Thoughts for the Third Draft

Book 1: As a result of reading Susanna Kaysen's Girl, Interrupted:

More Humor

Kaysen's book reminds me of the power, honesty, and necessity of humor in dark moments. I've realized in the last few months that I've rarely given that humor time of day in my "serious" writing despite the fact that it's part of who I am and who I was then.

For instance, the morning after Neenef killed Maggie, during which us resident assistants slept little if at all, I told Joan, "I need a fucking drink." "I know," she said, the irony being that as RAs, we'd agreed not to drink all year. You never know when you'll need one.

Choose Your Own Adventure

In February 2008, I decided to address the many "what-ifs" by creating a Choose Your Own Adventure mini-book of the events of October 17, 1999. It was called, "Break Up Survival: Will you make the cut?" To play off the series, I said it was Choose Your Own Adventure No. 40-70%, with a footnote stating: percentage of female murder victims killed by an intimate worldwide, according to the World Health Organization's 2003 World Report on Violence and Health. Now I'm thinking this could be interspersed throughout the book.

Excerpt: "Your ex sends you an instant message asking you to come over. You ask him to call on the phone. The phone rings. You pick up and he tells you he has something he wants you to read over.

You sigh and look at the time. You’ve always tried to help him and it seems like he’s always needed it. It’s late and you have your own things to do but you might have ten minutes to spare. And if it means resolving things for once and for all, maybe it’s worth it.

If you decide to go to your ex's room, go to page 16. If you decide to wait and help him some other night, go to page 14."

Book 2: After reading Alice Sebold's (VCFA alum) Lucky, a memoir of her brutal rape in college, the following came to mind:

Sexual Assault as Explanatory Device

So, there it is in all its vagueness--the words sexual assault. And for now, that's where it will stay. But after reading Lucky, I knew something I didn't want to know. In order to explain my 19-year-old narrator's dependency on men/boys, I need to disclose her history of sexual assault, or at least some of it.

Voice of Experience

I knew I needed this after the residency, but after characterizing it in Lucky, I now know what v.o.e. looks and sounds like, which means I can write it myself. Some clues:

• references to time (after, now, looking back, years later, in that moment, etc.)
• conditional and conditional perfect tenses (woulda-coulda-shoulda)
• expressions that suggest doubt (guess, perhaps, might, maybe)
• imagined scenes (i imagine, they must have been, he might have)
• questions ("do you think i had free will? do you still believe in that?")
• placement at the end of a paragraph, scene, section or chapter
• superlatives (best, hardest, most, worst, easiest)
• absolutes (always, never, no one, everyone, nothing, everything)
• generalizations (but life is never that easy, etc.)
  

Book 3: Chris Noël's In the Unlikely Event of a Water Landing: A Geography of Grief

Use Murder-Suicide as T0

Just as he did with his fiancé's fatal car accident, I could count forward and backward at the beginning to every chapter, section, and scene in order to keep the reader rooted in time. I don't think I would even have to refer to "it". I could just say, "four months before" "two days after" "six weeks later" and so on.

Title Sections

Could be another way to ground reader. Every mini section could read like a titled chapter. Such as "How They Met, V.1," "How They Met, V.2," "How They Met, V.3,"and so on.

And We're Back . . . 1st MFA Residency Glorified

Where have I been? Secretly writing my book but declining to post a word about it? No no no. Doing everything but writing my book, in fact. Well, sort of.

First there was the UN internship, when I had to renegotiate how one fits eating, sleeping, cooking, a job, a marriage and a myriad of friendships, both in situ and online, into one life, one day at a time. Then there was the workshop in London. And immediately afterward, the hop, skip and jump across the Atlantic, where I attended my first residency for a Masters in Fine Arts in Writing at the Vermont College of Fine Arts.

"I knew it would be amazing, but I wasn't sure what amazing would look like . . . "

Variations on the above phrase fell out of my mouth from Day 3 of the residency until . . . no one wanted to hear it anymore, i.e. I came back to France.

Some of the lessons:

Movement vs. Action

• That movement (ex. she turned the door knob, opened the door, then entered the hallway) is not the same as action (ex. she ran out of the room).
• Movies are great teachers of this principle since not everything can be shown because there simply isn't time. For instance, sex might be implied if its not central to the plot.
  

