Tag Archive for: Editing

Narwahl!!

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by Bethany Maines

It seems like I’ve been thinking more about structure and
organization lately.  From trying
to tame my husbands hoarder tendencies, to how to enhance the drama in a novel,
everywhere I look it feels like everything needs more structure. 
To solve my husband’s “issue” I’ve decided that some of his
things need to go live out in the carport.  Which is a bit like telling a writer that some of their
favorite parts need to get axed from a manuscript.  First, you lead them along the path of logic and hope that they
decide for themselves that something has to go, and then eventually you just
blurt it out – “That doesn’t fit.” 
In my husband’s case, I mean, quite literally, we cannot fit anymore in
the spare bedroom.  In the case of
a manuscript it’s more like, “This doesn’t sound anything like the rest of your
book and it’s a bit of a tangent from the plot.  Do you really need it?” 
But some things do belong in the house.  It’s just that being buried in the
closet doesn’t exactly display them to their best advantage.  I’ve got this pretty well figured out
in my house.  I know what I like
and I have a pretty good idea of what would be useful to us.  (Hint: it’s bookcases, MORE bookcases.)
But in a book, it’s a little more difficult. Do I need this part about the narwhal?  (Hint: Yes, when it comes to narwahl’s
the answer is always yes.)  Ok, so
I need the narwhal, but would it look better over here?  Or maybe it would look better if I
removed this part about the teakettle that’s sitting next to it?  What makes for the biggest dramatic
reveal of a narwhal?  This is where
editors, beta readers, and interior decorators come in extremely handy.  With an educated eye they can tell you
what will create a focal point and what you should blur over.
But I suppose an “educated eye” is the key phrase
there.  Five years ago, I couldn’t
tell you with any certainty, what belonged in a book and what was something I
just happened to like.  The more I
read, the more clarity I get on what creates dramatic continuity and what
pieces, while possibly beautiful, funny, or perfect in their own right, don’t
belong in the manuscript.  Each
book is it’s own learning process, but each book does teach me something.  Hopefully, by the time I’m oh… say 95,
I’ll have this whole writing thing figured out.
Bethany Maines is the author of
the Carrie Mae Mystery series and Tales from the City of Destiny. You can also view the Carrie Mae youtube
video or catch up with her on Twitter and
Facebook.

How to Cut?

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by Bethany Maines

On my first novel, Bulletproof Mascara, my agent strongly recommended removing a
few chunks of the manuscript that she considered extraneous to just about
everything. This was a complete misperception. Those chunks of writing were
vitally, vitally important to the entire fabric of book. Although, to be
honest, I now don’t remember what those vital chunks were, and the book is
undoubtedly better off without them. At the time, however, the advice was very
difficult to hear and I resisted it mightily. I also remember that as she
recommended painfully amputating these important bits she would say,
soothingly, sadly, sympathetically, “I know, but maybe you can use them in
something else.”
I puzzled over that phrase after I hung up the phone.
Something else? What could she have possibly meant? Maybe she meant that I
could use that scene in a sequel? But the situations were kind of specific –
they couldn’t just be transplanted. And having snipped them out and written
over them, they couldn’t be flashbacks. Maybe she meant that they could be used
in another story – transplant different characters into those scenes. Now, that
was a completely ridiculous suggestion. Those events happened to those people.
You can’t just go plopping whole new people into those events. Which, frankly,
is just proof that writer’s are one step away from having diagnosable mental
health disorders featuring false realities and voices of people who aren’t
really there.
Eventually, I decided that what she really meant was,
“However, you have to wrap your mind around this to make it ok – do it, because
it’s for the greater good of the book.” Of course, the idea that someone else
might have a better grasp on what my story and book should be is also a hard
thing for a writer to wrap their mind around. Eventually, I did come to peace
with both concepts, but I find that as I help other writers through the editing
process, that I still don’t know what to tell them when I advise cutting out
favorite scenes. Should I suggest that they can “use them in something else” or
do I just give it to them straight – your book is better off without this scene
(even though you love it and sweated over it)? For all of you writers out
there, what has helped you come to terms with cutting out beloved moments?

Bethany Maines is the author of
the Carrie Mae Mystery series and Tales from the City of Destiny. You can also view the Carrie Mae youtube
video or catch up with her on Twitter.

