From Cranky Rah's Cave: The Multiverse of Editing

I've been thinking a lot about editing, mainly because I've been immersed in it myself. It turns out that, astonishingly, most people don't like to edit. Writers I know talk about it as a necessary evil or tedious or painful or all three. Since I told The Three that our next step together was to work through entire pieces—including editing—they've been as silent as me on Twitter.

So why is it that my idea of a perfect day is an intense session of editing, followed by an intense session of rock climbing, capped off by an intense session of taco-eating? (Hey, I just described yesterday! Sometimes life really rocks.)

I considered that it might be my German blood enjoying bringing order to whatever craziness my Celtic blood poured all over the page—and there's probably something to that. But what it really is, I think, is the way that I started writing in the first place, writing the same characters over and over in different stories. Sometimes the characters didn't change much from story to story; sometimes a story needed them to be slightly different people; sometimes they had to be very different people.

Nine out of 10 adorable baby turtles prefer left-handers.

There's this theory in physics called the multiverse, which is the idea that there are an infinite number of universes (universi?) out there, so there are an infinite number of variations of all possible realities. In one reality, humans might not exist at all; in another, things might be exactly like they are in our universe, except that I'm right-handed instead of left-handed. (We don't like that universe.)

We only see the universe we live in; we can only deal with the reality we have right now. But characters don't have just the one life like we do; characters live in the multiverse. There's an infinite number of lives they could lead, an infinite number of variations—big or small—that affect the stories we tell about them. One life could be almost indistinguishable from another or seem absolutely unrelated.

(I say seem because there's of course always the heart, the essence of the character, and that doesn't change, regardless of which story you tell about them.)

There are those times when the story you drafted is just a starting point, when you have to throw out the middle or the end (or even the beginning). When it turns out that the journey you wrote first was really just to lead you to the journey you really need to write. It can be sad to lose paragraphs or scenes or entire groups of characters, but every time you make a change, you're just opening up another universe, another set of possibilities.

In the universe of this galaxy, the barista who makes
my flat white looks just like Hugh Jackman.

In the physics multiverse, there is no one right universe, but in the writing multiverse we eventually edit our way to a right universe.

Maybe this seems esoteric, but all this is just another way of saying: Let your characters breathe. Let them explore. Don't let them get stuck in your first vision. Think about all the decisions you've made in your life and the places you might have gone (good and bad) if you had taken a different path at any of those moments. Your characters can do that—and you don't lose anything: All the other possibilities are still out there.

That's why I love editing. There's so much possibility, so much demand for creative thinking, for following the thread of a change and seeing where it takes you. If you're standing there with Robert Frost at the two roads diverging in the wood, you only get to pick one. Your characters can go anywhere.

From Cranky Rah's Cave: New Writing Digs

I'm pretty sure it was Tennyson who wrote, "in the spring a cranky Rah's fancy frantically turns to thoughts of getting the heck out of Dodge." Or something like that.

In any event, it's true: When the weather starts to get nicer, I want to be free. Free! I want to shake the dust of this heavily scheduled life and go somewhere—and not always Scotland, by the way. (Okay, always Scotland, but Rah is reasonable. Rah is rational. Rah knows that she must be way, way richer before she can go always to Scotland.)

This summer has turned out to be a little more heavily scheduled so far than Rah would like it to be, but the Poet-Accountant, Ruby Hazelnut and I did manage to get away for a few days to the beautiful Shenandoah National Park in western Virginia—where, between hiking and horseback riding, I managed to do a little real estating.

I like my cave, but one never wants to get too...cave-bound, you know. One must emerge occasionally from the cave to see what other caves there are out there.

Now, Luray Caverns had a really lovely spot. Lovely lighting; not too cool, but definitely not hot. Internet connectivity might be an issue, but I'm pretty sure I could run a line down.

There was one insurmountable problem, though: dealing with unwelcome visitors. Something like 400,000 people tromp through there each year, which is like 399,999 too many for me.

Next, I thought Why not think outside the cave? Maybe there are other options, some of which don't involve massive quantities of vitamin D to prevent rickets. (Some people say you should suffer for your art, but that's not the kind of suffering I'm into.)

Anyway, so we hiked up the strangely named Hawksbill Mountain (isn't it the case, the Poet-Accountant asked, that hawks have beaks and not bills?) to see what kind of residential opportunities there were at 4,050 feet.

At first I thought, Man, I could totally get into writing up here. The problem? Way too much vitamin D. You've seen my skin, right? I seriously don't want to end up with lobster skin that clashes with my hair. So far, we have rickets versus cancer. Not a pretty choice.

