Clutter, Chaos, and Cardboard Boxes

 

Last September I moved from a small place to an even smaller place. It was for a good reason, and I'm happy about it, but there's nothing like moving house to make a person realise how much stuff has accumulated over the years. 

Even after getting rid of more than half of it, it's still a struggle to find room for the rest in the new place. But I haven't given up anything that I miss, so what was all that extra? It was “filler”. Excess baggage. Unnecessary detail. 

Yes, I'm editing my possessions like a draft of a novel. It's always interesting to me when writing advice has a wider application.The focus on editing in this entry, though, means that I've come to the end of what I wanted to say, so I'll stop.

Beginnings

 

Beginnings are a popular topic among writers. Take, for example:

“Begin at the beginning, ... and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” –  Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

"Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start." –  Rogers & Hammerstein, Do-Re-Mi

“The beginning is the most important part of the work.” ― Plato, The Republic

And, my personal favourite:

“Everything starts somewhere, though many physicists disagree.” ― Terry Pratchett, Hogfather

My stories usually begin as ideas, stewing quietly in my head for a while. But when I'm ready to put pen to paper, I begin with an outline.

Wait! Don't comment yet! This is not going to be 500 words of "use my new and brilliant outlining method". Instead, I want to show you how I took inspiration from several methods, and how you can do something similar customise your own outline.

Avoiding outlines on principle? I've got an upcoming post for you on the eighteenth: Outlines: Love 'Em or Hate 'Em? 

My brain likes patterns, so outlining has always appealed to me. But even after many years of experimenting, I couldn’t seem to find “the one”, the perfect outlining method for me. Many writers at this point tend to do one of two things: Give up on outlining, or invent a brand new method of their own. I don’t have the right kind of brain for the first, or enough confidence for the second, so I had a problem – until I realised that I didn’t have to pick just one method, nor was I actually obliged to use every part of any given outline. No-one was looking over my shoulder to make sure I was using their method “correctly”.

After a lifetime of being constantly “put right”, this realisation was something of a bombshell. But after the shock wore off, and I’d done a bit more testing, I finally had my own, home-brewed outlining method. As promised, I’m not going to share it here, or anywhere else, because that’s not the point of this post. The point of this post is to encourage you to develop your own method. 

I like top-down outlining, so the Snowflake Method and the 3/9/27 method appealed to me most. The Hero’s Journey and the Heroine’s Journey were interesting, but too specific for my style. I found the Plot Embryo to be the best fit in the end, especially with the tragic and heroic patterns having so many parallels.But you might find that you prefer a more linear, discovery-type of outlining, such as the Pixar method. Or a method more focused on the world-building, asking what would happen given a particular set of circumstances. 

The array of outlining methods out there offers near-endless combinations to suit every taste. Spend a bit of time exploring, and refine your plan to fit your own story and style. But remember:

Lesson Two: A plan is only a plan

Plans that change are still worth having. It’s always a good idea to have a direction in mind when you set out, even if you change it later.

April Already? I'm Not Ready!

Hello, April. What are you doing here so early? 

*checks calendar*

O...kay. It's April. For real. Lots to do. Let's start with the A-Z Challenge...

Oh well, it's not as if I really have a theme yet anyway. Next step is to sign up to the Master List...

Hmm, turns out I do need a theme after all. Lets choose "Author/Writing (mixed bag)". And links, I need links. FB & IG will have to do for now. 

And another place to state the theme. A restatement of the theme, if you will. How about: "Tracking progress on too many writing goals, and the lessons learned along the way". 

This month I'm aiming to:

• Finish the first draft of The Avlem Burden for Camp NaNoWriMo 
  
• Create a comprehensive outline for the sequel: Marshlander's Betrayal
• Complete the A-Z Challenge 

And, over at my other blog: Eto ag Eto:

• Keep up with the ROW80 Challenge
• Build fluency with the CC1 

Meanwhile, in my offline life, I need to:

• Finish unpacking from the move (which was seven months ago!)
• Keep going with my language studies

 Too much? Almost certainly. Bring on the life-lessons; I am clearly in need of a few.

 

 * * *

Lesson One: Advance the Story

The scene I'm working on at the moment is a conversation between two very angry characters. There are many, many things they could say to each other, so I need to pare the scene down to the essentials. That or write ten pages of bickering. Every line needs to serve the narrative by:

1. Moving the plot forward,
2. Revealing important details,
3. Developing one or more characters' arcs, or
4. All of the above.

This being a first draft, I'm not going to worry too much about conservation of dialogue. But having the rule in mind while drafting will make the edit go more smoothly than it otherwise would. 

 

Which brings us neatly to the first lesson:

Everything I do this month needs to be either:

 1. Taking care of my health,
 2. Advancing one or more of my goals,
 3. Fulfilling pre-existing responsibilities, or
 4. All of the above.

