Trimming the Text

One of my flaws as a writer is writing too much. I confess to overwriting, adding in long descriptions because I'm not sure the reader will understand if I'm terse. Sometimes I add a short paragraph to flesh out a setting or a character, how they behaved in an earlier moment to give the reader a sense of this person's identity, quirks, or ways of dealing with others. Unfortunately, I really like some of these paragraphs and they tend to survive repeated revisions. When I reach the trimming stage, I go after them. It isn't always easy, but I know I have to cut them.

 

Most of us have learned to skip, omit, erase adverbs. They slow down the reader, entangle her in an unnecessary stop along the way, and add nothing that isn't better expressed by recasting the sentence and revealing character or behavior through action. Adjectives can be useful, but, again, if they show up too often I rewrite the sentence and remind myself there are better ways of getting the point across.

 

Now that I'm an editor for a new anthology I'm more conscious than ever of overwriting, one of my bad habits and apparently one that a lot of other writers suffer from. This is too bad because some of the stories I read would be good choices for the anthology if the writer had trimmed the text, removing unnecessary words and overlengthy paragraphs.

 

George Saunders recognizes this weakness in himself as well as the rest of us, and addresses it in his book on short fiction, A Swim in a Pond in the Rain. Saunders includes an exercise in an appendix that asks the writer to cut a six-hundred-word passage down to three hundred words. It sounds easy but it isn't. Of course, anyone can slash three hundred words but the goal isn't just to reduce the number of words but to remove the clutter and let the essence of the piece emerge, stronger and clearer. I think about this whenever I think I've finished a story and have arrived at the final stages of editing. I think I'm looking for typos and missing words, but really I'm looking at all those unnecessary lines, the extras that I couldn't let go of. I reread and trim, I read aloud and trim, I read again looking for more words to trim. 

 

Trimming forces me to find the essence of each line, the core idea and expression. When I do the story moves swiftly and clearly, and the point of each line is made, sharp and quick. The reader doesn't know what has been taken out. She or he only knows how well the story moves, how precise and exact the telling. At least, that's what I hope happens.

Writers and Predators

Over the last several months I've listened to a writer friend talk about the challenges of working with a small press. He's an excellent writer and tells gritty stories based on his experience as a lawyer. I wasn't surprised that he was able to sell his novel, as hard as it is today to get published, but the press that picked him up has turned a high moment in his life into a nightmare.

This post isn't about how bad a predatory press can be when the purpose of the offer is to reel in a new writer who will be pushed and prodded and almost forced into hiring their editors to "fix" and "finish" and "polish" his novel. Before signing with them, the writer did everything he knew he should do, talking with others published by this press, reading the contract carefully, and considering other possibilities. He knew I was skeptical, and I understood how much this meant to him. After signing, he approached the entire process professionally, met all the deadlines despite the editor's tightening the screws on him. Near the end he had to face down a patently illegal rights grab, and did so. But in the end, the experience was worse than anything he could have imagined. (Well, maybe not. He's got a pretty good imagination.)

 

The reason I'm talking about the experience here is because on my FB page another new writer announced with great joy that she had just signed with the same press for her first novel. She's over the moon. She's not someone I know personally—I only see her comments occasionally on my page—but all I could think about was what was in store for her. Since many writers are beaten down by a bullying "editor" in one of these predatory outfits, I wondered if she'd stand up to them, meet the absurd deadlines for rewrites, etc., or cave in and pay for their "editors" to do the work. The goal of many of these small "presses" is to get income from writers, not to publish and promote work so that the writer earns royalties.

 

This country is full of people preying on writers. Every week I get a few "offers" from PR outfits who have found my second or third or tenth novel on the web and want me to know that this book is just ripe for a break-out—with their help, of course. I also hear from "editors" who are expanding their line and my books seem just "perfect" for their house. I'm sure they have cousins in Nigeria or wherever those generous people live who want to give me a few million dollars just for helping them out with my banking information.

 

I did not contact the second writer in question and tell her what I knew about the press. I've thought about this, and I don't know if I am right or wrong. She has signed the contract, so she's committed. But my heart goes out to her knowing what she's about to experience.

 

So, two rules if you are a writer looking for a publishing house.

 

First, the publisher gives you money and pays you royalties. The publisher pays for the editor, proofreader, designer, and publicist. You do not pay them and you do not do their work for them.

 

Second, if you are thinking of signing (or have signed) with a small press, visit Writer Beware (link below), type in the name, and read everything that comes up. If what you find concerns you, be prepared. Get out of your contract if you can. Otherwise, be ready to write fast, sometimes needlessly, to meet absurd deadlines. And don't expect any warm and fuzzy lunches with your "editor."