Voice of Innocence vs. Voice of Experience

• Sue William Silverman, Creative Nonfiction Goddess, uses these terms as a way to differentiate between the persona's then and now. In other words, to tell a story in the order that it happened is not enough. What makes it interesting for the reader is to hear what you know now, to have a sense of how you have reflected on it from a more mature place.
  

Read, Re-Read, and Re-Re-Read

• So I thought I was a good reader. Wrong. I tend to read stories just once. Instead, one faculty member, Douglas Glover (who reads books 4-5 times), showed us how to critically analyze books as a writer--not as a literary figure looking for hidden symbolism, but as a brick layer scoping out the mortar and foundation.
  
• What does this look like? Reading with a pen or pencil in hand, understanding the story's structure, checking point of view, keeping track of words, images, etc, that repeat, look at how the sequence of events relates to the chronology of events. List continues . . .
  

How to Zero in on Theme

• Watch what is repeated--throughout a sentence, a paragraph, a page, a story--and eliminate anything that does not directly relate to the theme. Of course, this means you need to know what your theme is, which isn't likely until later drafts.

Happy, Authentic Stories Do Exist

• In response to the question, "Why are your stories so sad?" visiting writer David Harris Ebenbach realized that he was not 100% committed to what he considers the writer's creed: unearthing the hidden truths. Why? Because some of the truths we hide from ourselves are about true joy, absolute beauty. Fakery abounds as well--Disney, Hallmark, etc--which is why it's important to share the real thing. Some examples of stories that do this:
  
• Sherman Alexie's "What You Pawn, I Will Redeem," in Ten Little Indians.
  
• Raymond Carver's "Cathedral," in Cathedral.

"Show, Don't Tell" is Bullshit

• "Good writers may 'tell' about almost anything in fiction except the character's feelings." --John Gardner
• By avoiding precision, characters' motives lack clarity, which affects how the reader relates to them. Unbeknownst to us, the presenter, Laura-Rose Russell, a graduating student, read an excerpt of a story in which she had removed all words and phrases that directly or indirectly hinted at emotion. As as a result, we weren't sure about this character, though many felt disgusted by him. When she read the complete version, we got a fuller picture, and were able to feel compassion for the confused boy depicted in the story. (Clever teaching technique, by the way.)
• Examples of Direct Disclosure: "She didn't approve of whiskey." "He wasn't a bad man." "I wept with joy." "I felt the loss."
  
• Examples of Indirect Disclosure: "ruthless" individual, "bitter" winters, "embarrasing" praise.
  
• Examples of Abstract Disclosure: "I prowled about like an animal." "It was as though something had been stolen."
  

Day 233

Summary of Second Draft

* Parts are like mini-chapters and range in length from one page to ten.

Introduction

• Pages: 1-2
• Length: 2 pages
  

Section I: Before

• Pages: 3-45
• Length: 42 pages
• Parts: A-K

Section II: Countdown

• Pages: 46-75
• Length: 29 pages
• Parts: A-J

Section III: Unraveling

• Pages: 76-120
• Length: 44 pages
  
• Parts: A-M

Section IV: Descent

• Pages: 121-178
• Length: 57 pages
• Parts: A-U

Section V: Rebirth

• Pages: 179-215
• Length: 36 pages
• Parts: A-T

Epilogue

• Pages: 216-228
• Length: 12 pages
• Parts: A-F

Days 225-232

The silence has been broken!

As has the 60,000 word barrier. I have officially just finished my current draft--let's call it the second--and have hit 65,147.

Hallelujah!

I feel like I just finished an all nighter, when in fact it's been an all year-er. As April 2009 approaches, I am reminded that I officially started the first word on April 23, 2008, though I started the writing itself in January/February.

As opposed to the first draft, which I never knew I would finish until I actually did, and by the end felt more like a combination of pages without any particular direction, and only a sprinkling of good within it, this feels so much more solid. I know better what I want to say, and instead of holding back, summarizing, or hiding in vagueness, I am saying it. Damn, it feels good. I suppose this is what it is all about.

This is not to say that this is done. No no no. Not done. And I still have used the word: SCENE, sometimes followed by a question mark, in many places. Scene is forthcoming, in other words.

