Writers, Step Back
Take the long view
Writers who don’t outline are a lot like improv comedians. Not improv sketch comedians, but solo acts. They improv and they don’t have anyone to catch them if they fall.
That’s problematic because working in a vacuum like that means the writer is susceptible to poor judgment. His own poor judgment.
I’m one such writer. The improv kind. I recently had the unpleasant experience of revisiting one of my older works and finding it unsatisfactory. Like all non-outliners, I had winged it but I hadn’t covered my ass. I hadn’t given myself enough distance from the work to judge it properly.
In other words, I hadn’t drawered it.
What do I mean when I say “drawered”? Back in the old days, when we were dealing with hard copies, writers would take a newly finished manuscript and place it into a drawer. There it would sit for days or even weeks. During that time, the writer would work on something else. Or he’d play video games, or go on a cruise, or do anything else that wasn’t thinking about the draft he’d just locked away. The point was, he was creating some distance between what he’d made and himself.
When a writer is too close to his work, he makes mistakes. He looks at what he’s done, and the simple fact that he’s finished is enough. He thinks, ‘What a good boy am I,’ and he rushes to share his work. Only he shouldn’t rush to share his work. He shouldn’t do anything until he’s convinced himself that he didn’t write the story in question. That it was written by someone else.
I wrote the book I am unsatisfied with three years ago. My recent reread was this week. I’d reread it a couple of times between its creation and today, but I’d repeatedly missed its flaws. Or I’d seen them, but glossed over them. Initially, this was because I was still too close to the work. Later, because this particular book was the culmination of a five-book saga, I told myself it wasn’t worth making changes because I didn’t want to monkey with my multi-part masterpiece.
Recently, I had some ideas about continuing my multi-part masterpiece. Before I could pull the trigger, I needed a refresher on what had gone before. I reread the entire series. I was mostly happy with what I found, although I did make some small corrections.
All was right with the world.
Until I got to book five. As I say, book five was, I thought, unsatisfying. Not only was some of the writing not up to my standards, but the plot was illogical. Book five was a speed bump to my continuing the series. The issues were bad enough, I considered abandoning the project, but I won’t do that. I’ll soldier on.
Before I continue, let’s talk about the ethics of revising a work that’s been in circulation for a while. Isn’t it a disservice to people who’ve already read the series? Maybe, but I can’t resist the urge. Call it pathetic, but this book series is part of my legacy, and I want it to be as good as it can. Which is exactly how J.R.R. Tolkien felt when he revised The Hobbit. Most of you were probably unaware of this, but The Hobbit was around for years before The Lord of the Rings was published. Unfortunately, The Hobbit had several story points that didn’t mesh with LOTR. So, Tolkien put on his big boy pants and made changes.
Which is what I’m gonna do. If Tolkien could get away with it, I figure I can too.
I’m not going to go into detail about the revisions I’ll make. None of that would make sense if you haven’t read the book.
Remember when I talked about writers who don’t outline? There is, of course, an equal and opposite type of writer. Writers who do outline. This dichotomy has existed since the beginning. There are even names for the two types. Writers who outline are called “plotters”. Writers who don’t outline are called “pantsers”—because they write by the seat of their pants.
I am now and will likely always be a pantser. I’ve tried to be a pantser. Lord knows I have tried. But it’s just not in me. I can no more learn to be a plotter than I can learn to be a cocker spaniel. And that’s fine.
Until it isn’t.
My work sometimes gets away from me, as it did with the fabled book five. Because I improvise, I sometimes lose my ability to self-judge. I unveil things that aren’t ready. Many pantsers likely fall into this trap. But how do we avoid it? How do we avoid the trap?
You know the answer, and so do I. We do what I should have done in the first place. We drawer. This step is, I’m afraid, necessary. If we don’t get some aesthetic distance, we shoot ourselves in the foot. Drawer, evaluate, fix. Lather, rinse, repeat.
I’m going to revise book five. Then I’m going to drawer it. After that, I’m going to reread it and make sure the changes I’ve made have improved it. Even though I don’t want to. Even though the process isn’t fun.
Then I’m going to pretend the whole sordid mess never happened.