What does it mean to Edit?

Do you remember when I said that writing a novel in a month was most effective at producing lots of raw material? I knew that before I even began to look over the book, that lots of it would be crap, and some of it would have fabulous potential, but I'd have to dig through and find the good stuff? The small bits that I've edited have felt like panning for gold. I scoop up a whole lot of the stuff that I wrote in the first draft, swish it around in the sieve with some water, and almost all of what I wrote disappears.

Actually, it doesn't disappear, I have to delete it after I realize it sucks, and must be redone. Which isn't as bad as it sounds, though I would have jumped off tall, tall things if someone told me that halfway through writing the rough draft. Sheesh.

I haven't edited a whole hellava lot of the book, yet, to be honest. It's a terribly daunting task. And as a stubborn neophyte who just wants to figure it out on his own, I don't know if it would be better to hand my manuscript over to a professional editor, do a least one edit and then hire a pro, try and edit on my own? I feel like a new born calve, knees buckling, covered in shit, thinking "One step at a time? One step at a time? Mother fucker what the hell is a step!"

So the editing has been interesting. Mainly, it's consisted of me taking each scene, almost completely rewriting it, and liking it much more than what I wrote at first. But then I worry about the little things I left out. I let my friend Gabriel read the rough draft, and when he read one of the revised scenes, he burst out, "But what happened to that exchange! I really liked that part!"

Mostly, I wonder how different the last draft, hopefully something that gets sold somewhere, will be from what I originally wrote. It makes me wonder how different all first drafts are, and appreciate how nice it is to get first tries, at things, and even more how wonderful it is to go back and first what's wrong, or what doesn't work. Lemmings don't get to do this. And a little piece of me hurts for them.

Ye Olde Editing Process

A few weeks ago, I read somewhere that writers tend to fall into two categories. First, you have those who most enjoy the actual writing process. The second group is composed of those folk who get a bigger kick out of editing, tinkering with things until the fall into place just right, till things fit.

I would have to say that I do not like editing, not one bit. I finished writing on July the 20th, and per the book/kit's suggestion, did not pick my printed out manuscript for two weeks. Two weeks! It was a good idea, however, as I feel fairly sure that if I had read through everything right away, I would have been happy with it, perhaps even thought it was good.

Let this serve as a notice to anyone who may attempt such a feat in the future (and please do, I think I'm going to do this again in November, which is the official National Novel Writing Month), to keep in mind that you are working on the first, rough draft of a novel. Chanting the words 'only a rough draft, it was only a rough draft' as I read through my 'manuscript' was the only thing that kept me dousing myself and my two inch stack of paper with lighter fluid and having an 'accident' in the kitchen. Whew, that thing was rough.

Reading back over it a couple times, it doesn't seem as bad as it had during the preliminary run through, though I know I have a shit-ton of work to do.Yesterday I finally grouped things into chapters, whereas before the only breaks in writing had been all cap letters announcing another day ('START DAY TWENTY-TWO'). I also very, very briefly summarized who is in each chapter, and the action that occurs. Today, I took those notes and transposed them onto index cards, breaking it further down, from chapters into scenes. Have a look see. I'm not even going to say how long it took me to do all that crap.

My crack-addict internet broke down a little while ago, so I didn't have a chance to upload the even prettier pictures of my masterpiece before my camera battery died. I know, even pretty, if you can believe it. More pictures tomorrow, and some explanation of the color coded system (and by tomorrow, I mean three weeks from now).

Forgive my Absence...

The kit came with the envelop you see to the left, emblazoned with the words "I QUIT" on it. This was included in the kit just in case myself, or anyone who ever tries to write a novel in a month, give up, bites a bullet, and decides they can't take it anymore. I wanted to include a picture of it because I did not read what was inside until I was done. I read it out of sheer curiosity.

So I've had some time to reflect, to look over what I finished seventeen, maybe eighteen days ago, and of course, to have a little celebration. Wow, there was entirely too much celebration. There are just a couple of things that I would like to say, not as a final post, far from it. This is the beginning of something completely different.

First off, I have to thank all of you for your support and encouragement through this crazy process. Anytime you made a comment on the blog, called and left me a message, or even sent me a large envelope full of gummy bears, you helped me keep truckin' along. Booya to you. I would never have finished this without your help, or without the fear of letting you down. There was so much fear.

