I’m up to 30 pages on a short story I’m working on. It’s an idea I’ve had percolating for a few months now, and in 2 days I’ve poured most of it out and I don’t show any signs of stopping. It’s such a glorious feeling!
I know what that feels like.
I started writing a novel in November, and sometimes I feel the urge to write come over me so powerfully that I have to stop whatever I’m doing and get to the computer. There, I will type in spurts: frantic machine-gun typing, followed by long pauses as I agonize over a word or phrase, then more rapid-fire typing. I might pound out eight pages in a sitting, then not go back to it for a week. I might spend all evening researching a single line. Once, I woke in the middle of the night, an idea burning in my mind, and had to get up and write.
It works for me, I guess, this choppy pace. Since November 15, I have written around 200 single-spaced, 10pt pages in Word.
I’m the exact same way. I’m come up with an idea and maybe write a few paragraphs on it right away. Then 3 monthes will go by and I’ll get nothing done and then BAM!..I’ll bang out 10 pages in 2 hours before another 3 month rut. Its kind of irritating, actually. I’d much rather keep up a steady pace from day to day, even if its only a few lines. At least then, I’ll feel like I’m consistant.
Lucky. I can’t stop re-writing. I feel like Sisyphus over here.
I’m about a quarter of the way through a novel and having a hell of a time. I keep redoing the dialogue because it never seems quite natural enough to me. (I’ve been told it’s fine often enough, but I’ve never been able to be honest with people who’ve shown me awkward writing myself, so I tend to pay no mind to that.)
Worse, I’ve commited myself to a really tricky structure that excited the hell out of me when I was plotting it out, but is now proving difficult to set down without a lot of inconsistent gaps in the narrative between chapters, which I can’t bridge without breaking the “rules.” The maddening thing is that I need that stuff to be completely invisible to everyone but the most assiduously obsessive reader. “Brilliant!” he says, “An entirely new level of semiosis!” Except that it has to be completely inconspicuous.
Another reason for the ridiculous number of revisions I’ve made is that I have a perverse idea about making it conform to a multiplicity of forms in such a way that they’re invisible to everyone except those with particular and obscure areas of interest. To most people, it should appear to be entirely natural. “Just a bunch of stuff that happened.” But everything that happens in the story simultaneously conforms to five different templates, from various mythologies, occult systems, literary sources, and popular culture – so six different people could read it and feel confident that they’re clever enough to perceive what it’s “really” about, and only be partly right. It has to be there, but nothing can stand out – it all has to be put across with the subtlest little subtextual cues. I’m constantly adding little things in, and reworking things later when they stick out to me as too obvious. Try writing a single paragraph some time that contains cryptic references to Carrollania, Greek mythology, '30s jazz, gnosticism and weirder things (sometimes in the same sentence) and yet reads naturally enough that nothing stands out as being out of place in a story set in Vancouver’s notorious Downtown Eastside.
So yeah, I can’t stop writing either, but the feeling falls somewhat short of glorious. I feel like I’ve set the bar for myself somewhere around Michael Ondaatje, when my actual ability indicates I should shoot for somewhere a little below James Patterson. Stewie Griffen haunts my dreams: “Cheer up, Larry, now you have some new material for that novel you’ve been writing. You know… the novel you’ve been workin’ on? You know the the one, um, you’ve been workin on for three years? You know the novel.” Aaaaaargh!
The infuriating thing is that I’ve had some encouraging words from more than one person who’s actually in publishing, and I’m fairly confident that if I just stopped trying to make it the single most pretentious and gimmicky puzzle of book ever written and just told a straight story, I wouldn’t have much difficulty getting it published – but I can’t. It’s killing me.
Sorry for venting. Needed to.
I am glad for you folks though, if a little envious. 
I sympathize, Mr Mudd. I’m an insufferable perfectionist and I write with a peculiar multi-pass system – the first pass is sparse and pedestrian, the second pass I correct spelling and grammar mistakes and add a little more depth and detail, the third pass I correct spelling and grammer mistakes from the second pass and tease out some previously unnoticed themes and motifs, rinse, repeat, and by pass 50 I may actually have something that satisfies me (this is purely speculation, since I’ve never gotten that far).
After a few thousand words, the temptation to mire myself in the editing process overcomes my need to finish the project, and after a few weeks I end up with a small (albeit highly polished) story fragment. My hard drive is full of them. 
One suggestion is to not rush once you get towards the end of the story. Make sure you’re taking your time.
I’ve found one way to overcome that, Sage Rat, is to stop when I start getting antsy about finishing, skip to the end and write the ending, then go back and fill in that middle area. The ending will most likely change again, but at least it gets it out of my system.
I’m about fifty pages away from the final edit of my most recent book.
I’ve found this works for me too. I tend to get distracted while writing because I’m busy worrying how I’m going to wrap the whole thing up. I’ve found that even if I jot just a sentence or two down–just to get the basic idea out–of the ending, I’m usually good to go.
