dome above me.  Truth be told, it’s woeful.  It's the proof point that ‘doing’ generates ‘learning’.  At the time of writing I already had the benefit of four years of Creative Writing education.  Now, when I look at the chapter I see much that is wrong.

For those of you interested, the two major flaws are:

1. Information is presented rather than encountered.  One of my lecturers described this as an information dump and suggested several more interesting ways to share the necessary information with the reader; via conversation or interspersed with action would be my two preferred methods.

2. There is little tension despite a traumatic event, a meeting with conflict, and a substantial internal dilemma for the main character.  The solution to this is clearer now the first draft is written and I can use more ‘foreshadowing’ of the coming events with subtle hints.

It’s not all bad.  The main protagonists are introduced through the above mentioned trauma, meetings and internal conflict.  The ingredients are there.  Fine tuning (read: major rewriting) is what the second draft is all about and should whip this into shape.

The best news is that I recognize the issues.  I can thank my Creative Writing education for developing an improved ability to see the flaws.

Who knows what I will think of the first chapter when I get to the third draft.

Meanwhile, instead of waiting for my novel, get to the Latrobe Reading Room to see an example of outstanding architecture.  Even  my girls were impressed.

The first draft of my novel is complete

The first draft of my novel is complete.  It’s a major milestone, and has taken me over two years to get to this point.  I can’t tell you how many words because the last three chapters are handwritten in my notebook.  This was how I broke the nexus of my writer’s block - by reverting to handwriting and turning off the internal editor (you know, that annoying little bastard that watches over your shoulder and declares everything is crap and you might as well give up.)

Seeing the words appear on the screen, as rubbish as they are, drove me to distraction.  I wanted to correct, or go further back in the story and correct logic flaws.  Instead, I carried my notebook everywhere and wrote at every opportunity.  Coffee shops, trains and swimming pools all became my new office.  Sometimes it would be a couple of paragraphs, sometimes two pages or more.

Please don’t get too excited about the status of my novel.  Whilst the ending of the first draft is a major milestone, there’s a long way to go.  I expect at least two major rewrites, each taking several months at my snail’s pace.  The first thing to fix is the logic flaws.  Second is the ‘point of view’ decisions made at various points, and this may lead to significant additional chapters being created.  Another flaw I expect to find is the writing style - I’ve learned much during the process and the early chapters will not be as well written as the later ones.

And there will be other flaws yet to be discovered.  

The major learning point of the first draft of my first novel is the age old truism - you don’t know what you don’t know.  No amount of reading or education could have prepared me for the challenge of writing approximately 100,000 words, coherently and with meaning (and any other facets required to entice people to read the bloody thing).  And so far, I haven’t achieved it...but at least I know that.

For those of you that have written a novel, and can remember the first draft, what was your experience?  What did you learn?

Is it too late to become a professional tennis player?

Easter Monday: the day after the Easter Bunny comes.  No alarm needed setting.  The sun rolls over the tent and the plastic wall lightens, bit by bit.

*                           *                           *

Easter Tuesday: the day after Easter Monday.  The alarm fires up at 6am, and then subsides into silence after a well aimed poke.  Daylight savings may have gone but it is still dark outside.  The bed is soft and warm, enticing me to stay, not unlike the call of a narcotic.

The bathroom floor is dry, towels neatly lined up, moistureless, ready for an embrace post my hot shower.  First, shaving cream, and the scrape of a razor over a four day growth.

*                           *                           *

Easter Monday: The tent wall rises above me on an angle, passing close to my nose, claustrophobic.  I’m at the edge of the double bed mattress and my wife is pressed against me: I can’t escape.  The air is chill on my face; it’s going to be cold outside.  Still, it’s light enough, so I scrabble my way out of the sleeping bag and cast around for clean clothes.  No such luck with the towels; they haven’t dried since last night’s shower.  I pick the least wet.

The showers are a hundred metres away, between snoring tents and a smouldering campfire surrounded by empty bottles.  We heard them being emptied at two in the morning.  Caravan park showers are the same everywhere.  Slimy tiles, puddles of water, fluctuating water temperature.  There’s a razor in my toilet bag – it can stay there.

*                           *                           *

Easter Tuesday: The towel rail is above the heater, warm.  Socks slide onto dry feet, snug into shoes.  Long pants encase legs; a business shirt collar and tie noose my neck.

The kitchen is quiet, last night’s dishes clean and dry inside the dishwasher.  The day’s stress is yet to come.  The kids are asleep – I’ll cajole them out of bed soon.  School beckons for them – they like it – but they’d rather not spend the next hour eating, dressing and packing.  It will be the first point of contention.

*                           *                           *

Easter Monday: Last night’s dishes are dewy.  They’ll need to be dried with the last of our clean tea towels.  Empty stubbies are on the table next to our tent – explaining why the party sounded like it was in our tent.

