Quite a few times now, I’ve been “accused” of polishing chapters I submit to critique (in a nice way, of course.) This didn’t really hit me until last night on my way home from the writer’s group meeting.
I’ve always written clean first drafts. Sometimes, they’ve been too clean, and I’ve had to add descriptions and actions when I go back to revise. But lately—with CtS and SCR and NS—I haven’t done much in the way of revision. It seems like things fall in place when I write, even though I have no idea what is going on.
Last night, while driving home, I realized something that I think is important, so I thought I would share it here.
Growing up, I read just about everything I could get my hands on. In middle school, I read Shakespeare along with L.M. Montgomery, Avi, Beverly Cleary, Anne McCaffrey, and many others. I memorized bits of Romeo and Juliet and Macbeth. I was very fond of the line, “Out damned spot!”
In High School, while some of my friends were reading Fear Street, I read Duncton Wood, Watership Down, and the complete works of Charles Dickens. I read Agatha Christie’s entire body of work (I liked Hercule Poirot best.) I read every fantasy book the library owned—and some science fiction, depending on the author. I read mysteries, nonfiction about vampires, mythology, folklore, magic, King Arthur, Robin Hood, and others. I read Keats’ poems, and the complete works of both Byron and Shelley. I read Wordsworth. Robert Frost. And many others that, for the sake of not making this a list of every book I read while growing up, I will not name.
I read It when I was thirteen. In four hours. I read the entire works of Stephen King in the space of two weeks, causing the only comment from my mother about my reading habits. When I got in the car with the last of his then-current collection in my arms, she said, “Don’t you think you’ve been reading too much Stephen King?” I said, “This is the last one,” and that was the last time anyone in my family commented on my reading habits.
I read. I read more. I devoured the books in the library, and learned from what I read. I wrote poems a la Keats. I celebrated his 125th birthday (IIRC.) I practiced magic. I discovered Manly Wade Wellman, Tanith Lee, Poppy Z. Brite, and Charles DeLint.
At any given time, I had three or four or five books going at the same time. I slept with books. I read them in the bathroom (to this day, I have a bathroom book. At the moment, it’s Stolen Childhood by Wilma King, which is about the childhood of slaves.) (Vicki, you might want to borrow this one for your historical--it's really interesting.)
And I wrote, using what I learned from the novels and nonfiction I read to craft my stories.
I didn’t pick up a “how to write” book until after I graduated High School.
Looking back, this was probably a very good thing, because it allowed me to develop my own craft and voice without having someone tell me that such-and-such or so-and-so was not the right way to go about writing. The books I read molded a young budding author, and helped form my distinct voice.
I learned how to write by reading the books that got published that intrigued me. I didn’t learn how to write by taking something some stranger said on faith and applying my ideas to a set formula or outline.
When I read the “how to write” books the library owned, I noticed one specific thing. Most of them stated that their way to write was the only “true” way, and that if you used their way, you’d end up with a blockbuster or bestseller, make a bushel full of money, and live on easy street.
I was confused. I didn’t want to live on easy street. I wanted to write good stories. I wanted to write the stories I wanted to read, since exhausting the library’s supply meant I had to buy books to read them, or utilize Inter-Library Loan. And anyway, I thought, by that time, I’d already written a dozen novels. They had a beginning, middle, and end, a story arc, action, conflict, and a resolution.
They weren’t very good, but then again, I hadn’t been writing for very long. And I knew I had a lot to learn. So I read the “how to write” books, gleaned a few good practices from them, and ignored EVERYTHING else.
And then I wrote some more. And more, and more, until I had about thirty novels under my belt.
In 1997, I got my first computer and entered the swiftly changing world of the Internet. I immediately joined a writer’s group, and got my first taste of actual critiques (some good, some bad.) I paid attention, and continued writing. Even after I left that group and joined another one, I kept paying attention, kept reading (although not as voraciously as before), and kept improving.
When I finished Second Coming, I felt that I had a publishable novel. Heart’s Desire took me four tries to get right, but I feel that it’s publishable too. The Tenth Ghost is essentially a first draft with very minor edits. So are Prince of Shadows and Lost in Shadows. And Nine Lives and Three Wishes had more grammar edits than anything. Although I will admit that NL did take me some time to figure out the right tone of voice for Misty.
I will submit that the reason why I write such clean first drafts—and publishable first drafts—is because of my reading background.
Now. Your question might be what you can do to remedy the situation if you didn't grow up reading like I did. Well, my advice would be to start reading now. (You saw that coming, didn't you?) A steady diet of Harlequins (no offense meant here--they're fluff reading, but little else, imo.) will not make you a better writer. Only reading one author, or even only books from one publisher will not make you a better writer. Spread the joy. Try a new genre. You never know; you might actually like it.
Pay attention to how people talk, and how characters talk. Pay attention to the formation of words, and how, if you put a string of words together just a bit differently, they can come across with a totally different meaning.
The nice thing about the internet is that you can get many, many classics online for free. Free is good. However, if you want paper copies, check them out from the library! No one will think you're strange if you decide to check out a book of poems instead of the newest John Grisham. Really. Honest.
And practice your voice. So many writers don't take the time to develop their unique voice, and I believe very strongly that their work suffers because of it. (It's like trying to read something through mud. You can--well, I can--tell.)
And most of all, your mileage may vary on every piece of advice I ever give, and if it doesn't work for you, find something that does and go with it.
There. I'm done, then.
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