I probably have the world’s worst writing habits though. I write in mega-spurts. None of that “write something every single day” stuff for me, and believe me, I’ve tried. I won’t write a word for months and then one day, I’ll sit down and spew out page after page as if my brain is overflowing. And then I’ll think “Whoohoo! I’m on a roll here!” only to fall right back into the writing in spurts every few weeks/months pattern again. I’ve slowly learned not to fight it as it seems that’s the way my brain is determined to work.
Have you considered footnotes?
I hated to do it, because as a reader, I’ve always felt they interrupted the narrative flow, but I found myself forced to use them. My novel is set in the Tudor age, and the characters often refer to items or events that the average reader probably wouldn’t recognize. I’ve always found explanatory dialoge clumsy.
“He died during the Pilgrimage of Grace.”
“Wasn’t that the rebellion of Northern Catholics against the king’s new religious policies?”
Ugh. So, as the lesser of two evils, I decided that putting footnotes at the bottom of the occasional page was better than trying to insert explanations in the midst of a scene or force unnatural dialoge.
…
walks out of thread again
Lol - hi and bye Kythereia
Why exposit at all? Your readers may know more than you give them credit for, and if not, let them do the research. One of the great things about reading “classic” literature–say, the Sherlock Holmes stories–is that it gives you all sorts of new terms and concepts to read up on. You can generally make sense of it in context, but it’s not much of an effort, particularly in these days of readily-accessibly electronic information, to casually search for a term or definition.
I’d start writing again if I could find something to write about and if I thought someone would willingly read it. I actually have a couple ideas, although totally unfocused and unstructured. I fear, though, that I’d be endlessly aping Joseph Heller, and of course come up wanting in comparison. It’s much easier to appreciate someone’s hard work and skill as “genius” from a distance than to attempt to create something novel yourself.
Anyway, good luck on the story, ronincyberpunk.
Stranger
Sometimes I can, sometimes I can’t. I’ve had my husband read the manuscript. If he feels that his understanding of what’s going on is lessened because he doesn’t understand a reference, I put in the footnote.
I’ve researched this time period for more than a decade. Things that seem obvious to me are often lost on people who only have a vague understanding of the Tudor era. That’s why I have my husband read it: so I can get the perspective of someone who isn’t well-versed in the time period.
Some terms have modern meanings that weren’t the same at the time, like “girdle.” A casual reader might think it’s a foundation garment without the explanation that it’s actually a jeweled belt, and often it’s clumsy to interrup the flow to explain things like that.
As a reader, I’ve always resented when authors gloss over something because they didn’t understand it, or didn’t want to put the time in to make sure what they’re saying is accurate. I once read a book in which the author apparently believed a garderobe was the same as a wardrobe. Those kind of innacuracies pull me out of the story and lessen my enjoyment. I want to make sure that doesn’t happen should this book ever be published. (As my momma always said, “If you’re going to do something, do it right.”)
Ha. I can’t start writing. I have difficulty writing anything longer than two pages. Though, I haven’t tried to write a story in… five years? Maybe I should give it another shot.
And Larry Mudd, could you post a paragraph or two of that? I really want to see how you do that.
While my only produced play thus far was a brainfart I banged onto the page in four hours of machine-gun two finger typing, I reall cannot stress how advantageous it is to sit down and plan your story to the letter before starting. Many projects I have undertaken have fallen apart at the fifty page mark when I realise that I dont know where this plot is going, or what this character’s motivation is, etc…
Time spent planning characters and events, for me, is more rewarding than the actual writing of the piece. I like to brainstorm, scribble little notes, fill jotters with little sketches and plot tree’s. Actually sitting down and typing is a bit of a drag.
Whatever way you choose to work, best of luck with your piece!!!
Dude, I love you, but if you brag about not being able to stop writing, I will KILL YOU WITH MY BRAIN.
(disclaimer: poster is only 50, maybe 45, percent serious. ;))
Brag? Well maybe a little; but considering my track record on finishing stories I don’t hold my breath. Not to mention it’s eating into time I should be working. Whenever the boss would come by I had to keep alt+tabbing from the writing and then I realized I had to alt+tab away from SDMB and onto some actual work - lol.
Can’t stop writing.
…
I think I may just have to start a Pit thread about how frickin’ annoying these wads of cash falling from the sky are.
much muttering and fist-shaking, followed by soft whimpering
I’m a little reluctant to post much of what I’m generally satisfied (at the moment) with, and silly thing is that, when I am satisfied with it, it’s pretty much invisible. I’ll post a small bit of an old revision and see if I can’t explain what I’m trying to do, though.
Footnotes wouldn’t solve the problem that I’ve created for myself, which is fairly large jumps in the narrative between chapters due to the weird, obsessive way that I came up with the chapter order. I considered putting “scrapbook” material in between the chapters to fill in the gaps, but decided that it’s too cheesy – not to mention a hassle for printing, if, god willing, it ever gets the point where I’m comfortable submitting it. I just keep trying to make it flow properly while sticking to the original plan. It’s getting better, anyway, but it’s hard. I’ll try to spell out the constraints I put on it, and tell me if you don’t think is the most quixotic thing you’ve ever heard.