I would like to let everyone know that I plan on revising and editing this damn thing, and hopefully, getting it published. I'm sure Penguin books or someone will offer me their whole company as retribution for me letting them publish such a poetic, sweet laden work, so keep your eyes peeled for islands that might be on the market. Should this fail to happen, well, I may just post the damn thing online (maybe here) in word form, and you can send me some Bubble Yum in lieu of payment.

Lastly, peruse these lovely pictures of my triumph, if you will. I will be posting from time to time on here, describing the editing process (THRILLING), the search for agents and publishers, and, please Lord, an announcement that my book is going to be sold. Look back here in about three years for that information. Until then? Look at the pictures, and check out toothpicking.blogspot.com. I had so much fun keeping this blog, I may just start, I don't know, doing what my friend Trey does (dantzlersmith.blogspot.com) and write about shit that interests me. What'd you say? LOTS of people are doing this? Crap. Always late to the party.

Thanks, again to everyone, I love ya'll mucho. To some pictures!

Directly to the left is my 'Mighty Novel Progress Log'. Each day that I wrote down my goal, how many words I wrote that day, and my surplus. If I reached or exceeded my goal, then I put a goal star (indeed, gold) next to that day. A supreme mark of achievement.

Below is my finger, wielding the last star of the month.

To the right, we have the last star, placed next to the final word count (it says July 20th down below, ignore the 13).

Day Thirty-One: Fin

Holy monkey I wrote a novel in a month! I'm kind of in shock that the whole process is over... I'll try and post something here, tomorrow, a conclusion of sorts. There might also be pictures of the celebration that is going to take place tonight. (Yes, celebration is playing in the background, right now).

Daily Goal: 2500

Today Word Count: 2656

Forget surplus and the Jimeral Word Bank Account, now. No need for them. Ha!

My goal, and the goal prescribed by the "No Plot, No Problem" novel writing kit, was 50,00o words. My final word count was 70,003 words. They need a lot of work, lots of polish and varnish and such, but there they are.

The final excerpt (before you buy the hardcover, gold-plated first edition from Borders for $5o0.00).

"Pulling out his journal and his pen, he turned to the back of the nearly full book. ‘One more page?’ he thought. ‘so much in here.’ He put pen to paper. This is what he wrote.
It’s hard to believe that after three months away, I’m finally going home. Soon, I will be drinking a beer and eating a burger at my favorite bar, with some of my favorite people.
This has been one of the hardest trips I’ve ever taken in my life. No, it was been the hardest. I wanted to go home from the minute I landed in Hanoi. Did I tough it out? Is that what we would call it? I don’t really know. I don’t feel any tougher, any stronger. If anything, I feel destroyed, battered, beaten in my lungs, my brain, in my heart and soul.
Regardless of whether or not I will admit to being tougher or weaker, I am still here. I made it through. For the most part, I am alright. And if no one else is here to witness that fact, this journal is. It has been with me every step of the way. Through the uproaring laughter… Through too much wine, women, and song… Through more tears than I have ever shed in my life. And more that is not in words, that I can’t write now, or ever. It’s all here, splashed across these pages.
I am going home.
We will be home soon.

Day Thirty: My Fingers, Someone, Help my Fingers

Tired. This story is going crazy. Make it stop. I think I might have to keep writing through the night. Only one more day. Lord have mercy. My fingers are getting ready to fall off. Ahh hooo hoo!


Daily Goal: 2500

Today's (actually tomorrow's) Word Count: 3888

Surplus: 1388

J.W.B.: 6789

Excerpt. Do it to it.

