When you're the author of a book on writing, it's kind of inevitable that you will receive a lot of email regarding your own creative "process." (I put
process in quotes because it's such an organized-sounding word for the weird unpredictable and erratic activity that is my version of writing.)
One thing I talk a lot about when I'm posting on writing is what I call
layering. Basically that just means I write a lot of drafts. By reassuring myself that I will be "layering" in all the important and cool stuff later, I give myself permission to write what is frequently referred to in writing circles as the "shitty first draft".
For someone like me, it's really hard to write a first draft. Smothering my inner critic is incredibly difficult, but I have to put a pillow over her face in order to achieve that state of
justpouringitoutasitcomestome which is pretty much what a rough/first draft is. You start with nothing but a blank page and then you try to build a world and characters so engaging, so believable, that others can lose themselves wandering through the hallways of your mind.
Now there is no one way to write. Anything you have to do to get the story down on paper (even cyber paper) is the correct procedure. And that initial hammer and nails, hauling up the framework, is generally a messy, ugly, sweaty business. But you have to have that foundation in order to layer on the good stuff. The drywall and flooring of the second draft. And then eventually, by the time you get to official edits, the paint and furnishings and décor.
Right now I'm working on
Fair Chance, which is the third and final book in the All's Fair Series (which I'm writing for Carina Press).
And since I never do this -- and since we needed a blog this morning -- I thought I would show a bit of the layering that takes place between drafts one and two.
DRAFT ONE
“I knew you’d come.”
Andrew Corian, dubbed “The
Sculptor” by the national press, was smiling that same old smile. Supremely
confident and a little scornful. For a moment it was as almost as if he was
seated at his desk in his old office at PSU
and not in this dingy interview room at The Federal Detention Center in
Sea-Tac.
“Sure you did,” Elliot said. He
had been second-guessing the decision to meet with Corian from the minute he’d
acceded to SAC Montgomery’s request, and Corian’s supercilious attitude just
confirmed his doubts. They were not going to get anything useful out of The
Sculptor.
Corian’s big hands, wrists
handcuffed, rested on the resin table top. He spread his fingers, palms up in a
have a seat gesture as Elliot took the chair across the table.
“How could you resist? A
chance to play hero one last time. A chance to convince yourself you got the
better of me.”
“You’ve been hitting the psych
shelves in the prison library pretty hard,” Elliot commented, folding his arms
on the table top. He glanced casually around the room. He’d been in plenty of
these interview rooms back when he’d been with the FBI. Neutral colors. Durable
furniture. Mesh over the windows. Generic right down to the two-way mirror behind
which stood Detective Pine of Tacoma Homicide and FBI Special Agent Kelli
Yamiguchi.
Just in case they missed anything,
the cameras overhead were recording the interview.
Corian’s eyes, a weird shade of
hazel that looked almost yellow in the institutional light, narrowed at
Elliot’s jibe, but his broad smile never faltered. He seemed to be a in great
mood for a guy looking at a multiple life sentences.
“I don’t need to read a psychology
book to understand you, Mills. There’s nothing complicated about your psyche.”
“But enough about me,” Elliot
said. “Let’s talk about your favorite subject. You. Or more exactly, why you
wanted to see me.”
Corian sat back in his
chair. He looked a bit like a cartoonist’s idea of the devil. Gleaming bald
head and immaculately trimmed Vandyke. He was a big man and prison had made him
bigger. Leaner. Harder. He looked like he ate steroids for every meal and spent
all his free time body-building. Maybe the body-building wasn’t far from the
truth. There wasn’t a hell of a lot to do while sitting around waiting for
trial. Not when you’d been caught red-handed, as it were, in a series of brutal
slayings and mutilations spanning more than fifteen years.
He said, “I didn’t want to
see you, Mills. I gave you permission to visit. That’s all.”
“Two letters in two months? We’re
practically pen pals. Come off it, Corian. You want me to sit here and listen
to you explain in detail how brilliant you were. How brilliant you still are
compared to the rest of us.”
Corian’s smile widened. “That
wouldn’t be the only reason.”
“It’ll be the main reason. You’re
sure as hell not interested in bringing closure to the families of the
victims.”
“You’ve never understood me,
Mills.”
“You’re right about that.
“But you’re afraid of me.”
Elliot sighed. “No, Andrew. I’m
not.”
They had never been on first name
terms. Corian replied, “You should be, Elliot.”
“This is bullshit.” Elliot made
sure his tone revealed nothing but boredom. “If the idea was to get me here so
you could practice your bogeyman routine, you’re wasting both our time.” He
pushed his chair back as though to rise.