I figured that was it; There's no place like home. A cave in need is a cave indeed and all that. Then we went on our final hike. And there it was! The cave of all caves! Rah's new writing digs!

Do you see it there, tucked under that massive boulder? I'm telling you, this place has everything. Fresh water, a nice sunny spot above (take that, vitamin D deficiency!) and an impenetrable driveway:

Just the place to retreat to while doing that most horrifying of things: querying agents. Gulp.

Tree Climbing!

Note to self: Always choose to write books that involve fun research. Like going to Scotland. Or dating rock stars. Or climbing trees.

Okay, Cranky Rah has never actually dated a rock star, but two out of three ain't bad. I had a lovely morning out in a local park with Ruby Hazelnut, one-third of The Three and my best rock climbing buddies. And the Poet-Accountant, who preserved the moment in pictures.

The beautiful red oak we climbed.

The lovely ropes and knots that keep us safe.

Hooking on the foot ascender, because climbing
with only your arms is hard.

Ruby Hazelnut gets ready to climb.

Ruby Hazelnut doing some branch walking.

Cranky Rah and one-third of The Three hanging out.
The fabulous S served as one of my beta readers for the book involving tree climbing,
and when I came down from my first climb I said, "I'm going to have to totally rewrite that chapter."
S's response? "Yeah, you are."
This is why we research. And have beta readers who will tell you the truth.

Cranky Rah, looking not so cranky. Because, hey, rewrites are fun. (And no, I'm not lying. I love to edit.)

About 50 feet up. Do I have to come down?
Can't someone just send up some tea and shortbread?

Group Hug: Writing From the End

The Three and I had our last writing group of the school year last week, so it seemed appropriate to talk about The End and specifically getting past whatever blocks you have to get to the end of a story you're writing. And since we were talking about writing to the end, I thought it'd be fun to write from the end in our writing exercise.

First we warmed up by writing from the beginning. I offered The Three a set of opening dialogue options (from the random dialogue generator of my favorite random writing stuff generator):

• "You don't think that was just lemonade in your glass, do you?"
• "H-how long have you been standing there?"
• "She's old, and it's about time she died."
• "If you leave now, you lose everything."
• "I knew you wouldn't be able to see it through."
• "He was unconscious when I found him."

Be safe: Squeeze your own lemons.

The Three chose "You don't think that was just lemonade in your glass, do you?" and (after a lively discussion about the grammatical issues in that sentence—I totally la-la these girls) we spent 10 minutes writing the story that starts with that line. Amazing, there was not a death in every story written. Of course, some of the stories had more than one death, so it all averaged out in the end.

After we talked about Getting to the End of a story as a writer, it was time to write again. This time, The Three chose to write from "She's old, and it's about time she died." What I didn't tell them until after they had chosen it was that we weren't going to write from the beginning; we were going to write from the end. They had to write to the piece of dialogue instead of from it.

More death ensued. Of course.

Getting to the End

You might have noticed it’s a lot easier to start a story than to finish one. You’ve got a cast of fascinating characters and an exciting beginning, and you might even know the tragic end it all comes to. But somewhere along the way you get lost.

The Secret of Getting to the End

Here’s the big secret: Write a story you want to finish and decide to finish it. End of blog.

Yeah, yeah; of course that’s not the end of the blog. Because it’s really not that simple, is it? What happens when you hit a wall? You have to figure out how to break through it.

Problem: You’re Bored

If you’re bored with your character or plot, your reader probably will be, too. You know what bores you? Boring things. Duh, right?

I don't know about you, but I'd
find something else to do, too.

So what do you do when you’re bored? First you complain to your mom. Then she tells you she bets that cleaning a toilet would solve that problem real quick. Then you go and find something to make you unbored, because you definitely don’t want to clean the toilet.

So when you’re bored with your characters, find something to make them un-boring.

• Give a character an obsession or an interest. Make it something that seems, on the surface, out of character. How does that change how she behaves?
• Change a relationship. Maybe your characters are bored with each other. Maybe they need to break up or betray someone or reveal a secret.
• Change what happened last. If your protagonist succeeded at something, have her fail—or vice versa.
• Introduce danger. Maybe your characters are too safe. Hurt or threaten them. If something bad has already happened, make it worse.
• Get rid of what bores you. Go back to the last point in the story that excited you. Read forward, find that spot where you start to get bored and make something bad happen.
• Change something elemental. Maybe Brunhilda isn’t the right name for your character. Maybe Marcy is better. Or Skydancer. Maybe she doesn’t live in a faceless suburb but in a downtown building that’s about to be knocked down.