Truth or Typos

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by Bethany Maines

Last night, I had a dream about a “friend” I haven’t seen in
about five years.  My dream
revolved around the fact that my old friend had published a book and she was
showing it to me in (what some might consider) a really snotty way.  Never mind that in real life she never
had any interest in writing and that this scenario is entirely unlikely. It was
a dream, so we’re just going to go with it, ok?  Anyway, I opened the book and saw that the entire preface
was entirely covered in typos. I immediately wanted to hand her the business
cards of every editor I’ve ever met, but my family told me that the book was
published now and that there wasn’t much point and it would only offend her.
Basically, they told me to keep my mouth shut. This annoyed me so much that I
woke myself up.
There was quite a bit of tossing and turning as I tried to
get back to sleep.  Not only was I annoyed about the typos, but thinking of this “friend” annoys me. I
put “friend” in quotes, because I think, at this point, we can safely say that
this particular woman and I are no longer friends.
Like any adult, I have a few friends that got lost along the
way, but, in general, I haven’t gotten rid of many people. For one thing,
making friends is hard, and I’m lazy – I’d really prefer not to go through that
effort again. But also, the friends I do keep around are, what I suppose my
grandmother would call, “true blue.” These girls know where the bodies are
buried, where the bridal shower photos are hidden, and all the words to Summer
Nights from Grease. Also, for reasons too complex to go into, we can do an
amazing rendition of Love Shack from the B-52’s. You don’t just memorize Love
Shack on a whim, so losing a member of the band is difficult.  
Or at least it should have been. But the
last conversation my ex-friend and I had was when she called to announce that she was pregnant
and I said, “Great, I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’m getting married next
month.” Clearly, we’d drifted apart. Our steadily widening continental divide
was fairly predictable, not entirely her fault, and kind of my choice (I stopped calling her
and she never noticed), so why does it still bug me when she turns up in a
dream? Am I mad at her failure as a friend or mine?  Or am I just annoyed by the typos?
Bethany Maines is
the author of Bulletproof Mascara, Compact With the Devil and Supporting
the Girls, as well as The Dragon Incident, the first short in her new series Tales from the City of Destiny. You can also view the Carrie Mae youtube video or catch up with her at www.bethanymaines.com.  

Writing is Like Getting Punched in the Face

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or
Your Sensei-ism of the Day

by Bethany Maines

A member of my writer’s group, who is at the relative beginning of her writing journey, recently turned in a story for critique and my response was that clearly the middle sucked and it needed to be totally restructured, but other than that the story was great. Or at least, that’s probably what I sounded like to her. She understood that I wasn’t trying to be mean, but, as another member of our group pointed out, she probably hadn’t been expecting a critique of that magnitude, and was probably more hoping for a stamp of approval, with maybe a “just change a few lines here or there.”  And then I had a sharp memory that I used to feel the same way (and occasionally I still do).
One of the other things I study, besides writing, is karate. Now, the first thing everyone asks is, “What belt are you?”  So let’s just get this out of the way now. I’m a third degree black belt. Most people have no idea what that means, but it sounds impressive, so they give enthusiastic nods. (Or if you’re that dillhole trying to date a black belt, you make an ineffectual grab and say, “What would you do if I did this?”  Um…. Throw you on the floor and then watch how you never call again?  Right, that’s what I thought.)  There are many belts between white (absolute beginner) and black, and each one is an achievement that is worthy of being bragged about. Sadly for poor karate students talking to random acquaintances, if it ain’t black, it ain’t nothin’.  So if you know a karate student and they say “green,” congratulate them on their hard work and, unless they’re six, please don’t ask them to show you anything. If they’re six, then ask away, because that’s just plain adorable. But, word to the wise, if you’re a dude protect your crotch (unless you’ve got the video camera rolling and want to win $10,000 on America’s Funniest Home Videos), because we all know how coordinated your average six year old is.
Anyway, back to the point (why does everyone always doubt I have one?). I’ve been a sensei (teacher) for long enough that I’ve started to see trends or traits in the course of a karate student’s journey. One of the most common beginner traits is that once a student has learned a technique, say reverse punch, they consider it complete. Why would we revisit the topic? And then I have to break it to them that I’ve been learning my reverse punch for about eleven years now. And I’ll learn some more about it tonight when I go into the dojo. Each time I cross the threshold and bow to the dojo, whether or not I’m teaching the class, I’m there to learn.
But when you’re a white belt, you’d really just like to get your reverse punch signed off so you can test for the next belt. Being told to go back and do it again can be very disheartening, but from the black belt perspective it can also be very freeing. I’m free to get the first one wrong (and the third, and the fifth, and the twenty-fifth) because I’m going to do it again.  With karate, and with writing, there is always the opportunity to go back the next day and do it again.
I know that when I started writing, I didn’t want to edit.  And then I rewrote my first novel 9.5 times.  And believe me, I wanted to stop at about 6.  But after awhile, I started to think that a novel is a fluid thing with endless permutations of how it can be put together. I can’t be hamstrung by the idea that the first draft has to be the finished draft; by accepting that I’m going to be wrong I free myself to create something better.
They say there are very few masters in karate, but many students – meaning that, while some may be more advanced, we are all still learning.  I believe the same can be said of writing. 

