Echoes in a Hollow Space

Once long ago, in a lifetime far, far away I read R. A. MacAvoy's exquisite Damiano trilogy—Damiano, Damiano's Lute, and Raphael. The emotional and creative power of it stuck with me all these years. I never reread the trilogy, more because I loved it so much rather than because I didn't love it, if you understand me. But I've been haunted by the brief author's note she stuck at the end of the last volume (no spoilers here). I'll have to paraphrase because the books are still packed away and I can't check exactly what she said, but it was close to this:

"This is the last book of the Damiano trilogy. There won't be anymore. I no longer know what it means."

I was fairly young at the time, though not a kid, and I had an intellectual appreciation for this statement because having read those three books, I could well imagine how exhausting they must have been. But I hadn't written even my first novel then, so although the words haunted me, they didn't quite inhabit me, if you know what I mean.

My first novel was one of those generic Medievaloid quest fantasies and although it seemed a big challenge at the time (and it was), it wasn't as much of a challenge as later novels. Each one's been a little harder, but I can truly say that none of them gave me as much trouble as Night Warrior—not even close, and I was writing it during a chaotic (but not tragic) time in my life, too. Not to be overly dramatic about this, but I think after this experience, I have a little emotional piece of R. A. MacAvoy's statement inside me.

I haven't gotten anywhere close to her achievement, and there are still enormous problems to solve in order to make Night Warrior workable. I don't know if it will ever be a good book, but I do know this: the work transformed as it unfolded, became something I didn't intend, something in the end that was more than I could have done before. The work, and more importantly, sticking with the project even when it made me despair, has transformed me. I don't know what it means anymore—good, bad, ugly, pretty, or indifferent. I just don't know. And it hardly matters at this moment, at the end of a long process. It is what it is.

But (*deep sigh*) I'm glad I finished it.

Recently I read a story by someone who has revised it about twenty times in the last four months (and if any of my regular critters happen to read this—it ain't none of ya'll, so settle down). I read one of the early drafts of this story and although I thought it needed some tinkering with the narrative flow, it was solid, with a real spark of specialness. So I read it again recently (version 23, I think) and although it's still a competent story, I was sad to see that much of the life, that special spark, had been edited out.

I once did that with an entire novel—my quest fantasy/learning experience. I worked on it constantly for about three years, nothing else, always fiddling and tinkering. I went from writing a flawed novel with juice to a failed novel with all the spark of life snuffed out.

The experience I gained ruining that novel was invaluable. I learned as much about what not to do as what to do—but it was a painful way to do it. Like most people, I don't seem able to learn the easy way. And I suspect that I can use that novel as part of the "million bad words" Jerry Pournelle says you have to write before you start getting the hang of this stuff. (http://www.jerrypournelle.com/slowchange/myjob.html) I rewrote my first novel so many times it must be worth at least a quarter million of those bad words. I've written a hell of a lot more bad stuff since, but that novel will always be a high point in my gallery of low points.

The way I see it, this tinkering-unto-death is always a danger when forcing a high number of revisions through too small a window of time, or of concentrating on one thing to the exclusion of everything else. I think stories benefit greatly from spending time in filing cabinets or trunks: either electronic, mental, or physical ones. These days I always build a little "trunk" time into my revision process and I find it has at least a couple of big advantages:

First, it allows me to gain some perspective on the story. I'm more likely to see things objectively, to change what needs to be changed rather than revise in a panic of "make nice." Second, it allows me to turn my attention to something new. This has the benefit of increasing the number of stories floating around in my creative gene pool at any given time and of me always having something fresh to work on. Even if it's a recycled story, after three or four months in the trunk, it seems fresh.

The disadvantage, of course, is that if you're an instant gratification kind of person or in a fire to publish, this technique probably seems like a big waste of time. Sending work out is an important part of the process and my goal for this year (as it is for every year) is to send out more stuff. I usually make this goal, but I'm still not sending out the great volume that many people do.

Even so, I still don't think constant polishing of a story is the answer any more then I think glacially slow revision is. Writing is a process and I sometimes think that in our rush to Get It Out There we lose track of the fact that editing isn't just about changing stories—it's about making them better.