Somebody has stoked the fire.  Our girls are already dressed and clustered around it, tossing in small branches, watching them burn.  They didn’t need encouragement.

Breakfast comes together quickly - we’ve got an early start.  Fried eggs on toast, feet warming by the fire, under a blueing sky.  Time is running out.

The tennis courts are reached by a short walk on the river levee.  The water is still, occasionally disturbed by some creature rippling the surface.  The levee winds around gently and then we are at the courts.  Grass stretches out, marked by white lines, divided by nets.  People straggle in slowly, quieter than yesterday.  It’s finals day.

*                           *                           *

Easter Tuesday: The traffic slows up.  My appearance at the 9am meeting looks iffy.  The more people in a rush to get to work, the slower we go.  The light changes from red to green, but no one moves.  The traffic is already backed to the next set of lights.  It’s an unimportant meeting, but being late will knock the whole day off kilter.

*                           *                           *

Is it too late to become a professional tennis player?

No, I'm not suffering from Writer's Block.

I don’t suffer from Writer’s Block.  People talk about it, but I’ve never comprehended it.  All my short stories are centred around a clear idea and they are easy to write, start to finish.  The broad principle of combating Writer’s Block is simple – just sit down and write with the internal editor turned off.

I don’t believe in Writer’s Block, but I’ve hardly written a word on my novel in the last two months.  The end of the novel is nigh.  I can touch it.  It’s the final scene, perhaps with a denouement to come.  I know what’s supposed to happen.  But I’ve tried several times, and the ending isn’t working.  I wrote a hundred words a few nights ago, and then realised I had already written those hundred words a few days before. 

The Merriam-Webster dictionary describes Writer’s Block as ‘a psychological inhibition preventing a writer from proceeding with a piece.’  Presumably I don’t suffer from psychological inhibitions, but I’ve not written a blog for two months either.  I’ve not had anything I’ve wanted to share about the progress of my novel, probably because there is no progress.

A blog I read regularly says that you need to write shitty first drafts and I am all for this.  So I tell myself to just finish the bloody novel.  I suspect there are less than 5,000 words to go, which I could finish in a rush if I put my mind to it.  But each time I open the novel I find new plot flaws that leave me stymied.  This shouldn’t be a major issue because I know of other plot flaws earlier in the novel, and I will fix these in the second draft.

Time is not an issue.  My work life balance has moved dramatically in 2012, perhaps too dramatically away from work.  When work was busy I squeezed writing into tiny spaces.  Now, with big open spaces, I fear to walk into them.  I developed a good strategy for turning out words – 300 words a night just before sleep only takes 30 minutes.  And if I do this 5 times, I deliver 1500 words a week, which is perfectly acceptable given I have a full-time job.

There are things to learn as I work through this.  The 10,000 word outline for my novel is too short and vague.  The plot elements required to bring the final scene alive have not been properly thought through.  The next novel will have a longer, more detailed outline.

The internet has lots of clues to break through Writer’s Block.  I’ve read several of them.  They’re no use.  There’s only one answer.  I’m going to publish this crappy blog, and then tomorrow I’m going to get the three pages of the current chapter out, spread them on a desk, get some blank paper and write by hand.  No more of this computer stuff.  Just write and write until my hand aches.  Then I’ll write some more.  It’ll be shit, but I want to yell to the world that I’ve finished the first draft.  You won’t be able to read it because it won’t be ready, but then I can get on with the next step – editing.

There’s no such thing as Writer’s Block.

I’ll let you know how I get on.

Success or not - Did my short story get published?

Dear Robert.

Thank you for submitting "Sunglasses" to Midnight Echo.

Sadly, we regret to inform you that we are declining acceptance at this time.

This was an original piece, well written and approached taboos unlike anything I've read this submissions period. However, I felt that the emphasis was on the disgusting rather than the horror that arrived a little too late in the story.

Good luck in placing this submission elsewhere.

I have to return to work tomorrow.  The $58.36 before tax isn't coming.  Fortunately, the writing industry has prepared me for this occurrence.  In Stephen King’s book ‘On Writing’ he says he would stick his rejections on a nail.  He started submitting stories to magazines very young, but didn’t get published until he was 20:

By the time I was fourteen … the nail in my wall would no longer support the weight of the rejection slips impaled upon it. I replaced the nail with a spike and kept on writing.

I’m starting later than Stephen, but unlike tennis, the muscles required are less prone to old age.  The response is encouraging, and gives me a hint on how to improve.  Let’s see if somebody else is willing to publish.  Meanwhile, on to the next story...and continue with the novel.

