Tag Archives: Editing

Resting… or not, as the case may be…

23 Sunday Sep 2018

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

Dear reader, how nice!
It’s been a while, but there’s a clue in the subtitle: ‘process…’  For a while, as I waited, there was none – not so’s you notice. Waiting is waiting & must be braved. The joy is in the outcome: a measure of progress within the process, so to speak.

Having untangled the minutiae of the structural edit, I dived in again. That’s the beauty of smart, intelligent, instinctual editing – it makes you want to do better. And as it turns out, I’ve been aided & abetted by an injury to the plantar ligament in my foot. (If you know it, you know it… There aren’t enough versions of ‘ouch’… And no need to commiserate. Cake will be fine…) The only treatment is rest.

Rest & write then. My brain, a thing of furious, focused energy, unpicking my story & stitching it together again; my body inert & aching from inactivity. The ridiculous irony is, in this rearranged version of my story (starting in the right place this time), I’m writing about a ballet dancer who injures her foot…

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Go figure…

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Into the stream…

02 Sunday Sep 2018

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I may not be blogging much for a while.

Structural edits are in. The End as I know it becomes redundant. One thing’s clear – I don’t always begin at the beginning either. Not the right beginning at any rate. Or end the way I’m meant to.

I’m off then, to wander – less aimlessly I can only hope. Re-assemble this story & say what I meant to, at the beginning, when I first had the idea.

Writers do a great deal of wandering off. What Virginia Woolf described as, ‘the line of thought [dipped] deep into the stream.’ The perfect metaphor for editing.

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See you, dear reader… I have to sharpen my pencils & grab my galoshes.

‘I hear stories…’

17 Sunday Jun 2018

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

‘…It could be myself telling them to myself or it could be these murmurs that come out of the earth. The earth so old and haunted, so hungry and replete. It talks. Things past and things yet to be.’ *

The space in between finishing a book & beginning another is filled with confusion. The non-writer perhaps imagines euphoria laced with a self-satisfied grin of smug. I’ll concede a fleeting sense of relief. It’s done. You’ve done it (again, if you have) & jolly well done. Have all the chocolate & a vat of wine; abandon the pyjamas & see to the pile of ironing in your bedroom resembling an art installation.

The truth is closer to panic. Even after several (sev.er.al.) rounds of editing, a reasonably competent draft is only the beginning. The editing we do for ourselves is just that. Ours. It’s subjective & highly likely to be Not Good Enough. The manuscript must now line up in readiness to be perused by The Real Editor.

This space is called Waiting. Cue gibbering, a sense of doom & the utter conviction that you are pants. (The small, hopeful voice lurking in the corner, whispering ‘It’s really not that bad, you know’ is a fool & a trickster.)

There is only one remedy. Crack on & write another.

And hereby hangs my dilemma. My plan was to return to the now mythical manuscript known as The Next Book. It’s been the next book twice now. Working title RiverBook, I began it before Ghostbird was accepted & carried on writing it between Ghostbird & Snow Sisters. Abandoned it in fact to write Snow Sisters. And then again to write the one I’ve just finished. Now there’s a new story wearing down my pencils, insisting I write it. (I’m making notes in my head as I type this, for goodness sake.)

RiverBook feels like the past & yet I still love it. It has an older woman main protagonist & we need more of them. It references my (very sideways) take on the selkie myth. It’s a completed first draft. I have to make a decision, see which word birds whisper the loudest.

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Onward & sideways…

*Edna O’Brien
~ House of splendid Isolation

Letting go of the lovely…

10 Sunday Jun 2018

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

It’s highly likely I’ve used the above heading before. (And I’ve definitely written about editing.) No matter – my blog my repetition. Apposite in any case. Editing involves digging out the repetition. And much more besides. I’m on the 84,670,943rd pass & the excess keeps on keeping on… Were it not for chocolate & wine I might well have gone quite mad.

My writing co-conspirator has her head down too. (For those of you who don’t know, Janey & I are are the sole members of the smallest writing group in Wales.) Since her hip op we’ve had to meet less often but we never stop comparing notes. (I think she’s on draft 62,897,504…)

I’m doing my best to stay serene. On the surface at least – drifting like a lily on a lake, looking as if I know exactly what I’m doing. Under the water, trust me, I’m kicking the mud.