Corian sat back and expelled an
exasperated sigh. “Goddamn, Mills. Can’t you at least buy me a drink before you
screw me over?”
“Look, you wrote me. I’m
not looking to continue our relationship--if you want to call it that. I don’t
need closure. I got my closure when they slammed those cell doors on you.”
That wasn’t completely true. Like
everyone else involved in the case, Elliot wasn’t going to truly breathe a sigh
of relief until Corian was tried and convicted. He wanted the reassurance of
knowing Corian was locked up in a maximum facility until the end of time. The
numerous court date postponements were wearing on everyone’s nerves.
Corian had the gall to look
wounded. It was only partly an act. Being a psychopath, his own pain and his
own frustrations were very real to him. It was the suffering of other people he
was indifferent to.
“I’d appreciate a little courtesy.
A few minutes of intelligent conversation. Or as close as you can manage.”
Elliot eyed him without emotion.
“All right. But we don’t have all day. If you’ve got something to say, you’d
better say it.”
Corian leaned back in his chair,
smiling. “How’s the fall session shaping up? Have they hired someone to replace
me yet?”
“Oh, no one could replace you,”
Elliot said sarcastically.
“True.” Corian grinned. “How’s
Rollie? I read his book. When you think about it, it’s pretty ironic. The only
child of a celebrity sixties radical joining the FBI.”
“Yep. Ironic. Are we done
with the chitchat?”
Corian’s smile faded. “All right.
Ask your questions.”
“As of this date, sixteen bodies
have been removed from the cellar of your property in Black Diamond, bringing
the number of victims to twenty-three. Is that it? Is that an accurate
headcount? Or are there more?”
“Headcount.” Corian’s smile was
pure Mephistophelian. Partly he was acting. Partly he was simply…evil.
-----------------------------
Basically the first draft amounts to talking heads and feeling my way through the scene, trying to figure out what's really happening between these two. Part of the dialog will be placeholder because I'm still fine tuning character and relationship dynamics. I don't waste time on researching details at this stage because there's so much else to think about and I don't even know what those details should be yet.
Then, about seven or so chapters in, once I can see a bit farther than the reach of my head lights, I go back and start filling in the blanks, making the story feel real for both me and the eventual reader. This second draft is actually the most fun because it's where the story comes alive. It's where I begin to lose myself in that world I've created.
DRAFT TWO
“I knew you’d come.”
Andrew Corian, dubbed “The Sculptor” by the national
press, was smiling that same old smile. Supremely confident and a little
scornful. For a moment it was as almost as if he was seated at his desk in his
old office at PSU and not in this sterile
interview room at The Federal Detention Center in Sea-Tac.
“Sure you did,” Elliot said.
Corian’s powerful hands, thick wrists handcuffed, rested
on the resin table top. He spread his fingers, palms up in a have a seat
gesture as Elliot took the plastic chair across the table.
He had been second-guessing the decision to meet with
Corian from the minute he’d acceded to SAC Montgomery’s request, and Corian’s
supercilious attitude just confirmed his doubts. They were not going to get
anything useful out of The Sculptor.
“How could you
resist?” Corian was saying. “A chance to play hero one last time. A chance to
convince yourself you got the better of me.”
“Sounds like you’ve been hitting the psych shelves in
the prison library pretty hard.” Elliot folded his arms on the table top, glanced
casually around the room.
He’d been in plenty of these interview cells back when
he’d been with the FBI. Neutral colors. Durable furniture. Mesh over the frosted
windows. A guard outside the door. Generic right down to the two-way mirror
behind which stood Detective Pine of Tacoma Homicide and FBI Special Agent
Kelli Yamiguchi.
Just in case Pine and Yamiguchi missed anything, cameras
overhead were recording the interview.
Corian’s eyes, a weird shade of hazel that looked almost
yellow in the harsh institutional light, narrowed at Elliot’s jibe, but his broad
smile never faltered. He seemed to be in a great mood for a guy looking at a multiple
life sentences.
“I don’t need to read a psychology book to understand you,
Mills. There’s nothing complicated about your
psyche.”
“But enough about me,” Elliot said. “Let’s talk about
your favorite subject. You. Or more exactly, why you wanted to see me.”
The rough material of Corian’s prison khakis rustled as
he sat back in his chair. He looked a bit like a cartoonist’s idea of the
devil. Gleaming bald head and immaculately trimmed Vandyke. He was a big man
and prison had made him bigger. Leaner. Harder. He looked like he ate steroids with
every meal and spent all his free time body-building. Maybe the body-building
wasn’t far from the truth. There wasn’t a hell of a lot to do while sitting
around waiting for trial. Not when you’d been caught red-handed, as it were, in
a series of brutal slayings and mutilations spanning more than fifteen years.