 

And if you're a traditionally published writer or successfully published indie writer, I have a question for you. Would you have contacted the woman who had just signed and told her what you know?  Let me know what you think.

 

https://www.sfwa.org/other-resources/for-authors/writer-beware/

 

In the future, after they finish their new site, also check out Preditors and Editors. Follow their progress on FB. 

 

https://www.facebook.com/prededitors/

Taking Out the Errors and Filling in the Blanks

I’ve been working on the second book in a new series that I’m hoping my agent will sell. She has the first book, and I have an eighty-thousand-word draft of the second. That’s a fairly long draft, but as I read it over I can see I’ve missed a few things.

The story concerns one of the heroine’s cousins and his wife. This is his second wife, and he has two children, a son by his first wife, now deceased, and a daughter by his second wife. I’ve set up the story with a reasonable number of suspects, developed and set out clues, explored the characters so that readers can see their motivations if not their guilt, and explored the setting and its influence on people’s behavior. In the end I have what I think is a sound confrontation scene, a few surprises, and, of course, changes in the protagonist’s life. What have I missed?

I missed the obvious. The teenage son is pivotal to the crime and its aftermath, though he is never a suspect. He is mentioned by the parents, the high school principal, the town librarian, and some other characters. He comes up in conversation, and he triggers some significant developments. So what have I missed? The protagonist never talks to him.

The protagonist is Felicity O’Brien, who owns a farm in a small community in a very rural part of New England. She talks to just about everyone, but somehow I managed to get her through this entire crime story without ever having her talk to one of the key players. I’ve set out to rectify the omission, with several scenes lined up at crucial points in the story.

I don’t think I’m the only one who falls into this trap. Indeed, Agatha Christie used the omission of the obvious as a clue (and the title) of one of her mysteries, Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? (1934). I can’t speak for other writers, but I know that I sometimes focus so closely on what’s happening on the page that I miss details (and bigger things too) I should be including—location, time of day, day of the week, name of the character I’m writing about, and a number of other details. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was famous for changing his character’s eye color.

Correcting these errors is the work of the near-final draft and a good beta editor. But let’s face it. It is impossible to be both human and a perfect writer. But it is possible to look for errors and omissions and correct them. You can take this too far, and be obsessed about the text and miss the story itself, but overall, every writer should want the text to be as clean and as complete as possible.

When I began working on the scenes for the teenage son, I discovered other parts of the story I could strengthen. One change suggested others, and once again I followed them through the story. My task now is to fill in the blanks I’ve created, and make sure every detail is present and makes sense.

For a longer discussion of errors in books, you may enjoy this article on editors who also make mistakes: http://penultimateword.com/editing-blogs/when-editors-make-mistakes/

Overused Words

One of the last things I do when I’m finishing a short story is read for overused words. Most of these are easy to recognize—awesome, literally, really, and the like. They have migrated into the written word from casual conversation, trendy TV comedians, and the younger generation. I hear these the minute they come out of my mouth, or fingers on the keyboard. But these are not the words I’m most concerned about.

Each of us has our own distinctive verbal tics and habits, and those are the easiest to miss. We think they sound right, so we don’t hear the repetition, or echoes as I call them. To ferret out these habits of writing, I search on Find/Replace, and consider each sentence or phrase that pops up. Most of them I rewrite, tightening the passage and excising unnecessary words.

In a recent short story, I found I had used  -thing words almost 40 times in 6,000 words. These are so common as to be almost invisible—nothing, something, anything, as well as thing. Removing these forced me to be specific, editing flabby phrasing into a more muscular passage. (I almost used the word “robust,” but that’s one of the overused words I’m trying to avoid.)

One immediate benefit of highlighting a poor verbal habit, such as overusing looked, is that it forces me to examine the character more closely and think hard about what she or he is doing. Is she admiring the view, sneaking a peek at a stranger, or staring at an old friend now so changed she almost didn’t recognize him? Why does it matter that he is “looking” at a person or scene? Is he calculating the next move, or is he trying to identify the person? Making these changes doesn’t necessarily mean more detail, but it does mean greater precision.

I’m fortunate to have three beta readers who together spot my verbal tics and bring them to my attention. As I go about revising those passages, I usually identify other infelicitous expressions. By the time I’m finished, the manuscript is tight and clean, and reads smoothly, without echoes or awkwardness or repetitions.