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My bête noire is a tendency to ramble. To embellish my stories with far too much exposition & description. My mentor & first editor calls it ‘the lovely’ & has, from the beginning of our collaboration, bid me be rid. She may no longer be my editor, believe me dear reader, as I edit Book 3 it’s like she’s in the room… Which is a good thing.

An old Facebook post from a very famous writer – who I’m not going to name in the interests of playing nicely – recently emerged. In it, she declared she was no longer going to allow her manuscripts to be edited. Quote: “I felt that I could not bring to perfection what I saw unless I did it alone.”

Lovely…

The thing went viral & of course, everyone has an opinion. Mine echoes what seems to be the popular view: Stop talking, famous writer! Shush now & be grateful! Being well & professionally edited is a privilege which we scorn at our peril. (And a best-selling author would surely have access to top-notch editorial advice.) There is a legion of writers out there who never get the opportunity.

And so forth. I’m off to unmuddy the waters. Please send chocolate.

Odd earrings

03 Sunday Jun 2018

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

One of my writing rituals involves earrings. I have a designated pair. They’re not in fact a pair at all. They’re odd. One is a beautiful moonstone, the other, two chunks of amber. Both are set in silver & both lost their mates at some point in the past, the way earrings are inclined. Not least the ones we like best.  I loved both pairs very much so decided I may as well wear the not lost ones together. They’ve become talismans & when I’m particularly challenged (editing) they give me confidence.

Who knows if they have any power? Writers love ritual & I’ve spent a goodly part of my life indulging it, one way or another.

Numbers have power! The number of the moon is nine!! Merry meet for a lunar lark!!!

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And so forth.

You get the gist: I’m not keen on even numbers. There’s something about their uniformity that grates. Too precise. I prefer the risky, more magical nature of a nine or a seven. And I like what the ghost in my new story has to say about them:

‘She preferred odd ones, she said they were feminine.’

This morning I finished the third pass. After some serious slashing, it comes in at 89,977 words & sixty-three chapters. The title is three words long.

So far, so far. (So far…)

‘What kind of language is this?’ *

20 Sunday May 2018

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

My ability to ignore distractions is pretty good. So long as I’m at home writing, as opposed to hanging in a cafe or suchlike, I can concentrate reasonably well on my current work in chaos. The world at large is far too interesting & full of shiny. Paradoxically, silence is a complete no-no too – there’s no such thing when you live in even a small town & distractions abound. When I’m writing I need familiarity: a touch of Radio 4 in the background, music that fits my mood; add the view from Withering Heights & I’m good to go.

Background is the operative word. I don’t need to be able to distinguish particular words. My own are what count. So long as I’m where I belong, the lyrics to songs turn into a sweet humming & I can crack on happily.

What interests me though is how, when I’m editing, some words do get through. It’s only certain songs that can do this. I don’t have a play list – my choices are pretty random. Or are they? An album I return to over & again while editing (& writing) is Kate Bush’s Aerial. In particular, the second CD: A Sky of Honey. I know the words to every song almost by heart. If I could only take one album to that desert island, this would be it. And this week, as I began the first important pass on Book 3, I returned to these songs once more. In the background you understand, but as present as the real, word birds still edging their way into my consciousness. (They have shiny too & secrets.) More often than not they know far better than I how this editing process needs to go.

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Oh, editing… What fresh hell & all that. What gibbers (thank you dear Juliet Greenwood for this perfect expression of the editing writer’s almost constant state of mind.)  What terror as you approach The Bit You Know Will Need A Vast Amount Of Work Because You Kidded Yourself You’d Nailed It When Clearly You Have Done No Such Thing. That said I enjoy editing. For me, in the first instance at any rate, it’s the smell of printed paper, sharpened pencils & a different outlook. Literally – I hard-copy edit in my sitting-room rather than my study, sofa bound & cushioned & very familiar.

Five days ago, having rescued Book 3 from the Dark Drawer after a month of marinating, I began. And when I get fed up with Jenni Murray chatting earnestly about vaginas, when the state of Bob Flowerpot’s compost & Pippa Greenwood’s sweet peas lose their allure, when the news stops being news & sounds more like coffee adverts, I reach for Kate.