Get out your dancing shoes

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by: Joelle Charbonneau
Let the trumpets and cymbals sound. Tell the band to strike up a tune because we are having a party. I am celebrating the completion of my new novel. Hurray! And at the end of this post I plan on giving something away to complete the celebration. So stay tuned.
Writing this manuscript was a great deal of fun and now comes the real work – editing it. There are a lot of schools of thought on how and when you should edit. And since I tend to like to try new things will admit that I’ve probably tried them all.

There are a lot of writers who actually edit as they write their first draft. Susan Elizabeth Philips is one who edits what she wrote the previous day before getting down to writing new pages. That way the story gets cleaned up and the characters are fresh in her head when she gets down to business. It might take longer to get the manuscript written, but hey – it is ready to go out the door when you’re done. This one has never worked for me, but Susan’s writing rocks. Which clearly means I am doing something wrong.

A lot of people say that once a book is finished you should stick it in a drawer for a couple of weeks so you have enough distance that you can look at your work with a fresh eye. This was one of those things my high school English teachers always told me to do. And hey – it sounded great, but during my high school years I worked best under pressure. As in midnight before the paper is due at 8AM kind of pressure. (And yes for all my college friends – I confess. I did this in college, too.) Fresh eyes? HA! I was happy to settle for slightly reddened eyes. But while I didn’t use this much in my early years, I feel it has huge merit and I’ve used it more than once to what I hope was great success. Distance between you and your writing means you’ll actually see what is written on the page instead of what you intended to write.

Which brings me to method number three. This won’t come as a surprise to my family or my friends, but I am kind of the impatient sort. If there is work to be done, I want to do it NOW! Which is why I ask (beg, bribe, threaten) my fabulous beta reader and wonderful husband to read along as I write. (Yes, our marriage survives this, which is a testament to his patience or my cooking – you can decide which.) He makes notes on the manuscript which gives me a starting point when I go back and start revising. Which tends to be the day after I finish the book. And yes – you guessed it. I have already started revising my current manuscript. I can’t help myself.

Which way is best? You tell me. Is there one editing plan that works better for you than another? Did you revise one way in high school and change your style in college? I really want to know.

And for all of you still reading this post – I have an extra ARC copy of SKATING OVER THE LINE (Sept. 27, St. Martin’s Minotaur) that I am going to give away to one commenter today! Please leave your name and e-mail address in the comments line so I can get a hold of the winner. I’ll do the drawing after midnight so get your comments in before then.
Thanks for celebrating with me.

Atkins Editing: Thick Meat, No Bread

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Rachel Brady is celebrating the release of Final Approach this week with five days of freebies at her blog. Click through to Write It Anyway and enter to win your choice of prizes. Today’s the last day!

Lately I’ve been thinking about revisions, but more on that shortly. First I’d like to thank the Stiletto ladies for inviting me back. I feel like a lucky freshman invited to sit with the cool seniors in the school cafeteria. Our lunch conversation today has to do with how editorial comments are like food. Slide up your tray and have a seat.

Not long ago I found a post about critiques in which the sandwich technique was explained. The suggestion was to structure a critique the way you’d build a sandwich—in this case, with constructive criticism sandwiched between two positives.

For example: “I like the story idea, but your characters could be fleshed out more. Nice use of dialogue, though.”

Or maybe: “Nice hook. You might consider condensing the restaurant scene . . . it ran on a bit long. But I liked that paranoid waiter.”

You get the idea.

I favor this approach and promise everyone reading this that I will remember and apply it forever, now that I have experienced Atkins Editing.

Earlier this month, my editor looked over the early pages of Book 2 and served up an enormous, Dagwood style, meaty sandwich. Turkey! Ham! Pastrami! Salami! (For purposes of my story, let’s pretend these are bad things.) Only problem with the sandwich? No bread.