"When they got back to the front of Bob's house, Jim followed him up the porch at his insistence. Bob walked in and began rummaging through drawers and files across the living room. The house looked a little messy, a little worse for wear, but Jim would not have picked a crazy person to live there. Bob kept true to his word of needing to always be moving, as he danced around the house, looking of something. Finally he held up a shining key and said, “Follow me!” and walked out the front door, again.
Motivated by pure curiosity more than anything, Jim tailed this strange man as he rounded his house, and walked down the grass hill beside it. There was a basement built in to the house, accessible by a door at the bottom of the hill. Bob pulled out the shiny key, inserted it into the door, and turned. The door clicked, and Bob pushed it open. Jim could not put his finger on it, but as they approached this door and Bob opened it, he grew nervous. Very much so. His anxiety only increased as Bob stepped in the dark room and beckoned Jim to follow with a silent, waving hand. Looking at the half moon window pane set at the top of the door, Jim heard the panicked thought in his head “If he traps me down here, will I be able to break that window and squeeze through?”
Jim followed him in.

A quick word about the impossibly beautiful woman in the picture below. Without Nicole's patience and encouragement, for a long time now, none of this would be possible. Thanks, pumpkin.

Day Twenty-Nine: Closing In

Today was a rough day, not going to lie. The words just weren't coming for a long time. You know who I blame? Me. Why? Hubris. I went out last night and bragged about how much I had written, how lovely everything was coming along. You can't do that, folks. It never works out in the end.

Another note: don't be fooled by today's numbers. I had to start over on today's section several times, and I don't erase any of the stuff I didn't like, i.e. the reasons I started over. Could be something in there when I go back over this madness.

Daily Goal: 2500

Today's Word Count: 3100

Surplus: 1100

J.W.B. 5401

Excerpt? Let's see what we got.

"Dinner was had at the house of an Italian ex-patriot. He was a brilliant chef, and a serviceable waiter. Doing both, he was exceptional. Myself, Amodile, and Louis were joined by another ex-pat, a man of Greek origin, with runaway wavy hair and eyes as insane as Saturn. Without a doubt, this man was mad as a march hare. The only other people at the cozy eatery was a small family of Italians, also moved from their country to the green of Goa. A mother and father, and their young, five year old daughter, who spoke as if she were at least twice her age. I tried not to be shocked when her parents pulled out a strange looking pipe, took some puffs, and handed what was undoubtedly the oddest pot pass I ever received. Taking a quick puff, I could not take my eyes off the little girl’s, who was smiling innocently, sweetly, as if I was trying Mommy or Daddy’s pasta. ‘Good?’ her shrugging shoulders seemed to say, and I answered her silent, unasked question with my own face. ‘Pretty good,’ I nodded, and she seemed to smile wider.

Day Twenty-Eight: One Day... Early?!

Indeed. One day early. I was thinking about writing another session earlier, going for three in one day, but I'm not so sure anymore. My fingers hurt. My brain is a little mushy. If not today, then tomorrow or Friday will be a double session. I gua-ran-tee.

By the way, as you'll see in the excerpt, I've left my name in this time. The book is somewhat autobiographical, and I don't see the point in hiding that from you anymore, dear cheerleaders. Thank you for understanding my earlier hesitations and shyness. Now, have at it!

Daily Goal: 2500

Today's (Tomorrow's, actually!) Word Count: 2821

Surplus (I don't do deficits, anymore): 321

J.W.B.: 4301

“You’ve probably heard someone my age say this before, but just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m stupid!” Jim blushed involuntarily, and the old woman pressed her point, “See, I know what I’m talking about! That look on your face wasn’t you being mad at your girlfriend, I can tell.”
“How do you know that?” Jim asked defensively, “I could very well be…” Why was he arguing with this woman?
“No you weren’t, you were debating something else in your head. It’s okay, I understand. Sometimes the things in our head need to get out somewhere. If you don’t let it out, it can drive you crazy. That’s why I keep a journal,” she finished.
Shocked, Jim stared at the woman, mouth hanging wide open. “How did you… You can’t possibly…”
“Can’t possibly know what?” she smiled.
“Nothing,” Jim said. “It’s nothing. My name is Jim, by the way.”
“Gloria Fortuna,” the old woman said, shaking Jim’s outstretched hand. “Oh, nice grip, young Jim, I hate men who won’t give me a strong handshake! Just ‘cause I’m old doesn’t mean I’m weak!”
Jim smiled in spite of himself. He did not know who this woman was, but he liked her. Crazy as it seemed, there was a sparkle in her eye, a literal sparkle. Life seemed to flow from her wrinkled skin, her knobby knuckles, her graying, curly hair.