If you can’t tell, I’m pretty hung up on the editing thing these days. In fact, yesterday, I did three things: cleaned up cat pee (ew!), napped, and edited. It was a good day. Except for the cat pee thing, I guess.

But damn, I can’t help but feel like it makes me a boring blogger.

Oh well. You guys will just have to bear with me for a few more weeks. Gretchen McNeil has a post today on edit progressions. This made me curious about the progress on my own first page. Here’s the first page of the first draft of THE STONE SORTER, back when it had the wonderful title of sacredgrove.doc.

Chapter 1: In Which I Take a Journey

My mother dropped me off at the curb of Newark International Airport almost three hours before boarding. When I turned to her to ask her for some help with my bags, she kept chattering away on her cellphone, so I opened up the door and struggled to lift my rolling luggage from the trunk of her Toyota myself. Then I tilted my head, walked to the passenger’s side window, knocked on it with one knuckle. She held up a finger; I was supposed to wait.

I reached into my backpack and pulled out the glossy-paged brochure that I’d tucked into the front pocket. “Sacred Grove Academy,” it said on the cover in florid calligraphy. I ran my fingertip over the embossed print. I had already memorized the image there: the school building, huge like a fortress with a stonework facade, a lush green field, dotted with orange and brown trees, that rolled out from under it like a lumpy carpet. As I started to thumb through its pages—practically salivating over the images of sweater-clad students reading in the library, or sitting at the long banquet tables of the dining hall, laughing together—I heard my mother roll the window down.

“Do you have your ticket, Miranda?” she asked. I took the boarding pass out from the back pocket of my jeans, waved it at her.

“Good,” she said, and flashed a view of her very white, very straight teeth. My mother’s had a lot of dental work done. She doesn’t like people to know that, but I think it’s clear when she smiles. No one has teeth like that, not naturally.

I stuffed the brochure, and my ticket, back into my backpack. “Are you going to help me

Here is the novel’s current opening:

Prologue

The night we first tried the spell, I looked at myself in the scratched surface of my bedroom mirror. My hair was shining and straight. My eyes were dark and warm. My olive skin looked smooth between the red straps of my ceremonial garb. I tried to see myself as Mikhail might see me, as a powerful, beautiful diviner. As a stone sorter. I was the girl—no, the woman—who would help him save his mother. I was Randy.

But all I saw was regular old Miranda. Miranda, a nerdy neat freak, dressed in a ridiculous outfit, make-up smeared ludicrously across her face.

I knew then that it wouldn’t work. I knew this deeply and truly, as certainly as I knew the streets of my hometown or the way my father liked his coffee (black and sweet). We wouldn’t be saving Mikhail’s mother that night, or maybe any night. But I couldn’t go to him and tell him that—I was in too deep already; he would never be convinced; he would never forgive me if I refused to help him, if refused to at least try. We’d already shared so much—kisses, warm, and wet, and lingering, soft strains of his music in his bedroom late at night. I couldn’t let him down, not after everything we’d been through.

So I sighed, turned away from the mirror, and went to Annie’s room. What choice did I have?

So as you can see, it’s not the same at all. In fact, the airport bit now opens chapter four. And what’s left of it is much more smoothly written: I was writing this fresh off a draft with a very rough-hewn, uneducated narrator, and that comes through in Miranda’s voice in the early versions of early chapters. It’s also frankly shorter. There’s no awkward shuffling of brochures and the luggage issue is settled in a sentence. Thank goodness.

And I got rid of my cheesy chapter headings. Thank goodness for that, too–what a terrible idea that was; though it worked to boost my NaNoWriMo wordcount, by the end of the first-draft MS, I have chapter headings like “Chapter 9: In Which There Are Issues” and “Chapter 10: Denoument, In Which the Author Wishes She Hadn’t Inserted Subject Headings to Inflate her Wordcount.”

What do you guys think? Better?

I’ve been meaning to write a blog post on editing for awhile, but I’ve been busy . . . editing! Who would have thunk it?

I’ve said before that editing is hard work. That’s true. But I don’t think the phrase “hard work” really even begins to encompass the sort of hard work it really is. Last week, I was deep, deep, deep in editing hell. The eighth circle of editing hell, which is, I think, where writers who feel like frauds live.

I’d already added a few chapters to my novel and marked up the manuscript for line-editing, something I’ve come to think of, thanks to Saundra Mitchell as decrufting. Just marking up these changes took about two weeks in total, perhaps because the core of THE STONE SORTER was created in about a month for NaNoWriMo and was, therefore, a bit of a mess. To give you an idea, and because I always find this sort of thing interesting, here’s some snapshots of a few MS pages:

But about halfway through committing these pages to computer file, another beta reader finished the book. And suggested changes–big changes. And she was right. But what she was suggesting was a lot of work–ohgodthework–and I suddenly hit a wall, a flip-out wall, the first big one that I’ve hit since starting to write long-form fiction. It felt insurmountable. I was suddenly a hack, unable to see these things for myself–and how could I ever expect to get an agent and be published if I couldn’t see these things for myself?!