My first reaction was to eat cookies but finding none in my house, I self-medicated on pretzels instead. Calorically speaking, this was lucky. Where editorial feedback is concerned, I later decided, cookies should be treated like handguns. Let’s put a 24-hour waiting period between revision comments and cookies. At least in my house.

Enter irony.

The same day I got the pages back, an interview I’d done for Novel Journey ran. Upon learning of my writerly depression, my friend Cathy was quick to send back a quote from my own interview. She’s sassy that way:

NJ: What is your best advice on maintaining a good editor-author relationship?

Me: Trust your editor. Accept that writing and editing are different skills. A talented editor can make your work shine if you’re willing to step back and seriously consider her suggestions. You both want the same thing: the best story possible.

I read the words and wondered who in her right mind would say something thing like that. But that was the problem. I wasn’t in my right mind again yet. The high protein, zero carb non-sandwich was still too deli fresh for me to think straight.

There is a happy ending.

The next day I received an e-mail from my editor explaining that she’d jotted her notes on the manuscript hastily before leaving town, intending to use them as reminders to herself later when she wrote my revision letter. The marked manuscript went into the office mail before she elaborated on her notes. This misfortune resulted in my unwrapping all that ham.

Her letter was very reassuring, altogether kind, and gave me the same warm feeling as joining Maggie, the Evelyns, Marilyn, and Susan at the cool table. There was a sandwich afterall. It started with, “While there is much to like I am uneasy on several counts.” Bread.

It helped to understand her intentions: “This second novel is always the hardest to write, and by far the hardest to sell. Everyone cuts the author a break with a first novel and comes out with knives sharpened for the second. You don’t want to give anyone grounds for disappointment or carving up the book.”

My favorite was, “I hope you don’t think I’m negative about your work, I like it. I’m trying to help you dodge the critical traps that beset most authors.” Bread with mayo—technical advice coupled with mentorship and foresight.

There are lessons here.

Trust your editor. Embrace carbs. Bon appétit.

Rachel Brady

After “The End”

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“The End.”

The sense of euphoria lasted about 24 hours after the Northern half of Evelyn David typed those magic words. She claimed it was her turn since I’d typed them for Murder Off the Books.

What my family and friends all refer to as “The Book” is done. Our manuscript for Murder Takes the Cake is finished!

Hurrah!

Now it’s time for the nitty-gritty part of writing—self editing and formatting the manuscript.

Yea! Not!

We’re in a dash to slash passive verbs, count the dots in ellipses, and conduct a head count of all our plot bunnies. We need to objectively examine each scene and decide if it’s necessary. Does it add to the plot; provide an important clue or red herring; give depth to a character? Or, as we sometimes discover, is a scene just useless padding, words that increase the page count without offering any other added value.

We also need to prepare the manuscript in the right format. That means literally going through every sentence to be sure that we have doubled-spaced after each period, question mark, and exclamation point. Why not just use the search and replace function? Because sometimes a sentence is enclosed within quotation marks, so a double space after a period doesn’t belong. As the Northern half often says, Oy!

This is not the fun part for me. This is like cleaning the kitchen after cooking and enjoying an elaborate feast. It has to be done, but it’s not fun.

Both halves of Evelyn David have reread “The Book” from start to finish at least four times over the past couple of days. The Northern half’s husband was the first to read the full draft. He gave it a thumbs-up and advised us on our hard liquor choices for the book. We needed an expensive malt whiskey for our plot. I didn’t have a clue. Me? I’m a connoisseur of wine coolers. Smirnoff’s Green Apple Bite is my alcoholic beverage of choice. For some reason I haven’t been able to envision a scene where “Mac Sullivan,” a retired D.C. police detective orders a Green Apple Bite.

We’ll read “The Book” a dozen times more before we show it to a couple of eagle-eyed friends for proof-reading. Tonight, I’m hoping to get through about 5 chapters before giving my eyes a rest from the computer screen, then I’ll pass the book (electronically) back to the New York half. We’ll continue to work off of one copy now that we’re in the home stretch.

As I told a group at the Will Rogers Public Library in Claremore, Oklahoma on Monday night, writing a book is like riding a bicycle. By the time you’re coasting down the hill, enjoying two full minutes of the wind blowing your hair and reveling in your well-deserved sense of accomplishment, you forget the long days of pedaling up the slope. You forget the excruciating leg cramps, the painful blisters, the heat of the sun beating down on your head, the sharp rocks in your shoes, the multiple flat tires, and …. Well you get the idea.