Skydancer is too happy. She needs to live here.

Problem: You Don’t Know What Happens Next

Everything’s going along swimmingly, but you suddenly realize you have no idea what’s going to happen next. You can use any of the tactics above to introduce complications, but you can also try something more structural.

• Skip ahead. If you know what happens further in the plot, go ahead and write that. Maybe that will help you figure out how to get there, or maybe it will just help you bury your head in the sand until later. (Warning: This is an editing-heavy approach.
• Trash your last scene. Even if it was working for you, temporarily discard the last scene you wrote, go back to the scene before it and head in a totally different direction.
• Go back to the beginning. Do you have enough conflict and characters for the long haul? Increase the stakes or add new characters who can cause trouble.
• Write from the end. If you know how everything ends up, start there and work your way backward.

Problem: You’ve Lost Heart

See, isn't outside better?

What if you find yourself bored with your characters and your plot and at a loss about what happens next? This is where you have to get outside your story and outside your house.

By getting outside of your story, I mean explore the world of your story in a way that doesn’t directly add to word count:

• Make a scrapbook. Go online and collect pictures that look like characters, locations or things in your story. Find your protagonist’s favorite hat or a special piece of jewelry. Immerse yourself in the physical details of your story’s world.
• Create a soundtrack. Find a song or put together a whole playlist of songs that reminds you of your story in some way. Listen to it over and over until you get into the mood. 
• Write an unseen scene. Write something outside the scope of your story: a scene from another character’s point of view; a letter from one character to another; a poem about or by one of your characters.

Cranky Rah likes the new flat white
from Starbuck's. Decaf, because she's
kinda...jumpy.

Sometimes the best thing you can do for your writing, though, is to not write. Go for a walk. Take a shower. Get out of the space you’re in, and let your brain breathe. Meet up with a friend who’s willing to listen to you go on for a while about your story. (Buy her a tasty drink while you’re at it.) Getting someone else excited about your story will get you excited.

Let It Go…Let It Go…

What if, despite everything you’ve tried, nothing you do brings your story back to life? First, just take a break. Work on something else for a while, then come back to your story in a couple of weeks and look at it with fresh eyes. If even that doesn’t leave you feeling like Dr. Frankenstein—“It’s alive! It’s alive!”—then it’s probably time to let it go.

It happens to the best of us, but don’t let it get you down. Everything you write, even the things you don’t finish—sometimes especially the things you don’t finish—make you a stronger writer. Just keep at it, and keep everything you write. Old writing is great for two things: proof that you’re getting better—and a good laugh right when you need one.

Swedish Authorities Say, "Don't Try This At Home"

Still adorable and oh-so tasty.

The last time I blogged about the weird places research leads us, it was to the edible dormouse, a creature of big-eyed cuteness and, to the Romans, supreme tastiness. Today, it takes us to trying to split an atom at home.

Cranky Rah was not trying to split an atom at home. Cranky Rah was simply learning about how neutrons split apart from protons so she could work it into a metaphor about twins (which sounds weirder than it comes off in the book, I promise). Anyway, what I ran into was this article about this pretty crazy Swedish guy who collected a bunch of radium, americium and uranium and tried to cook them up in sulphuric acid on his stove top as a kind of mini nuclear reactor. Because he was, you know, curious.

What kills me is how he'd been working on this (and blogging about it) for some time before it occurred to him that it might be illegal. He politely contacted the Swedish Radiation Safety Authority and they, needless to say, responded in person.

Friends don't let friends go to
dinner dressed like this.

Now, seriously, don't do this. And in case you have a burning desire to try it (probably because someone just told you not to), this post from Live Science will hopefully convince you that

1. It's pretty hard for normal people, and even evil despots, to get the materials one needs to split an atom in one's kitchen, and
2. That even if you were able to get your hands on the appropriate radioactive elements and even if you were able to cook up some uranium 235 next to your Keurig, you wouldn't be around to see the atoms splitting because you would be deader than an edible dormouse at a Roman feast. And probably about as crunchy.

All this talk about radium reminds me of the fabulous song Marie Curie by the Deedle Deedle Dees. And if that's not enough quirky historical wonderfulness set to music for you, listen to their song about Abigail Adams. 

Don't Hate Me Just Because I'm Symbolism

Symbolism gets a bad rap, mostly because of that particular ilk of literature teachers who just can't get it through their heads that sometimes a blue curtain is just a blue curtain. (And don't get my buddy the Dungeon Master started on trains...)