And even though I have the volume turned down, some of the words do get through. I pause & listen: What kind of language is this? / I can’t hear a word you’re saying… And yet somewhere I can. In some part of my edit-addled brain, the right words exist. If I try really hard, make sure I have enough tea & chocolate to sustain me through the gibbering, I’ll hear them. My best words are in there somewhere.

Better get on then – see if I can find them.

*Kate Bush

Writing in the margins – somewhere in between

06 Sunday May 2018

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

In spite of a lush sun trying to burn it off, the mist sticks. The swallows are back, Mistress Crow is in her tree & all’s right with the world. My bit of it at any rate. And for that I’m grateful.

With Book 3 still resting in the Dark Drawer, I’ve been busy Harassing the Hovel & restoring ten months of disorder. Apart from general cleaning, I’ve been decluttering, frightening the filth into submission & chalk-painting furniture. Larks galore! And not much writing done, frankly. I’m between [drafts], so to speak.

I don’t believe writers ever stop writing mind, even when they aren’t physically wielding a pencil, they’re at it in some form or other – ‘not writing’ their little socks off. ‘Not writing’ takes many forms, from actually not doing it to scribbling in your head. This is what I’m currently doing. With a Big Fat Edit looming, I’m already harking back (& forth) to scenes I know I’m going to play with (aka: mutilate.) The word birds are in whisper mode – they know how this works far better than I do. As I paint & clean & tidy, they slip notes into the mental chaos in the margins of my mind.

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I slipped in a few of my own too, last Sunday. As part of the Llandeilo Lit Fest I attended a poetry workshop run by the poet Kathy Miles. My admiration for Kathy’s work is huge. And the title of the workshop – The Changeling Poet: Writing Out the Narrative Voice – intrigued me enough to sign up. As did the description: A workshop which explores the persona poem, and how we can write ‘out of ourselves’. We will look at different ways in which the poet can write as animal, object, ghost or mythical figure, some of the techniques used to transform the narrative voice, and use these techniques to produce a piece of writing.

The persona poem form wasn’t unknown to me – it was absolutely not a motif I’d ever explored. (My forays into poetry pursued the patriarchy & shouted, ‘Watch out, the feminist is cross! Again!’) I wasn’t mistaken in my certainty that Kathy’s workshop would be useful. It exceeded my expectations & not only did I leave with ideas galore, I even wrote a poem that wasn’t livid & snarky.

A goodly number of the whispered words in my head involve my ghost. She’s different from Angharad in Snow Sisters & nothing at all like wee Dora in Ghostbird. Her voice has a quirky edge & I like the idea that I can play with it, perhaps create something unusual. The workshop definitely gave me food for thought – mine & my ghost’s.

I’m still working on it – Kathy has kindly offered some tips & I may one day be tempted to share my poem. Then again, I may not… In the meantime, I’ll keep writing in the mind margins, translate the whispers. Once the painting & housework are done, I’ll delve into the Dark Drawer & dig out Book Three.

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Losing the plot

04 Sunday Jun 2017

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

Recently, I checked out a self-published book only to be put off by basic grammatical errors in the first paragraph. Now I’m not saying traditionally published books escape unsullied by error. Of course they don’t – by & large though it’s unwitting, more proofreading slippage than lazy editorial faux pas. The latter grates & guarantees I won’t buy the book.

Moving onwards & a little bit sideways, I’m prompted to another of my ‘we all need an objective editor’ rants. Sloppy, basic editing apart – for which there is little excuse, frankly – I’m thinking more about content & the shape of the story on the page.

The other day I outlined the plot of what I hope will be my third book to my mentor: aka Yoda (only far prettier.) She listened attentively, asked for the odd bit of clarification & I thought to myself, ‘Hello! This is going well!’  She then proceeded to turn my plot on its head & ruin my reveal! (I know – some people?) It was however another one of those magical moments of instant recognition & I ticked the proverbial box.

This is what great editors do – they read between our lines & find the version of the story we’re meant to be writing. It isn’t the wrong story. Not unlike Eric, in The Morecambe & Wise Show, when he played delicious musical mind games with a bemused Andre Previn – I have the right words, but not necessarily in the right order.

As usual – & any self-aware writer will get this – I’m too close to the story not to miss the occasional crucial signpost. I have to take that reveal & do something smarter with it. And how clever the alternative! How simple.

My words birds like a nice tune & do send me some lovely ones. They approve the new plot. It’s still made of the same notes – I’ve just played with the order a bit. It’s all about perception. And tempo. About setting things on fire a bit.