But what about you?  Are you wondering what generated the phrase ‘emphasis was on the disgusting’?  What did I write about?  You’ll have to wait until a publisher picks it up to find out, or, in a couple of decades, when I’m rich and famous, I release a money-making anthology of short stories that no one would publish before.

The Co-efficient of Friction - what surfaces conflict in your life?

You may remember a recent blog about Momentum.  Who knew that my Bachelor of Science in mathematics and statistics, with a dalliance in physics would come in so handy?  Let’s move on to understanding friction.

Not the friction that occurs between me and my daughter when she wants to play for a fourth hour on her Nintendo 3DS, and I want her to practice the piano.  Although, this blog might be applicable.  Let’s come back later and test it out.

No, I mean the friction between two surfaces, that either stops the objects from movement, or slows down their movement.  It gets a little more complicated than momentum (I can tell, because I quickly understood the mathematics around momentum, but am struggling a little with Coulomb’s Law of Friction).  Suffice it to say, there is a value known as the Co-efficient of Friction, which varies depending on the two surfaces in contact.  For example, ice on steel has a very low co-efficient of friction, although not as low as Teflon.   

Another time, I’m going to write about Teflon coated people, but let’s master the basics first.

Rubber on dry concrete has a high co-efficient of friction, and this is important when you lock your brakes up.  You want the car to come to a quick stop.  Another pair of surfaces that have a metaphorically high co-efficient of friction are writing and procrastination.

As I write, with the momentum I have, there is a force working against me.  That’s how friction is experienced.  I’m tempted by so much.  Should I stop and check how many hits my blog has had?  Are any of my friends saying anything of interest on Facebook.  Recently I rediscovered my love for table-tennis on the Wii.  It’s very realistic, mirroring topspin and slice.  Next thing you know, several hours are gone as my daughter and I strived to defeat the Champion...without success.

How did my earlier conversation go?

‘Daddy, I’ve already practiced four times this week.  I don’t need to practice anymore.’  Siena’s voice needs a shriek meter to measure the decibels.

‘How often does your piano teacher say you should practice?’

‘Twice a week.  That’s all.  Why are you so mean to me?  Give me back my things.’  Blackmail is a constant in our house, as Siena reminds me.  It’s a big concept for a ten year old, but she understands it well.

‘Let’s call your piano teacher and ask her.’  Parents can be so wicked.  I disturbed our Piano teacher on her Saturday morning and was rewarded with the knowledge that Siena should practice twenty minutes every day.  But the best advice was to ask Siena to complete her Piano practice diary every day.  I don’t know if that will work, but it’s certainly worth trying.  It’s probably a good idea for me to overcome my writing friction.

What are the surfaces conflicting in your life, and how do you overcome the co-efficient of friction?

There are words we shouldn't use.

There are words that we should just not use.

In the seventy-five thousand words of Chapters One through Twenty-Three of the first draft of my novel, there are 651 iterations of the word ‘that’, and 135 instances of ‘just’.

There are words we should not use.

The second draft of my recent short story focused on removal of these terrible words.  They kill the flow and remove the immediacy.

There are only three ‘just’s in the finished product, two in dialogue, and one I agonised over before leaving.  There are too many ‘that’s in the story – eight in total.

Deadlines are the enemy.  I was busy correcting some logic flaws and missed some word and line editing.  Let’s hope it’s still OK, but there is a lesson here.  Allow enough time for the required editing.  Here are my rules, developed over a few years of writing, articulated for the first time.

Draft 1: Get the story down.  So the story is shit.  Burn it and whip a sharp knife across your throat, or finish the bloody thing and see what’s needed to fix it.

Draft 2: Correct the logic flaws.  Oh, you forgot to mention the bad guy is a sniper until he needs to make a thousand yard shot.  Oh, you need to have a cold, wet and windy night, but it’s the middle of summer.  Oh, the back story requires your main character to have experienced something before they were born.  These become obvious as you write the story, and are fixed with the addition of a paragraph, or the changing of a number.

Draft 3: Correct the word errors, such as ‘just’ and ‘that’, or the repetition of the same word in adjacent paragraphs.  Don’t worry about understanding misplaced modifiers, or the difference between future perfect verbs and past progressive verbs.  I’m no grammar expert, but if a sentence reads funny, there’s something wrong.  Stop and change it, even if you can’t spot the grammatical issue.  Trust your reading.

Draft 4: Beautify the wording.  To all my lecturers over the last six years, thank you!  In my recent short story, I looked, ever so briefly, at rhythm and poetic elements.  A critical paragraph full of colours, originally described as yellow, green and black, lifted from flat to interesting, as green became ‘spinach-coloured’, yellow became ‘jaundiced’, and black became ‘inky’.

I should have finished draft four several weeks before the deadline, and let the story rest for some time.  Next time, hey.

The Australian Horror Writers Association short story competition is open until May 31.  I’d best get cracking.