In her blog, Gretchen McNeil refers to this as the “Faux Suckitude Doldrums.” I think it’s a perfect name, she gives a completely terrific definition:

Faux Suckitude Doldrums -noun \foʊ sʌkˌɪˌtud ˈdoʊldrəmz\
A morbid state of self-imposed dejection whereby the writer/artist/musician has convinced his- or herself that they suck beyond all hope of redemption and the best and most effective course of action is to crawl under the bed and hide there until the zombie apocalypse of the coming of the Anitchrist, whichever occurs first.

Example: – “I’m thinking that I should just burn this manuscript and then cut off my hands so I can never inflict my pathetic excuse for fiction on the planet ever again.” – “Dude, put the machete down. You’re just suffering from FSD. Have some chocolate.”

In my feelings of terribleness, I decided that her writing about it was a completely great excuse to email her. So I did. And you know what’s great about YA writers, especially Gretchen McNeil? They’re really, really nice. She wrote me a totally reassuring and generous email back, the gist of which was: Quit worrying and keep writing. That evening, I wasn’t convinced. But I watched a few episodes of SuperNanny (perfect for times like these, when you don’t want to make any decisions for yourself but instead have the morality of a situation spelled out for you. Oh, those terrible parents!), slept on it, had a good conversation with my beta reader again the next morning, and realized what I had to do.

I had to keep at it, of course.

Which is where I am now. I’ve added another chapter, done some more shifting, have two or three more chapters to add, at least, before I think the knots will be untied, but I continue to press forward.

And improve. Which feels odd, in a way. After I finished this MS, I was all aflutter at how much I’d learned about novel writing in a year: that I need to know how the story ends, and the major stumbling blocks the characters face, and that I need to write a fairly clean MS to have any chance in hell of editing, and all of that. But the passages I’ve added are better written than what’s come before, and I don’t think it’s just on account of having more time to write them. Because I recently went back to a short story I wrote this summer and excised about 800 unnecessary words, easily. Editing, I realize, is a skill, too–and, like writing, one best learned by doing. Maybe that should have been self-evident. But at least now I feel okay going a little easier on myself (myself, mind you–not my drafts!), because I am, of course, still learning.

The Guardian recently posted some rules for fiction writing from fiction writers (Part One, Part Two). Some were terrific. Some I disagree with pointedly (what’s with all the internet hate? Any time I try to turn it off while writing, I just end up running to the computer every few minutes to “research.” The internet is as much a tool as it is a potential distraction). But it made me realize that I’ve learned a few things, too. I’m not full-of-myself enough to give you ten, but here’s five lessons I’ve learned the hard way:

1. Writing makes you a writer. Nothing else–not self-identification or delusions of grandeur or academic credentials. When people ask me about MFA programs now (and oh, do they ask!), I tell them that they’re a good place to make friends, drink, and avoid student loan payments. But they do nothing to make you a writer. Writing makes you a writer (and of course, plenty of MFAs don’t write any more while they’re in their MFA program than they do out of them. If you can’t write while working a desk job, you probably can’t write with a pile of papers to grade and friends urging you to go get smashed, either.)
2. A novel is a problem to be solved. Which is to say, your characters must face problems and solve them, but also you, as a writer, need to be actively engaged in resolving your characters’ conflicts too. Otherwise you just have a 300-page-vignette of word vomit, and the reader won’t care. Or this reader won’t, at least.
3. Novels are written in two places: while you have the manuscript in front of you, and at quiet moments when you’re doing something else, like going for walks or staring out the train window on your morning commute. Or in the shower. Give yourself time to be in it. This makes you a terrible guest at parties, but a much better writer.
4. Eventually, your characters will get away from you. Let them. This is scary at first, and will make you sound and feel like a 12-year-old fanfiction writer. But if your characters don’t have their own motivations, then you’ve failed to breathe life into them. Let them become their own people and shape their situation, not their actions, to drive the plot.
5. Write. When inspired, write. When in doubt, write. You’re smart enough to get through this, but smart isn’t enough. Talented isn’t enough. If you’re not working so hard it hurts, you’re not working hard enough.

Yahoo! Answers, should I date a girl with a missing finger?

It’s not quite as jazzy a title as “I Will Not Read Your Fucking Script”, is it? But it’s the truth.