He said, “I didn’t want to see you, Mills. I gave
you permission to visit. That’s all.”
“Two letters in two months? We’re practically pen pals.
Come off it, Corian. You want me to sit here and listen to you explain in
detail how brilliant you were. How brilliant you still are compared to the rest
of us.”
Corian’s smile widened. “That wouldn’t be the only
reason.”
“It’ll be the main reason. You’re sure as hell not
interested in bringing closure to the families of the victims.”
It was quiet in the interview room. On the other side of
the heavy sound-proofed door a symphony of discordant sounds were reaching
crescendo level: guards yelling, Televisions blasting, prisoners shouting, the incessant
thunder of an industrial strength plumbing system, the chatter and buzz of
walkie-talkies, the jangle of keys and slamming of steel doors.
“You’ve never understood me, Mills.”
“You’re right about that.”
“But you’re afraid of me.”
Elliot sighed. “No, Andrew. I’m not.”
They had never been on first name terms. Corian replied,
“You should be, Elliot.”
“This is bullshit.” Elliot made sure his tone revealed
nothing but boredom. “If the idea was to get me here so you could practice your
bogeyman routine, you’re wasting both our time.” He pushed his chair back as
though to rise.
Corian sat back and expelled an exasperated sigh. “Goddamn,
Mills. Can’t you at least buy me a drink before you screw me over?”
The indignation was almost funny.
“Look, you wrote me. I’m not looking to continue
our relationship--if you want to call it that. I don’t need closure. I got my closure
when they slammed the cell door on you.”
That wasn’t completely true. Like everyone else involved
in the case, Elliot wasn’t going to truly breathe a sigh of relief until Corian
was tried and convicted. He wanted the reassurance of knowing Corian was locked
up in a maximum facility until the end of time. The numerous court date postponements
were wearing on everyone’s nerves.
Corian had the gall to look wounded. It was only partly
an act. Being a psychopath, his own pain and his own frustrations were very
real to him. It was the suffering of other people he was indifferent to.
“You want something from me. So be it. I’d appreciate a
little courtesy. A few minutes of intelligent conversation. Or as close as you
can manage.”
Elliot eyed him without emotion. “All right. But we
don’t have all day. If you’ve got something to say, you’d better spit it out.”
Corian leaned back in his chair, smiling. “How’s the
fall session shaping up? Have they hired someone to replace me yet?”
“Oh, no one could
replace you,” Elliot said.
“True.” Corian merely grinned at the sarcasm. “How’s
Rollie? I read his book. When you think about it, it’s pretty ironic. The only
child of a celebrity sixties radical joining the FBI.”
“Yep. Ironic. Are
we done with the chitchat?”
Corian’s smile faded. “All right. Ask your questions.”
“As of this date, sixteen bodies have been removed from
the cellar of your property in Black Diamond, bringing the number of victims to
twenty-three. Is that it? Is that an accurate headcount? Or are there more?”
“Headcount.” Corian’s smile was pure Mephistophelian. Partly
he was acting. Partly he was simply…evil.
-------------------
Most of what I've written stays, but I start paring it down. Trying to say what I need to say in the fewest, cleanest words possible. Saving space for the sensory details that make a story come alive. Looking at pacing and making sure I'm not getting in the way of the characters.
Of course, my work isn't close to being done. After I've got a decent second draft, it goes to my editor and there will be more cleaning and pruning and adding and embellishing. And then copyedits and then line edits. Ideally with each round the story is getting tighter and more emotionally focused, more readable.
What about you? How many drafts do you write? How much does the book change from your original draft to your final draft? At what point do you lose yourself in your storytelling?
Part of the challenge in writing a series is remembering
everything that came before. Not just the obvious stuff like the protagonist’s
age and eye color and job title and best friend’s name (I think most writers
remember to note that stuff down). Not only the more complicated stuff like
every single character dynamic, every single character’s evolving relationship
with the main character. Oh, and all the legal stuff (wait, how long did I sentence him to prison for…?!) No, the real
challenge is keeping track of the main character’s arc through each part of the
series, making sure that the growth of the previous books is not lost or
forgotten in the next episode. Making sure that when the final chapter comes,
the reader feels satisfied and content to arrive at journey’s end.
In an effort to bring closure to grieving families and
loved ones, former FBI agent Elliot Mills allows himself to be drawn into a
final game of cat and mouse with the dangerous psychopath known as the Sculptor.
But when the lead agent on the case, Elliot’s partner Tucker, suddenly
disappears without a trace, the only person with the answers is Elliot’s most
dangerous enemy.
