Granted, it's only the first draft so at some point I'll have to go back and comb through everything with a surgical knife. Ugh. I also haven't written the prelude, since I plan on saving it for last when I finally nail down the ending. And I have a feeling that the first four chapters will need a ton of revisions, since I was still trying to get back into writing-shape at the time. But as of today, I've produced 37,745 words total--some of which was based on older drafts written in high school, but the majority is brand new material.
Some things I've learned along the way:
-- Outlining will help you nail your thoughts down, but it will likely all go to shit once you actually start writing. I tried plotting way too extensively before writing, which might have been a symptom of being way too intimidated by a blank Word document. Once the words finally started flowing, I moved scenes around, cut out events here and there based on where the story and character interactions were going. When I reread my outline just now, my first response was: HAHAHAHA.
-- Intuition is my best friend. I wrote an entire scene about Rory and Rhys' first meeting that was inspired by Flight of the Conchords' "Most Beautiful Girl (In the Room)." It was cute but something felt off. I liked the scene a lot, but in the end, I ended up hacking off more than half of it and changed the direction of the scene. Now, I can rationalize my decision--the scene was too twee for the mood of the story, Rhys' behavior was a bit out of character, and it was jarring to allude to a modern musical group when I'd consciously avoided any recent pop culture references. When I finished writing the revised scene, that icky intuitive feeling was gone. This also applies to metaphors and figurative language. I'll write something I think is really clever, but then that icky intuitive feeling tells me to delete it. When I go back to it days later, I'm horrified by how terrible it is.
-- I've heard this piece of advice before, but it is completely true. Don't drain the well. I try to stop writing while I'm at a good place, so that there's less activation energy required the next day to start up again--as opposed to stopping after you've exhausted all your writing momentum, which leads to a huge block the next day.
--If I'm stuck, I will be guilt-free about reading books or watching TV. Sometimes, I'll see something that triggers an idea, and then I can go back to the drawing board. Or I go to the gym. Sometimes I'm so bored about mindlessly running that something will spark in my head.
-- One of my anxieties when I first started writing again was that I'd "lost my touch" from high school. Back when I worshiped Francesca Lia Block and Janet Fitch, the poetic language came like second nature. Then I went to college and wrote a ton of critical essays and worried that my writing was now too didactic. Now, I'm happy to say my writing's at a happy balance between the two. There were some old drafts with purple prose that I gagged at reading, so I can say I definitely improved.
Anyways, it's only 3 in the afternoon right now, but I have a feeling I should stop working for today. I have my work cut out for me with Act II, given that I don't have any old drafts from high school to build off of. It's already April, and given that I head to school in August, I don't have much time left to write so freely. But things have been smoother than ever, so hopefully I'll have several productive months in store.
--------------------Excerpt-----------------------
For a moment, nobody in the room moved. Then, the figure raised her bow and began to play the violin once more. Without the piano, the loneliness of the violin solo came out in a piercing cry, and at that moment, Rhys understood what the phantom wanted.Hands shaking, he bent down to pick up the electric guitar. As he flipped the switch on the amp, he ran his hands across the strings, all perfectly tuned. A guitar pick had been laid out on top of the amplifier, and Rhys took it, feeling the plastic edge press into his fingers. He closed his eyes, counting the beats and visualizing the musical notes of the violin’s singing voice in his head.
Then, at the turn of the next measure, the howl of the electric guitar entered like a crackle of thunder before the first rainfall, like the crying gasp of a resuscitated breath. Several beats later, the drum and the bass entered the room, buoying the entwined melody of the violin and guitar.
Outside in the city of Eden, the central clock tower struck five as the carillon bells rang across the rooftops, heralding the entrance of late October dusk. But in the basement of Ecstasia, the only sound that could be heard came from the jagged enmeshment of four instruments—the drum, the bass, the guitar, and the violin. Though the frayed edges of memory were still slowly weaving back together, something new had been reborn in the music that echoed through the halls of the former opera house. Her Highness had returned.
No comments:
Post a Comment