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As for any errors – well yes – at this stage (draft zero) loads of them. But once I get to my first, proper one & begin sorting the sonatas from the scherzos so to speak, I can pretty much guarantee I’ll at least have my singular & my plural sorted.

Directions & snippets

23 Sunday Apr 2017

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

In the aftermath of Epic Editing, a few days in a state of limbo seemed like a plan. With nothing urgent to crack on with I allowed myself to land, consider the accumulated muddle in my flat, admire the dust; look for a new set of directions.

I have a date with the Llandeilo Literary Festival next weekend & have been gathering the threads for my role as moderator on one of the panels. Otherwise – writing wise – apart from on-going note taking for books 3 & 4, I was at a bit of a loose end. Yesterday I decided to take myself off to a beach – by myself – to potter & ponder, trail along the sand, clamber over rocks like an elderly Brontë* on a day out to the seaside. (I don’t like jeans, preferring frocks; it’s amazing what you can get done in a skirt & sneakers…)

I drove north, to the seaside town of Aberaeron & the beach on the southern side of the harbour.

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It’s less populated than the one to the north & like the beach in Snow Sisters, hardly anyone goes there.

Snapping the book shut and shoving it in her pocket, she was about to go down to the stile and onto the beach when she spotted a figure, close to the cliff near the stone dragon. No one came to this end of the beach. It was a dead end and didn’t lead anywhere.
   The tide surged across the sand, closing in; leaving only a narrow strip of shingle to walk on. Ducking low, Verity scrambled down to the stile, peeked over the ledge and saw him. Tall and dark-haired, wearing a jacket with the collar turned up, his hands thrust into deep pockets.
   A tall man in a dark coat…

This location is based on another beach I know well, also situated at the southern end of a long strand made of sand & pebbles intersected by a harbour. To the west, across the bay, lies Ireland & my ancestors.

A boat appeared on the horizon, a flash of a distant sail.
   Meredith shaded her eyes. ‘Where does the sea end?’  
   ‘Ireland.’
   ‘Imagine if you were in a boat and you went on forever, not getting anywhere. Just rowed and rowed in your little boat.’
   Verity shivered. ‘Or swam.’

Quite. Much as I love to swim, I can’t imagine swimming to Ireland…

As an Air sign, the direction I most identify with is east. It’s the place of beginnings, where ideas are conjured & possibilities emerge. That’ll be the copy-edits proper then, the proofing & so forth. And a new cover. A new book!

I don’t do even numbers, so here’s a third snippet.

It’s the opening line…

My name is Angharad and I am not mad.

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*No comparison to any Brontë sister is implied.

Editing & learning my craft

16 Sunday Apr 2017

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

Two weeks, dear reader, & not so much as a single scribbled paragraph.

Editing! What larks! What long days spent in PJs looking like the hedge everyone gets dragged through…

The first time I saw the copyedits for Ghostbird I genuinely gulped. What has someone done to my nice tidy text? Copyedits look as if a spider has slit several of its wrists & bled all over the page. There’s so much red, it makes your brain hurt. And the comments! Listed like mini ‘To Do’ lists down the side of the page, each with its own identifying code. [In posh brackets.] Once you get the hang of how the formatting works, technically, it’s pretty simple. What is less straightforward is the content.

For health reasons, my beloved editor, Janet, has had to step back. After an eagle-eyed overhaul of the book with her, I’m now in the superbly capable hands of Caroline, aka the Boss! A new eye inevitably means a fresh perspective. With  this second edit, I’m being taken on – yes, let’s call it by its name – a rather fascinating journey. A full-on, nitty-gritty attention to detail one.

With Ghostbird I relied almost entirely on Janet, an anonymous copy editor & proofreader; a cover designer & so forth, to get everything right. (They did – brilliantly so.) This time, I’ve taken more responsibility. I know what to look for now, how vital cross-referencing & checking ad nauseum is. I’m learning my craft & I’m proud of that. And I did write the story! But in terms of a finished, professional product, that will once again be down to the team at Honno.

I’m at the hard copy read it through again, “Bloody hell, look at all the STUFF that still needs fixing!” stage now.

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I absolutely love it. I love being published by such professional, caring, involved people whose single aim is to make my book the best it can be.

Best crack on…