This being a trial run, I'm not going to worry too much efficiency. But having this aim in mind will help with my long-term goal: Sustainable Adulting. 

 

Don't laugh! I can dream, can't I?

Spring

Come the Spring, come the rain, come the greening leaves,
Come the days getting longer, the evenings bright,
Hear the birds making homes in the shady eaves,
Hear the bees softly drone in the morning light,

See the coats coming off, showing shorter sleeves
See the snow clinging on to the mountain heights
As the year comes of age, so the heart of Spring,
As the youth of the year, is a fleeting thing.

 – Kell Willsen

Magnificent Difference

Magnificent panorama
Slow-motion natural drama
A million years in the telling
And barely begun, compelling
Each step of man's advance, mal- or beneficent
To factor in Earth's structural magnificence.

That difference in scale at once
Brings home our insignificance,
And shows the power we command
To treat the planet out-of-hand
Blind, blunt, relentless progress shows us, in a sense,
That nature and her children aren't that different.

– Kell Willsen

Old Heroes Never Die

by Kell Willsen 

Miss Meera Jones, room 37, was back from breakfast; having been washed, dressed, and medicated as per usual. The new carer really was very good, she thought. Efficient, gentle, and with a wonderful memory for what made the residents happy. Such a nice young man, and marvellously self-effacing. He had one of those faces that won't stick in the memory no matter what; broadcasting "I am not important or memorable" to every subconscious in the area. 

Miss Meera sighed inwardly at the decline in standards since her time at the Academy. But Doctor Clarivos was not a man famed for subtlety.

She spent the morning in her room, gazing out of her window at the busy streets below. Her family had tried to get her into a care home out in the countryside, but she'd refused to leave her city. This community care home was overcrowded, poorly funded, and lacking in all the amenities of art and nature that other homes provided. The staff were stretched thin, and rarely had time for more than a word or two of conversation during their duties. So if Miss Meera wanted to spend all day quietly in her room, no-one here had the time or energy to object.

The world outside her window was as hustling and bustling as it had been in her day. Things looked and sounded different in many ways, but the essentials hadn't changed. People were still people, and Miss Meera still loved them dearly. She watched a mother struggling along with a baby in a buggy and two older children tagging along behind, all loaded down with shopping. A casual thought nudged the oldest child's foot from going off the edge of the pavement, averting what could have been a nasty fall. Another effort steadied the cyclist who'd been distracted by the family, and was losing his balance. And so nothing happened, and the day was uneventful for all concerned.

The new carer was still on duty at lunchtime, and Miss Meera scanned him quietly while he helped her on with her slippers and prepared to escort her down to the dining hall. She found what she was looking for on a pendant he wore, and gave it a mental tug so that it spilled out of his shirt as he bent over her.

He apologised and moved to tuck it away, but Miss Meera stopped him and admired the pendant. It was engraved with her own likeness - or at least, with Mesmera's likeness, from back in the day.

"Who's your lady friend?" she asked, as she turned the psychic presence on it down from "PAY NO ATTENTION!" to "who, me?"

The young man's face broke into a nostalgic smile. "That's the fantastic Mesmera," he said. "She saved my grandma's life more than fifty years ago. If not for Mesmera, my mama wouldn't even have been born."

He brushed his thumb over the face on the pendant before tucking it back inside his shirt. "I found this in a jumble sale a few years back, and bought it to remind myself how much one person can affect the lives of others."

Then Miss Meera Jones was seated at her table, and the nice young man disappeared back into the crowd. She idly wondered what his hero name was, but she didn't really keep up with that scene these days. Young things running about in costumes and saving the world.

Miss Meera smiled, and reached out a mental hand to stop old Mrs. Brampton from spilling her soup.

Not So Much of the “Common”, If You Don’t Mind

It’s very well to tell me I should use my common sense,
But senses are susceptible to all kinds of pretence.
I do not trust my eyes or ears, I daren’t follow my nose,
(It sticks in where it shouldn’t be, inviting nasty blows)
While taste and touch just sit around, as passive as you please.
I do not think that common sense is any one of these.

As for my other senses, as intangible as air,
I doubt that I would find much commonality in there
My sense of humour is a joke, my sense of timing’s slow,
My sense of the occasion never knows when it should show.
As for my sense of balance, that’s been slowly winding down
'Til it’s quite a big achievement to stand firm on solid ground.

I had a sense of fashion once, I’m not sure when or why.
But if we wait here long enough, it might come wandering by.
For all the good that does us – look, I hate to let you down,
But I have to say I think you’d better try another town.
It seems I have no common sense, you’ll have to look elsewhere.
My senses, like my self, are all incredibly rare.

– Kell Willsen