Who can blame the haters of symbolism, really? Statements like A symbol is an object that represents an idea and A symbol has a literal element and a figurative element can put the most lit-loving of us in a coma. But here's the thing: playing with symbolism in your writing can be really fun.

The Simple Symbol

Regardless of what my friend Alex
tells you, stop signs with a white
line around them are not optional.

Let's start back with that mind-numbing definition. What does that mean anyway—a literal element and a figurative element? That's just a way of saying there's an object (the literal) that stands for an idea or emotion (the figurative). You see and translate symbols all around you everyday, like when you understand (I hope) that the object that looks like a stop sign has the meaning Stop!

In their simplest form, symbols can be, well, simple. Like Luke Skywalker wearing white and Darth Vader wearing black. Or an ordinary-looking golden ring standing for ultimate power.

The Not-So-Simple Symbol

It's no worries if a symbol in a story stands for just one thing, but one of the way cool things about symbols is that you don't have to limit yourself to just one—or just one meaning. A symbol can have more than one meaning, or its meaning can change as the protagonist changes.

I looked up liberty, and I got this picture
of these dogs. I mean, I guess they're
not at liberty, but they sure look happy.
I must be a tyrannical government.

Let’s look at the mockingjay in The Hunger Games. In the beginning, this “creature the Capitol never intended to exist” is a simple symbol: It reminds Katniss of her father; it stands for the freedom of the woods. But it comes to mean much more.

When Katniss meets Rue, the mockingjay comes to represent not just Katniss’s home, but Rue’s as well. After Rue dies, it reminds Katniss why she’s fighting. And by the end of the books, the mockingjay has grown to stand for resistance and a hunger for freedom, things even the harshest government can’t suppress. Katniss, in fact, is the mockingjay, a “creature the Capitol never intended to exist.” So is Rue. So are all those who stand up to tyranny.

The Symbol on Steroids

Here's another boring definition, of the word motif: A motif is an object, idea or image that repeats throughout a work and supports the theme. One version of a motif is a collection of related symbols that are, in turn, related to a dominant idea in your story.

Let’s say your main character’s life is unraveling. You’ll show this through your plot points, of course, but you might also show it in the knitting project she keeps having to pick apart, the way her hair won’t stay pinned back in barrettes, the foreign language class she’s failing, the way she keeps getting lost. These related images show up over and over, in various forms, reinforcing the idea that your character can’t get the threads of her life wrapped up neat and tidy.

Shaping Extended Symbols into a Story

I dig Yeats, but this statue kinda creeps
me out. Try his poem White Birds or
The Lake Isle of Innisfree.

I’ll be honest, I don’t usually plan symbols into my writing. I give a girl a scarf decorated with brightly colored birds, and the next thing you know, I’ve included a poem by Yeats about sea birds and I've thrown a kid out of a tree like a flightless bird and…you get the picture.

Extended symbols, especially, often grow for the writer during the course of writing. You may not even realize you’ve sown the seeds of an extended symbol until you get to the end. In editing, you can go back and strengthen the symbol, weaving it through the entire story.

Or not. Despite how much English teachers live to parse symbolism in literature, it turns out a lot of writers didn’t intend or don’t see the symbolism in their works that lit majors do. Read this groovy article about a 16-year-old kid who got sick of English class and wrote to a bunch of famous authors about whether his teacher was right to obsess over symbolism.

The cool thing is this: You’re the writer. You can symbolize (and yes, you can use symbolize as an intransitive verb, though it's kind of stinky) intentionally, or symbols can arise in your writing through serendipity. Or you can kick them entirely to the curb. If you think you might want to give symbolism a chance, here are some different elements and characteristics that might give rise to interesting symbols that enrich your story:

• Color
• Sound
• Object
• Image
• Texture
• Weather
• Physical Characteristic (scar, tattoo, birthmark)
• Piece of Clothing
• Phrase/Saying/Quote

Caveat Symbolizer

Let this be a lesson to you:
This scholar talked about
symbols so much he
turned to stone.

Remember the lesson of the blue curtains: Don’t beat your reader over the head with symbolism. It may be a bit much to, say, name a character Tempest, give her cloudy gray eyes, have her be temperamental and unpredictable and have the wind whip up every time she’s around. But if used with a modicum of restraint and infused with freshness, symbols are a groovy way to draw your reader deeper into your story. And besides, they really are fun. How often do you get to throw a kid out of a tree to underscore your theme of learning to live life to its fullest?