I’ve been thinking quite a bit about what I, as a writer, owe other writers. I started to consider the question when the whole MFA consulting kerfuffle began, but John Olson’s Village Voice post–and ensuing follow-ups from Scalzi, Mamatas, Tenured Radical, and my dear net-pal, J. T. Glover–really helped me to clarify my own feelings about the topic in my head. I’m going to try to elucidate them here, though I’m not sure my thoughts will be especially pithy, other than that first line: If I want to help you with your writing, I’ll probably offer.

As someone who, for the greater part of a decade or so has self-identified as a writer (yes, I was fifteen back then; yes, I was pretentious) I, too, have realized that declaring oneself as such brings all sorts of characters out of the woodwork: boys who brag about not editing, girls who recite their vampire poetry to you at parties. And of course, I, too, dislike this. There’s nothing worse than being forced to hear bad vampire poetry when you just feel like doing jello shots and playing “Never Have I Ever.”

The funny thing is, in certain situations, I love to help other people with their writing. I was a writing tutor in undergrad, and I count that as one of my most integral experiences in my writing history in terms of sharpening my skill set. I’ve been known for offering resume and cover letter editing help to friends. I participate in editing circles with my peers, and I enjoy the editing just as much as I do receiving the edits. I proofread for Strange Horizons even though I don’t get paid for it. I recently offered to help some MFA applicants from the Poets & Writers Speakeasy Forum with their writing samples when they bemoaned that they could not afford the high price of consulting fees.

And, dammit, I like doing these things. But I do notice a trend. Namely, particularly since graduating from MFA@FLA, I strongly, strongly prefer doing these things on a volunteer basis. With resume and cover letter writing, I surely could get paid for these services (and, in a way, I did when I was a Tech. Writing instructor), but in order to make it a really profitable prospect, I’d probably have to offer my services to people who aren’t my friends and acquaintances. And I don’t really feel comfortable with offering any sort of guarantee of a job or success with any of this–helping MFA applicants or job applicants. Both of these processes are entirely too subjective to guarantee that. But when you charge for that sort of thing, the guarantee is implicit, even if it’s not explicit. Why else would someone be paying for your service?

This is still, resoundingly, my biggest objection to MFA consulting firms as well as to blogs like Query Shark (for which the payment isn’t monetary but rather in being made a public spectacle). Even if disclaimers note that there is no guarantee of admission, by marketing services specifically to MFA graduates, or writers seeking agents, such claims will always be assumed, even if they’re disclaimed and unprovable.

(Do I get something out of editing freely? Sure–personal satisfaction, for one, not to mention a nice flex of the ol’ editing fingers. I pay more attention to my own writing on the sentence level as well as on the whole when I’m editing regularly. But that’s not a tremendous gain on the part of the editor, and I prefer that. This is intangible and possibly whimsical, but it feels, to me, more honest. Are MFA consultants or QueryShark being dishonest? No, not really–they’re upfront about what they are. But I think monetizing the situation makes the entire interchange a little more dishonest, because what the people being paid must know is that all any young writer wants to hear is that ones’ writing is perfect, excellent, untransmutable, particularly if they’re offering up themselves or their money as payment for the feedback. Maybe a more realistic, even monetized interaction will help debase them of that notion, and maybe that’s a good thing, but I feel uncomfortable putting myself in that position, and feel essentially uncomfortable with such services generally.)

In paid situations, and I think this is part of what writers like Scalzi and Olson are saying, offering editing advice becomes less fun. I’ll be honest: when I was a teacher, I was sometimes resentful of students’ intrusion on my personal writing time. Grading papers? A pain. And I truly believe that any teacher or professor who tells you otherwise is a liar. Editing that was essentially identical to stuff I’d do gratis for friends suddenly became burdensome and painful. Some of this was the result of the sheer bulk of the task, but some of it, undoubtedly, also arose from a lack of personal connection between myself and my students. Even in a class of eighteen, it can be difficult to foster warm, fuzzy, friendly feelings with every student, particularly initially.

And so, even though I enjoy editing, even though it exposes me to new writing and makes me pay attention to the intricacies of my own writing more, I’d always rather choose the situations where I volunteer my skills. This allows me to skim the fat from the milk, for one thing–if someone wants to insist that they never edit, or that they only want positive feedback, I know not to bother. This allows me to use my “crazydar” and avoid weird vampire poetry. This lets me pace myself in terms of work, to not take on more than I can handle so that I don’t get angry or resentful of the intrusion on my own time, and that I still have time to write. And, this way, I can give everyone my standard disclaimer: this is only my opinion, not the monolithic view of THE PUBLISHING WORLD or some other, similar nonsense, that my editing comments do not guarantee work or publication; they’re only one woman’s opinion of an improved view of ones’ work, and that I’m fine with, and even encourage, the editee to disregard advice if it seems off. Be a filter, not a sponge. That’s what I always say.