On Killing your Darlings & Traveling through Time and Space

Time flies, dunnit?

I've said before that I am an inconstant blogger, and I certainly won't take it back now. I hope you're all well out there. And I hope you've shaken hands with 2012 and found her to be charming.

I'm writing today on a subject I have recently had lots of first-hand experience with. It's the old revision tactic scientifically dubbed "killing your darlings." Familiar with it?

Given my druthers, I would always choose to edit like this:

Happy. Easy. Without any pain to myself or the manuscript. Just get rid of those dead leaves and weak sentences, and then I'm good to go. But it seems to me that the more I want to edit with the little pruning shears, the more I need to face the possibility that THIS is what really needs to happen:

I've recently been doing a lot of chainsawing. Consequently, I've killed a lot of darlings. (If you're foggy on this approach, follow this link.) I've been working on a YA fantasy novel for just over a year now, and after an autumn of garnering feedback from betas who read the draft, I found myself with a lot of ideas of ways to improve the book, but no real conviction about which way was the right one. And so, after a week or so of hideous panic, I made the decision to scrap the first third of the book and rewrite it from an entirely different point.

It felt like a setback, but I discovered right away that it was the right decision. Not because it allowed the book to begin in a more compelling and logical place (although it did do that), but because it loosened my death-grip on the petty things I had grown to love about the manuscript.

I don't know about you, but I love words. I love the way they interact with one another, like they're doing some kind of complicated dance on paper. Like most writers, I love to shape them into sentences and paragraphs and pages pregnant with meaning, and then sit back to watch them glitter. But too often I get attached, and it can take a chainsaw to separate me from a bit of prose I really like--even if the story would be better off without it. And that, I think, is what chainsaw editing is good for. It reminds you that your love for one darling may be choking the whole work. And once you learn to let go of one of the little things you're clinging to, you discover that it's much easier to let go of the next one.

And eventually, who knows? You may even find yourself in possession of that elusive lens we call Objectivity, and look at your work as a reader might.

On an unrelated note, I need to go public with some news: I have fallen in love with the Doctor.

I've resisted and resisted his invisible pull for years now, but about a week ago I finally gave in and started watching. In that brief time I have fallen head over heels, first for the Ninth Doctor, and now for the Tenth. (I am so immersed that I actually thought the whir of the push-vacuum at work was the sound of the TARDIS engine.) It's a glorious thing to find an untapped well of Nerddom simply waiting for you, don't you think? But oh, my poor, poor roommate... And I still have four and a half seasons to go!

 

So today's questions: How do you manage to look objectively at your work? Does it take chainsaws and darling-killing? And if you are afflicted, how do you manage to overcome Doctor Who Mania enough to live a normal life?

Raise a Glass to Turnings of the Season

[ATTENTION: This post has almost nothing at all to do with writing. I know. It's weird. I sometimes forget I have ordinary human things in my life, too. But hang in there, and don't judge me too fiercely. I'll go back to being strictly writerly in my next post.]

Oklahoma doesn't get blizzards. Ever.

Except lately.

The last week and a half have felt remarkably like living in the Arctic tundra, or in Narnia, or maybe on a wintry frontier. We had eighteen inches of snow with the first bout last Monday, then an additional four or five inches a few days later, and then today, about four more. This would not be a big deal if we were (like so many other places who had blizzards) a city who knew what to do with snow, but as it happens, Oklahoma is decidedly unprepared for any accumulation beyond two inches. The consequence? Most everyone I know has spent the last eight days caved up in their houses like bears, or hiking cross-country in full Eskimo gear, desperate for some social contact--or just bread and milk.

I've spent the larger part of those eight days working on my WIP (50,000 words! There's an allusion to writing, guys!) or exploring the frontier with my canine friend Ophelia, who turns into an arctic wolf in the snow. Here's proof:

Even if you hate cold weather with all the molecules of your being (like me), it's hard to resist a dog who has this much fun outside. But I'll be one glad little sparrow when Spring arrives.

And speaking of Spring...

I went to see the Decemberists play in Kansas City on Monday. It was unequivocally brilliant (of course), and their new album, The King is Dead--rather more subtle than some of their others--comes at an appropriate time, as one of its primary themes is the changing of the seasons. The first song on the album makes me itch for spring so badly I am tempted to march out into the waist-deep snow on my balcony and start planting petunias.

The lyrics are as follows:

Here we come to a turning of the season
Witness to the arc towards the sun
A neighbor's blessed burden within reason
Becomes a burden borne of all and one

And nobody, nobody knows
Let the yolk fall from our shoulders
Don't carry it all, don't carry it all
We are all our hands and holders
Beneath this bold and brilliant sun
And this I swear to all

A monument to build beneath the arbors
Upon a plinth that towers t'wards the trees
Let every vessel pitching hard to starboard
Lay its head on summer's freckled knees*

And nobody, nobody knows
Let the yolk fall from our shoulders
Don't carry it all, don't carry it all
We are all our hands and holders
Beneath this bold and brilliant sun
And this I swear to all

A there a wreath of trillium and ivy
Laid upon the body of a boy
Lazy will the loam come from its hiding
And return this quiet searcher to the soil

So raise a glass to turnings of the season
And watch it as it arcs towards the sun
And you must bear your neighbor's burden within reason
And your labors will be born when all is done

And nobody, nobody knows
Let the yolk fall from our shoulders
Don't carry it all, don't carry it all
We are all our hands and holders
Beneath this bold and brilliant sun
And this I swear to all

(*My favorite couplet)

Here you can listen:

I'm going to go ahead and raise my glass to a turning of the seasons. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to move out into the sun again, and watch the world grow. Here's to spring... and to leaves on the trees and blossoms on the Jane Magnolias.

Bonus feature: Here's a video I snagged at the concert. If you're a Decemberists fan, you'll like it. I promise.