Leave it Fallow

I've been blogging about writing more literarily. This blog is simply about a technique that a lot of writers use to give them distance as they approach editing.  As one writes, magic happens.  Characters that have been extensively described, drawn, outlined, etc. come to life on the page.  Settings come to vivid color with their visceral scents, sounds, sights, and flavors.  The writer dives into a world, either meant to represent something real or imagined.  The writer often comes close to the material, bonding in a way that is unlike anything else.  You, as the writer, come so close to the material that it hurts to cut anything.  This is why writers need distance from the piece before you can begin to edit. 

How does one achieve said distance?  As with most things, the best way to achieve distance is through letting time pass before editing.  How much time is entirely up to the writer.  It could be a few days, a few weeks, or even a few years.  Sometimes, there is no option to dive right into editing.  But, for me, the ideal is to let as much time as can be managed before editing. 

When I edit something I just wrote, I'm in the same place intellectually, emotionally, and physically that I was when I wrote it.  At best, I'll find the things I considered faulty in the first place, grammar issues, spelling issues, and other such glaring issues.  But I can't really rethink the concept, characters, and shape of the piece.  I wanted it like like this, so like this it must be. 

However, if you can allow yourself a week, a month, a year, or more while you work on other pieces, this would be ideal because then, you can see it from a bit of a distance.  You can see better what works, and what doesn't.  If you can get the help of heads outside your own, you can achieve even greater distance.  As I go back and revise short stories I wrote years ago, I don't even remember what I was thinking the first time.  I can slash out large spans of wordiness, rename and revamp characters, delete adverbs, redirect the whole story, and just make it better because I'm no longer the writer I used to be.  If I've been refining my skills, I will better know how to tackle what once looked fine to me. 

Look at the pieces you just wrote.  Then, set them aside.  Go back to something you wrote sometime ago.  It's now the perfect time to revise. 

First Lines

I've been blogging about how to write in a more literary fashion.  Much has been written about first lines.  They really need to catch the reader.  A title and interesting cover buys you a couple of seconds' perusal.  An expert in the field may tell you the first line gets you the first paragraph.  The first paragraph gets you the first page.  The first page may get you the first chapter, which may get that reader sticking through to the end of your book, which may just get them reading your next book and beyond.  It (almost) all starts with that first line, assuming your title and cover (over which not all writers have control) are powerful enough.  A first line is critical to hooking your reader.

So what makes a good first line?  It often can be something with a mystery, something that leaves your reader asking questions.  Google first lines or get your hands on a collection of great first lines.  Then ask yourself what makes them tick?  "Call me Ishmael" from Herman Melville's Moby Dick seems, at first blush, like a simple introduction until one starts questioning if that's this character's first name, and why he'd choose Ishmael of all names if it isn't.  It gets the reader asking questions.  Orwell's 1984 leaves the reader absolutely mystified with its at first mundane, "It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were all striking 13."  One is immediately stricken with questions about how this is possible and with the thought that such a world would have Aprils and o'clocks, such a normal, expected thing, but not stop at 12.  Military time, maybe?  But one must read on.  Ralph Ellison's opener, "I am an invisible man," which mentions the title in that very first line, makes one pause because the reader can't decide if this is literal or metaphoric, and what this could mean.  Dickens's David Copperfield asks the question we never thought to ask because it seems self-evident, "Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show."  How could he be anything but the hero of his own story, one is left to wonder.  There are countless examples, and not all start on a question.  However, enough of them do that it seems a good strategy.

Many classics start with long-winded, eternal lines that just don't end, but that strategy would be a tough sell in the modern age.  For some funny (and intentional) crappy first lines, please go to the Bulwer-Lytton contest and maybe enter the contest. But don't, I repeat don't, do anything anyone there does.  Also read through several first lines of modern novels.

Remember as well that it helps if your first line or lines bear a quirky or interesting voice like the first line in the Harry Potter series.  "Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense." Not only does this leave one asking how such normal people can be important to a popular fantasy series, but it also is stated in such a tongue-in-cheek and quirky way.  Likewise, Rick Riordan's popular Percy Jackson starts with quirky voice and on lines that raise questions.  "Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.  If you're reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this book right now."  The narrator speaks to the reader in a way that invades his/her space and makes the action to come seem very real, like it could really happen.  It also asks the question, "What is a half-blood?"  The reader ceases to be just a passive observer and becomes part of the story.  It also works with reverse psychology.  The narrator is telling me to put this book down, which means I have to keep reading.  

Go to your first line(s).  Does it ask questions?  Is it in your particular voice?  Does it make the reader want MORE?  If not, it's time to read more examples and find out how to craft that first line in a way that draws your reader in.