I'm gonna be honest with all'yall's: I learned how to travel
through time. No joke here, folks; I can do it, and so can you! For
the low-low price of 14.99 you (yes, you!) can become a time
traveler!
All you need is a notebook or a computer of some kind, and the ability to type. You write whatever the hell you want to, forget about it for two years, then rediscover it. Boom! You are brought back to two years ago, instantly!
It's that easy, people! (please send cash; my bank is out of state, so I can't deposit checks)
Seriously, though, I have been writing a novella for the past two years now, and I'm at about two-thirds done with it right now. Being such a long production period (give me a break, people; I also was working full time!), the story got a little detached, disjointed, convoluted, and messy. So, at the sixty-percent point of the thing, I am at a point at which I have to determine what the hell it's about. Therefore, I have to revise.
A
LOT
A(LOT)
And that means that I get to read something I wrote two years ago.
It's a weird experience. You encounter a different, older version of yourself. Being a work of fiction, my experience was not the same as if it had been a revision or rereading of a journal or something (one can only imagine what kinda mind-job THAT would be!). However, it's still jarring, to encounter old work. Part of you loves it because you remember all the hard work you put into it, and you can see all the things you were trying to make it be (awkward sentence, that, but whatever).
But, that ends up being a small part of you (or well, me, for sure).
The majority of my experience is disgust. I see everything that it tried to be, and in that I see everywhere it failed. I see how it explored directions of storytelling, description, and technique. But those directions ended up dead-ends that go nowhere and do nothing but waste pages and distract readers. It was prominent in the first chapter, so I'll forgive old me, but no, those parts must be eradicated like gangrenous tissue (nice metaphor).
But not only do you see wasted space, but as you go through the process of actually revising, rewriting, and cutting, you see that a lot of it is useless and pointless. Not inherently evil, no, but it really makes yer work and efforts feel utterly without meaning or purpose.
Yaaaaaay for wasted time?
You make something, you love it, you forget about it, you try to kill it, and whatever survives is worth keeping. Therein you find your story; therein you find the essence of revision.
Click the ads, or I'll revise you
All you need is a notebook or a computer of some kind, and the ability to type. You write whatever the hell you want to, forget about it for two years, then rediscover it. Boom! You are brought back to two years ago, instantly!
It's that easy, people! (please send cash; my bank is out of state, so I can't deposit checks)
Seriously, though, I have been writing a novella for the past two years now, and I'm at about two-thirds done with it right now. Being such a long production period (give me a break, people; I also was working full time!), the story got a little detached, disjointed, convoluted, and messy. So, at the sixty-percent point of the thing, I am at a point at which I have to determine what the hell it's about. Therefore, I have to revise.
A
LOT
A(LOT)
And that means that I get to read something I wrote two years ago.
It's a weird experience. You encounter a different, older version of yourself. Being a work of fiction, my experience was not the same as if it had been a revision or rereading of a journal or something (one can only imagine what kinda mind-job THAT would be!). However, it's still jarring, to encounter old work. Part of you loves it because you remember all the hard work you put into it, and you can see all the things you were trying to make it be (awkward sentence, that, but whatever).
But, that ends up being a small part of you (or well, me, for sure).
The majority of my experience is disgust. I see everything that it tried to be, and in that I see everywhere it failed. I see how it explored directions of storytelling, description, and technique. But those directions ended up dead-ends that go nowhere and do nothing but waste pages and distract readers. It was prominent in the first chapter, so I'll forgive old me, but no, those parts must be eradicated like gangrenous tissue (nice metaphor).
But not only do you see wasted space, but as you go through the process of actually revising, rewriting, and cutting, you see that a lot of it is useless and pointless. Not inherently evil, no, but it really makes yer work and efforts feel utterly without meaning or purpose.
Yaaaaaay for wasted time?
You make something, you love it, you forget about it, you try to kill it, and whatever survives is worth keeping. Therein you find your story; therein you find the essence of revision.
Click the ads, or I'll revise you
No comments:
Post a Comment