But now I have cobbled together a new version, a more mature object that knows itself as perhaps an older adolescent does, one who knows how to drive. The first one I think was going through puberty and had no idea what was going on--a scary and exciting transformation at times.

My goal is to write those scenes, and fill in the few empty spots next week, then print the damn thing (all 227 pages), and start editing. I start my internship at the UN on April 6th, so I will have less time to devote to it, but since I supposedly don't start my day until 10 am, I hope to work on it for an hour or two every morning.

Yes! Yes! Yes!

I will celebrate by eating lunch and falling asleep on the New Yorker (after reading some of it). And that's only the beginning . . .

Day 224

We're getting there

(where?)

This is the question ticking in my head. I say I am 81% through. But through what? The 60,000 projected words, the absolute minimum to escape from novella and into novel. But my last draft was 63,000. And I've cut much of it. But I've added more.

As I looked back over some passages last night to add in some lines from rediscovered "poems" I'd written at the time, I realized that only my recent work has depth. For much of it, the straight, unwavering line of summary trudges forth. As soon as I've finished this, I will have to begin again, I think.

At a recent workshop with the Geneva Writer's Group, I listened to Mimi Schwartz break creative nonfiction into its three parts:

• Scene
• Summary
• Reflection

Fiction has less reflection, she said, but creative nonfiction necessitates it. She asked us to ask ourselves, "What am I not doing?" And do that.

So with that question in mind, I see how heavily I depended on summary in these initial drafts. That's how you tell a story, I thought. And this really happened. And now I'm telling it. So it's a story. That's true. And it is one way one can tell a story. But it doesn't mean it's any good.

How does a storyteller enchant us? By bringing the story alive. Sharing the touch of the satin robe, the pinch of the antagonist's nose, the smell of the slaughtered pig burning on the spit. In other words, through scene.

In addition to the issue of summary, for the past several weeks--ever since I hit the material about winter quarter--I have been slogging through a swamp of melodramatic reflection. Such as:

"In the brokenness that follows, everything I’ve believed dissolves into crumbs."

or

"I’m floundering and I know it, but everyone who isn’t is just another reason to be angry."

What do I do with these? I delete them. I try to work them into scene.

Can I show myself dissolving? Yes. I can not get out of bed, I can not make it to class, I can stare at a knife, etc.

Can I show myself being angry with someone else who's not? Why yes. In fact, a scene comes to mind, one in which I'd gone to a friend's dorm room for help with chemistry, and went ballistic when his roommate, an ex boyfriend of mine, was jumping on his bed and laughing.

So there. That's why I write this blog, have this conversation with myself and whatever eyes are lurking--in order to process it, and through the process, find another jumping off point, though into what, I never know.

Days 221-223

Both Monday and Tuesday were excellent writing days. Just as in my last examples, one tired description after another gave birth to a breathing, living scene.

This:
"As with every other break up, even the ones I’ve been responsible for, I hyperventilate through my tears, choke on the snot, and fall to the floor. After an hour of writhing on the cold linoleum, I’m calm enough to breathe normally again."

Becomes this:
"As with every other break up, I fell to the floor, this time my body half on a stiff rug whose palette looked like melted crayons, their shavings of wax having been woven into the fabric—magenta here, lizard green there, the sort of yellow we always use to depict sunshine in grade school though in fact our star’s light is far too scattered to match that potent concentration of color. My body curled into a question mark, my arms dangled outward as if branches fallen from a dead tree, my belly grew into a hard mound then collapsed over and over again underneath my grey sweatshirt, and my hair splayed out behind me as if I were flying. Maybe I was."

And all thanks to Margaret Atwood. Today was not a good writing day, as I spent most of it searching for a poem I wanted to include that I've only now found. Then I scrapped together part of a few scenes, but my heart was far from in it.

But today was a rapturous and devastating reading ay. In preparation to return to the Gex library, I finished The Blind Assassin. I had to. Here are some of the last lines my eyes lingered over, my lips read aloud to another's ear and my eyes watered:

p. 395
"I look back over what I've written and I know it's wrong, not because of what I've set down, but because of what I've omitted. What isn't there has a presence, like the absence of light.