The main story arc is cryptically an amalgam* of the myth of Orpheus, the Chemical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz, Cab Calloway’s Minnie the Moocher songs, and parts of Lewis Carroll’s personal life, but has to appear totally naturalist. It’s a story about a group of friends who enjoy some success in a venture, until the main couple get messed up on smack, have some troubles, and end up getting themselves dead in Chinatown. It’s not as bleak as it sounds, really. (I hope not, anyway, because most of it’s sort of a roman à clef.)
It’s hard writing a straight narrative for this reason: (You’ll laugh. I know you will. You should.) Each of my characters is associated with an I Ching trigram. Each chapter is a reflection of the hexagram formed by the trigrams two characters featured (or with themselves, when the characters are alone,) dependant on who’s dominant in the scene. The hexagram is modified by that of the chapters that follow or precede it. (Changing lines.) (The characters also have strict colour-symbolism associated with them, and are shaped by Chinese astrology.)
So chapter one is Willhelm alone. Willhelm’s trigram is “Earth,” and he’s as earthy as you get. “Earth” over “Earth” yields hexagram 2. This chapter is Willhelm tending his basement garden – and everything that he does down there reflects an emergent situation with him, his friend Joe, and a stripper he’s been playing sugar-daddy to, Minerva.
Chapter two is “Heidi” alone. (“Heido Ho,” actually. I’d think that was too silly to use, if I didn’t know of a real person with that name. No resemblance.) Heidi’s another dancer at the club Minerva works at. Her trigram is “Marsh” and Marsh/Marsh is hexagram 58, “Pleasure.” This chapter is her relaxing at home before going in to work and reflecting on her situation and aspirations.
The next chapter is Heidi arriving at work, where she has a long gripe session with Minerva about life, the universe, and everything – but mainly their situation. Minerva’s trigram is “Water”, so this chapter is Marsh over Water hexagram 47, (Oppression.)
The chapter after that, she’s waiting for Willhelm to meet her after work. (He never shows up.) While she’s waiting, she meets Charlie, an eccentric ex-deacon who’s enthusiastic about making unusual “art” films. (Wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more.) His trigram,is “heaven” (or “metal”), so the hexagram is #5, “Waiting.”
Going back to chapter one, the next chapter’s hexagram is 58, so that yields the changing lines 6 at 5 and 6 at 4, which is reflected in the text in apparently mundane ways – Willhelm thinking about a gift he’d picked up for Minerva, and bagging up a bunch of dried leaf-cuttings for Joe to make hash oil with.
Not a lot of action in that chapter, which just sets up Willhelm, who’s more of a fifth business than anything else, bringing everyone together and encouraging them to collaborate. Hopefully I can use it to explain how I’ve obsessing over the obscure stuff, though.
It starts with the basement garden partly because it’s so natural for “Earth,” but also because it allows me to blather on (without being explicit) about one of the central (but cryptic) themes of the book – the interplay of elements in Chinese mysticism: air, earth, fire, water, and wood. (All represented by principal characters, as well.) Cut most of that out in the post, but you get the idea; the mentions of those elements, while literal, also relate to relationships between the character. Joe is “fire,” creative, and so Will’s thoughts regarding the lights also apply to him. Min is “water,” so what’s going on with water is a reflection of what’s happening with their relationship. The yellow skirt is from the I Ching hexagram, but is also foreshadowing where that’s going. Yellow is Joe’s color. Will introduces him to Min, and is gobsmacked when she transfers her affections to him. Will is a guy with a plan, owns his own business and property, subsidizes through various illicit ventures, etc. Joe is a barely-functional muddle-headed nicotine-stained dope fiend who makes animation from discarded gear and material and spends the rest of his time making/extracting mind-altering substances like LSA, psilocybin, atropine, THC acetate, etc. in his workshop, which he insists is alchemy and done strictly with the aim of locating the Philosopher’s Stone and attaining higher consciousness. He seems determined never to get ahead, and won’t explicitly sell any of the valuable drugs he produces – so Will gives him a place to live and work in exchange for his product. (He does messed up things like presenting Will with a crude white compressed pill. “Calcinate of homunculi” Turns out this is refined psilocybin. He waits until Will is tripping hard to show him that he grows the febrile mushrooms in vitro on his own shit, which he’s transmuted in order to demonstrate that sacred things begin in corruption, just like it says in the Emerald Tablet.
Anyway, that was way too verbose, and didn’t really do anything in the way of showing how the mundane action is modelled on various things simultaneously. Maybe just a quick description of one instance of that. Much later, after Charlie has put Min onto a tincture of opium that he gets on the sly from a nice herbalist in Chinatown, Joe leaves Charlie’s “studio” (an SRO in the Dodgson Hotel on East Hastings,) he goes West on Hastings and crosses at Carroll St., where he meets a dealer that’s been hanging about. The dealer has natty old dreadlocks, dark sunglasses, and is wearing a ratty old Styx shirt. That’s about as overt as I like my references to be. Not very – but hopefully enough that they might be picked up on if taken in aggregate.
Anyway, blah blah blah. Sorry.
*That’s a little alchemy joke.