Anyone for a bike ride?

Evelyn David

Deleted Scenes

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Award-winning investigative reporter–and now Agatha nominee–Hank Phillippi Ryan is currently on the air at Boston’s NBC affiliate, where she’s broken big stories for the past 22 years. Along with her 24 EMMYs, Hank’s won dozens of other journalism honors. She’s been a legislative aide in the United States Senate (working on the Freedom of Information Act) and worked at Rolling Stone Magazine with Hunter S. Thompson. Her first mysteries, Prime Time and Face Time, were best sellers. Air Time and Drive Time are coming soon from MIRA. And this just in: Prime Time is an AGATHA nominee for Best First Mystery.

Thirty (or so) years ago, when I was just starting as a TV reporter, my first news director (think Lou Grant) gave me some advice that baffled me at the time. He said, “The hardest part about writing a news story is deciding what to leave out.”

I was such a newbie, I thought the hardest part about writing a news story was—well, everything. But as I began to learn my craft, I realized he was right. You don’t have to “empty your notebook” into your story. You don’t have to tell everything you know.

And now, writing mysteries, isn’t it the same?

When I finished the first draft of Prime Time, I joyfully took the floppy disk with my dear first novel on it to the Kinko’s down the block from Channel 7. “Could you print this for me?” I asked. I lowered my eyes, then looked modestly back up at the copy kid. “It’s my novel.”

“Sure, lady,” he said. Not that impressed. But I was—exultant—that soon I would soon see my very first manuscript printed out on actual paper.

Two hours later, I returned as instructed. This time the kid said, “Oh, you’re the one with the novel.” “Yes,” I replied, fluttering my eyelashes, wondering if maybe he had a sister or mom who would eventually love it.

He bent down under the counter, and pulled out a ream box of paper. “Oh, thanks,” I said, and turned toward the cash register.

“Hang on,” he replied. He leaned back down under the counter, and pulled out another ream box of paper. “Here’s the rest of it,” he said, placing it on the counter. “Guess your book’s pretty long.”

I had neglected to number the pages. But, turned out, it was 723. Seven hundred and twenty three pages.

And that meant Four. Hundred. Pages. Had to go.

Which brings us back to my news director. He was right again. I had to decide which of my precious words to leave out. More on that in a minute.

Last night, my husband and I watched a pretty good movie on DVD. When it was over, I clicked to the deleted scenes. “Why do you always want to watch the deleted scenes?” Jonathan asked. “They’re deleted.”

But you know why. Those deleted scenes—and the reasons the director gives for cutting them—are a little private seminar-on-the-couch on how to decide what to leave out. It works for movies, it works for our mysteries.

For instance. One scene by itself was perfectly good. But the director explained it had to be cut because it would slow the action.

In my head, I rewound, and played that part of the movie back including the deleted scene. He was right. It would have dragged.

He moved on to another very well-acted scene, where two characters slowly learned more about each other. I don’t think I imagined the regret I heard in his voice, as he described how tough it was to inform the actors that this emotional and well-shot scene was going to hit the cutting room floor. But, his analysis showed, nothing was really learned. The plot wasn’t advanced. Sorry, guys. Cut.

Finally, he showed a scene near the end. It took place in a living room, where a phone call brought good news that a missing father was coming home, and the viewer saw that his son had been born in his absence. It was sweet and touching.

Nope. It pulled the punch, the director said. How much better, he explained, to pick up the action with the father arriving home. To have the viewer see the baby—for the first time—at the same time the father did. Yes, of course. Much better.

Deleted scenes. The director loved them when he shot them. But—even more– he loved what was left without them.

Of course, part of the difficulty with cutting is fear. Fear you’re going to ruin something. Fear you’ll never be able to put together words so nicely again. Fear you’ll cut the wrong thing.

But you’re the director in your mystery, right? You yell ‘action!’ every time you begin to write. And the characters (sometimes) do what you say. Part of the fun of cutting is seeing the sleek, fast-paced page-turner that emerges–as you begin to compile your own reel of deleted scenes.

It’s your power. Your strength. Decide which words to leave out. Do it. You’ll never miss them.

Hank Phillippi Ryan
http://www.hankphillippiryan.com/