You want me to tell the truth, of course. You want me to put two and two together. But two and two doesn't necessarily get you the truth. Two and two equals a voice outside the window. Two and two equals the wind. The living bird is not its labelled bones."

p. 417
"I've looked back over what I've set down so far, and it seems inadequate. Perhaps there's too much frivolity . . . Such items do not assort very well with tragedy. But in life, a tragedy is not one long scream. It includes everything that led up to it. Hour after trivial hour, day after day, year after year, and then the sudden moment: the knife stab, the shell-burst, the plummet of the car from the bridge."

p.494
"I could have stopped there. I could have chosen ignorance . . . I chose knowledge instead.

Most of us will. We'll choose knowledge no matter what, we'll maim ourselves in the process, we'll stick our hands into the flames for it if necessary. Curiosity is not our only motive: love or grief or despair or hatred is what drives us on. We'll spy relentlessly on the dead: we'll open their letters, we'll read their journals, well go through their trash, hoping for a hint, a final word, an explanation, from those who have deserted us--who've left us holding the bag, which is often a good deal emptier than we'd supposed."

p.508
"Nothing is more difficult than to understand the dead, I've found; but nothing is more dangerous than to ignore them."

Day 220: Are you there, God--I mean Margaret? (Atwood)

As of the last few days, I've been able to write setting. (So what have you been doing for the rest of the 219? Ah hem. Avoiding it.) I don't know why, but this has been one of the hardest things to write, next to scenes. And yet scene and setting are intricately woven together, so if you get one you find the key to the other. ahhh. How nice.

During my noontime swim (and before plowing through half a fresh baguette while reading the New Yorker--its sometimes hard to believe my own luxuries even as I live them), I was wondering why and the answer came: Margaret.

Not just any Margaret. Margaret Atwood. As you'll see in my "reading" column I am reading her novel The Blind Assassin, a series of stories within stories. I've crept past page 200 and so far have been blown away by every moment and everyone line except one ("revenge is a dish best eaten cold," because haven't we all heard that enough? and what the hell does it mean anyway?).

I can turn to any page and find a description that makes me realize Atwood looks deeply and in a way I've usually never considered, thereby giving me a gift when I get to see through her eyes:

p. 42, "The orange tulips are coming out, crumpled and raggedy like the stragglers from some returning army."

I like to imagine Atwood has spent her life making these sorts of observations and putting them down in a notebook and now pulls from it as needed.

p. 110, "Her hat tumbles off, her arms are around his neck, her head and body arches backwards as if someone's pulling down on her hair. Her hair itself has come unpinned, uncoiled; he smoothes his hand down it, the pale tapering swath of it, and thinks of flame, the single shimmering flame of a white candle, turned upside down. But a flame can't burn downwards."

In the second one, Atwood shows off another one of her tricks: present something beautiful but perhaps doubtful, then recognize the doubt so that the reader still trusts her. Damn. She good.

Because of this, I've been able to make the following changes:

Passage A before Atwood:
"benches strewn with men in women’s winter coats whose bodies have been soaking in their juices for days and out the back door"

Passage A after Atwood: "that era had been replaced with the aroma of unwashed bodies, men in scalloped winter coats that cinched at the waist, whose sleeping forms were strewn over the benches"

Passage B before Atwood:
"I’ve set the alarm so we wake by 8:00 AM to make my appointment."

Passage B after Atwood:
"When we woke to my alarm’s electronic bleat at 8:00 AM, the temperature had risen and the snow had expanded into slush. My appointment, or in some ways, our appointment, was in an hour. Of less importance, my first class was in thirty minutes."

Passage C before Atwood:
"Today is the day we drive down Stadium, that grey, open expanse into nothing, where because of the slippery mush and Big Daddy’s unresponsive automatic transmission, we have a few moments of not knowing whether we’ll make it at all. I pull out in front of traffic thinking I can spin off into the distance at any moment. Instead we just sit there, motionless, wondering if the oncoming traffic will make contact or whether we’ll escape"

Passage C after Atwood:
"Today was the day I would pull onto Stadium, that six-lane, almost-highway that disappeared into our city streets, thinking I could spin out in front of oncoming traffic before remembering as we sat there, motionless, that the automatic’s acceleration had a several second delay, during which time I did not admire the forgettable scenery of light and telephone poles, black wires stretching in between them like warm Twizzlers, or the white caked tree limbs’ claws reaching toward something I couldn’t see."

Ta da! and thank you Margaret, Setting Goddess.