“Overused” words is a popular topic on various sites for writers, and I visited several. To read a list of words considered overused in writing today, go to:

https://www.consultpivotal.com/commonly_overused.htm

To read my fiction, go here:

https://www.amazon.com/Susan-Oleksiw/e/B001JS3P7C

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/SusanOleksiw

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/susan+oleksiw?_requestid=1017995

The First Fifty Pages

Every writer learns early on the importance of the first fifty pages in a novel (or the first paragraph in a short story). Writing teachers and professional writers drum this into the student in every class, and add the comment to every manuscript they critique. And there's nothing wrong with this advice. The opening of any work of fiction is crucial to establishing the story and then the author as a worthwhile storyteller. But there is a downside to this advice.

For the decades I've been reading fiction in all genres, and especially mysteries, I've often been hooked by the opening paragraphs and then watched the story fade. This is more likely to happen in literary fiction than in crime fiction, but it is a problem in every genre. Sometimes this is called the problem of the sagging middle, or the ending that is more "talky" that anything else.

The emphasis on the opening pages or paragraphs stems from a very practical consideration. Editors read with the hope of finding something that will tell them the book (or story) isn't working and they can stop reading this one and move on to the next in the pile of mss filling their offices. The emphasis on the first fifty pages is basically a survival tool for editors. There is an assumption that if the writer can get the reader fifty pages into the story, he or she will want to keep reading to find out what happens. That isn't always true, but the belief is strong. I've fallen into the trap set by this dictum of the first fifty pages on both sides.

As an editor for The Larcom Review and The Larcom Press, and an occasional reader for contests, I looked for a sign that the author couldn't sustain the story over three hundred pages. And I looked for that sign in the first fifty. If a ms seemed promising I skipped ahead to page one hundred and then two hundred, to see if the writer could still keep my interest.

As a writer, I have found myself going over and over the first few chapters, to make sure they set the stage, establish character, and pose an enticing problem. But I know there is more. I have to avoid the trap of lavishing attention on the opening and skimping on the rest of the book.

To make sure I don't fall into the trap of focusing more attention on the beginning than the rest of the book I work on the ms in chunks, with a list of clues/details that have to be distributed throughout the story.

Despite my best efforts to avoid the trap of the first fifty pages, I fall into it just like every other writer. And then I work to climb out by giving as much attention to the rest of the book.

"Resting" as Part of Writing and Editing

Writers share lots of practices and habits without thinking they have anything in common with each other. As practitioners of a solitary profession, we tend to think we’re entirely on our own. But we do share practices that help us develop and complete our work.

I’m a strong advocate of writing a fairly complete rough draft, working on that until it is nearly polished, and then setting it aside for one to three months, depending on the length of the work (a short story or novel, for example). I leave myself enough time to become “unfamiliar” with the work so that when I return to it I will read something with a fresh perspective, discover ideas I didn’t know I was including and characters who surprised me, and I will notice where the writing gets mushy and the story line is rushed. I will see the flaws, and I hope the occasional successful passage.

But what will I do during this waiting period? Sometimes I like to alternate between an Anita Ray story and a Joe Silva mystery. I could start another writing project, perhaps another novel, but that might interfere with my ability to return to the original mss, the one that is settling and aging nicely on the corner of my desk. I could work on book reviews or short blog posts, but I do that anyway throughout the week. I could begin another short story, something that won’t take the entire waiting time but enough of it. Or I could resurrect an earlier story started and abandoned. 

This time around I’m resurrecting a forgotten Anita Ray short story, one that I abandoned and forgot about. As I read it over I can see where I went wrong—three terrific murder suspects but no murder. Instead I originally wanted to concentrate on a different sort of crime, something akin to espionage, but that meant the story would meander for a while and lose its coherence. Perhaps the idea is better suited to a novel or novella rather than a short story. But now I want to use the setting and characters and set-up for a story, so I have begun reworking it. As I trim dialogue, insert a murder scene, and recast one or two characters, I find I have a much better, tighter story.

The story has been sitting forgotten for over two years, but the lovely thing about computers is that it’s still there, easily accessible and readable. I’ve been working on this story for a week now, rethinking and rewriting. Meanwhile, my unconscious has been sending me snippets of dialogue to incorporate into the “resting” novel when I return to it, and problems I had left unsolved or solved awkwardly now seem to have ready and elegant solutions.

The period of “resting” a story or novel is also a different way of working on them. By the end of the month I’ll have a reworked and nearly finished Anita Ray short story and be several steps ahead in completing the novel I set aside a few weeks ago.

John Gardner, author of The Art of Fiction and other books on writing as well as several novels, once commented that novelists can be slow thinkers, slow to come to solutions, by which he meant writers should be willing to wait for the right solution to come along rather than jumping at the first idea they have. Don’t grab the first idea, the first twist. Let the story rest and see what rises to the surface over time. After a period of time away from the work, I find it easier to see what needs to be reworked and where I can strengthen the story.