Jennifer Shaw

Remember my Christmas horror project? That was the story I originally wrote in August to submit to West Avenue Publishing for their Secrets of the Snow Globe anthology. It had to be a fantasy or horror 4-10k story set at Christmas and featuring a snow globe.

My rough draft, if you recall, exceeded the word count by about 5k, and I didn’t have enough time to trim it down effectively before the 8/31 deadline. So, I shelved the project, hoping another publishing opportunity might come along for it eventually.

Well, it looks like there are two opportunities for it now, so I’ve spent the last three weeks revisiting and revising that piece (despite my assertion a while ago that I wouldn’t submit anything else this year and would, instead, focus on finishing my novel).

I enlisted the amazingly-generous help of a talented author friend who knows the horror genre well, and she gave me excellent, thorough feedback, kindly tempering her constructive criticism with praise for what was working. After processing all of her feedback, I had a super-clear idea of what I needed to do, and yesterday morning I finished my revisions. I’m proud of my latest version, though I recognize how imperfect it still is. Soon, I’ll be ready to take the plunge and submit the piece… I think.

This work did prompt me, however, to reflect on a question I’ve often seen posed online and in authors’ groups.

What is the toughest part of the writing process?

When I began writing in earnest two years ago, the toughest part for me was the initial drafting. Getting words down was rigorous mental labor, sometimes an ordeal, in the same way a distasteful academic assignment felt when I was in school. Racking my brain for the right words to choose, typing them into a document, getting tired after about thirty minutes, my fingers aching, then rereading the passage only to discover it didn’t communicate the ideas in my brain or the feelings/scenes in my imagination, and getting frustrated. I did a lot of stopping and starting, and I suffered a lot of doubt about whether this was a worthwhile use of my time.

Looking back, I realize I just didn’t have the stamina, fluency, or confidence that comes with writing regularly–when you do it long and often enough to develop a solid, effective habit, enabling you to finish a couple of projects and get your writer’s feet beneath you.

But, writing was a stimulating and comforting escape, so I kept at it. I’m glad I did.

Now that a few years have passed, I’ve finished everything from flash pieces to novellas. I’ll have five publications by the end of this year, four out and one forthcoming, and I have a novel underway.

I have the stamina and fluency now for relatively-easy drafting. That has become the fun part, and I’ve settled into my method as a plantser. I’ll sketch out a big idea, usually using the Pixar story formula (so I have the essence and end in mind), along with brief character and setting descriptions and maybe an idea for a motif or extended metaphor (which is the seed for a theme). Then I’ll start writing. About midway through, I often pause to outline the remainder of my story so I can successfully navigate from a murky midpoint to the conclusion (or maybe to the new ending inspiration has just sprung on me). Then I’ll be done.

I try to let a story sit for a few weeks, at least, before I revisit it. And now, if I consider submitting the piece anywhere, I always ask for others to provide feedback on it first. My mom is a fantastic alpha reader, and I have wonderful author acquaintances in my writing group who make insightful, precise, and empathetic comments and suggestions.

Adding to these experiences and habits, I’ve also read dozens of writing-related articles and taken several online webinars in craft and mindset, from various sources. As my knowledge has increased, so, too, has my awareness of the strengths and weaknesses in my own work, and I have a much more sophisticated understanding of what makes certain kinds of writing effective or ineffective.

In contrast, when I was a raw beginner, I thought it was enough to have a protagonist with a couple realistic traits struggle with a related internal and external conflict over a series of events. If those events built to a turning point and the conflicts were resolved, and if the story read smoothly and clearly to me, I thought that meant it was probably good.

Ha!

You know that phrase, the more you know, the more you realize you DON’T know?

This paradox is true. Only the clueless believe they’re masters at something.

For me, this wisdom now means that deep structure revision (not drafting) is the hardest part of my writing process. It requires the most careful, considered, and objective reflections about the nuances, unity, and impacts of my work, especially in terms of how others receive it. It also requires the most honesty with myself.

When I sit down to complete a developmental edit, I often face the hard truth that I tried to do too much in my first draft, or I didn’t meet genre expectations fully. Or, the piece didn’t know what it wanted to be–too many POV shifts (including head-hopping), a dabbling in multiple genres rather than a solid, clear commitment to one. Or, I wasn’t clear enough in a character’s backstory or motivation. Or, the thematic threads or perspectives (author’s, character’s, & reader’s) are tangled… etc.

Or, toughest of all, that all the story elements aren’t quite coalescing. Those big picture, synthesis issues are what often get me. I’m good with language on the sentence and paragraph level. I’m pretty good with narrative even on the elemental/scene level–composing a character, a conflict, or an immersive setting where a brief goal, struggle, choice, and consequence occur. But it’s easy for me to get caught up in finetuning the individual pieces (or, you if will, the individual links), and I fail to zoom out to consider how they all fit (or link) together and how the picture looks (or the chain connects) overall.

I lose the forest for the trees, as that old cliche goes.

And sometimes, even when I’m really trying to get the proper big-picture perspective, I just can’t see this global vision/impression at all, and that’s where I definitely need my alpha readers, critique partners, and editors.

But facing these deep-structure, fundamental revisions, which often don’t have simple, quick fixes–where you often make high-stakes changes or total overhauls–is daunting.

There’s often the feeling of, oh God, I’ve spent so much time on this already. Do I have the bandwidth, the energy, for another long, deep bout?

Or

What if I just don’t have the skill to redo it this way?

Or

What if I lose all objectivity completely? What if I find myself revising in metaphorical darkness and… I make my story worse?!

Or, when a submission deadline looms:

Can I do this well enough in the time I have left?

Or, ultimately,

Is this good enough NOW? Am I rushing it, being too eager? Or, am I making the mistake of lingering over it too long? Are these ruminations becoming counterproductive?

I think I’ve struck the balance with this latest piece. I employed most all of my friend’s suggestions. The only one I couldn’t achieve was cutting the story down to just being, essentially, Part II, with effective flashbacks interwoven. That would have taken the piece from being a novelette/novella (depending on how you define those terms) to a true horror short.

I just didn’t have the skill for that, I think.

Or the will.

Maybe, I was just being lazy.

Luckily, one of the opportunities for this piece is a call for fantasy/horror novellas (from an Australian press!). The other press seeking holiday horror has a strange definition of short story–being up to 20K words. (It’s odd, but I’ve triple-checked their guidelines, I promise, just to make sure I’m not imagining it).

I’ll keep you posted on the fate of this 16K Christmas horror story, which now has an official title–So Many Fragile Things.

I’d love to hear from you. If you’re a writer, what’s the hardest part of the writing process for you? Why that part?

See you next week!

XOXO,

Jenn