My Writing Process (and Why NaNoWriMo is only for fun)

Today starts the August session of Camp NaNoWriMo. As I mentioned Monday, I signed up for this session, but have no real expectation of having a 50,000 word draft done by the end of the month. I'm actually not even sure how to do a word count for NaNoWriMo, because in the course of one month I'll probably write half a dozen 'drafts'. Each starting from 0 pages, 0 words.

Sound crazy? Come on, I'll show you how it works.

Confession of a Former Pantser

I used to try writing by the 'pantsing' method - don't plan out, plot out, fill character charts. Just sit down and write by the seat of your pants. I really like pantsing, it seemed to be a great way to let the characters grow and surprise me on their own.

But I never got anywhere.

I always ended up writing myself into a corner, or stuck in a situation where the characters wouldn't speak to me and I didn't know where to go, or just putting words on a page with no goal, which led to really crappy writing. I know some great writers who make pantsing work. I envy them a bit, but eventually I had to admit, I'm not one of them. So I gave it up, and went looking for another method.

I Love Fractals

I've loved fractals since I did a presentation on them in a high school math class. Those buggers are just fascinating the way they build on each other. An insanely simple shape, like a triangle, can become an intricate and beautiful design. So when, in my search for ideas on a new way to tackle my stories, I came across a writing method based on fractals, I was immediately interested.

That method was Randy Ingermanson's Snowflake Method, and if you are interested in some ideas on structuring your writing process, it is probably worth looking at.

The first few steps of the Snowflake Method combine fractal-style growth, with solid character development.

First, write the idea of your story in one sentence.
Then expand that sentence into a paragraph of about 4 sentences.
Then expand each sentence in that paragraph into a paragraph (which should give you a one page synopsis.)
Randy's method has you stop expanding after you reach a 4 page synopsis, and switch to plotting out a scene-by-scene outline, but here is where I took a left turn.

Fractals, remember?

I just keep expanding.

Fractal Writing

Here's how it works. I take my four page synopsis, and save it in one word file, with all the earlier smaller versions. Then I start on what I call 'Expansion 1'.

Opening a new word file, I copy the first paragraph of the synopsis over. I don't edit or expand the paragraph. Instead I use it as a reference for where the story is while I start writing a more detailed version. Here is an example from 'My Mistress':

Mattin's life is turned upside down when Lord Oeloff forces his sister Marta to become his slave. With no other options, Mattin turns to Lady Jahleen, Oeloff's enemy, and offers to become her slave if she can free his sister. After some hesitation, Jahleen accepts his offer, believing that she can use political means to force Oeloff to free Marta and undermine Oeloff's power base at the same time.

  - Synopsis first paragraph

 

Mattin was coming out of the inn stables when he saw the coach. Ebony and gold, and a perfectly matched team of four. He runs to the market to warn Marta that he thinks one of the fae lords is at the inn. He tells her to hide for a while, but she laughs and tells him to stop being so over protective. Gossip in the market – another animal was found tortured to death. Speculation that a lesser fae was hiding in town amusing himself w/ the animals.

Mattin's fears prove true, and when they reach the inn they find the Lord Oeloff waiting for them. He is claiming Marta as part of the tax owed him by the town. Mattin's father says nothing, silenced by fear of the fae's power. Mattin tries to protest but Oeloff stops him

 - Expansion 1 first and second paragraphs

In total, the expansion of the synopsis first paragraph filled one and a half pages. There are scenes that get significant detail in expansion 1 are the scenes that will be the backbone of the story. Other scenes, and entire chapters, are skimmed in a few sentences.

When I finish the first expansion, which ended up being 11 pages for 'My Mistress', I start on expansion 2. Again, more details, more expansion. Secondary scenes that reinforce and move along the main plot begin getting fleshed out. Side plots (like Brit's on going rivalry with the Head Cook) start getting mention here and there.

Each expansion ends up being about 2.5 times longer, so when I finish expansion 2 on My Mistress, I expect it to be around 25 pages long. Around expansion 5, I'll be hitting 400 pages and 100,000 words. At that point I will have a completed first draft, with fully detailed scenes and (hopefully) solid dialogue and characters.

I'll also have had 5 changes to have caught and corrected plot holes, inconsistencies, and similar authorial dropped balls. So with a good dose of luck, my 'first draft' will avoid needing any major revisions, though scene deletions, character tweaks and other moderate and minor corrections will definitely be necessary. 

My Numbers

So, if I'm going to 'win' Camp NaNoWriMo, (have a 50,000 word draft) I'll need to get at least to expansion 4, more likely at least half way through expansion 5. Assuming that 2.5x expansion rate continues, and going with the industry-standard 250 words per page, that means I'll have written:

Expansion 1 - approx 10 pages, approx 2500 words
Expansion 2 - approx 25 pages, approx 6250 words
Expansion 3 - approx 62.5 pages, approx 15625 words
Expansion 4 - approx 156.25 pages, approx 39062.5 words
just over half of Expansion 5 - approx 200 pages, approx 50,000

Or a total of about 313 pages, and 113,437 words.

I'll admit, I've considered counting all the expansions towards my word goal - at which point I'd finish towards the end of expansion 4, but that doesn't sit right. That's certainlly over 50,000 words, but it's not a 50,000 word draft. More like 4 mini drafts. And that distinction matters to me (it may not matter to the folks running NaNoWriMo, but it matters to me). Call it an excess of stubbornness - I haven't completed a 50,000 word draft until I've completed a 50,000 word draft.

Maybe next time I'll plan ahead and join a NaNoWriMo when I'm ready to start expansion. In the meantime I'm going to have fun next month writing my ass off. The real victory will be watching my story develop over the course of the month.


I hope you've enjoyed my rambling on my approach to writing, and NaNoWriMo. I'd love to here your experiences with writing and pantsing vs plotting, so please drop a comment.

My Voice

I was reading a blog post recently with advice for authors on building a blog to help promote their work. I read several blogs like this, and they usually have good, or at least interesting advice. It doesn't always apply to me. Sometimes it doesn't apply right now and I'll bookmark it for going back to when and as I am ready for it.

This particular blog post went a bit beyond not applying to me, though. What I took away from this post was 'You're doing it wrong!' And that bugs me enough that I'm going to talk about it.

How Important is

The blog post I'm talking about included the advice that you need to find your voice, and make sure that voice comes through consistently in all your writing. On the surface, that's good advice. We read authors whose voices we enjoy. And if you read my blog, enjoy my voice, and know you'll find the same enjoyable voice in my published work, you'll probably be a little more likely to buy that published work.

At least in theory, an authors voice is one of her most important commodities - her signature that is not just on the front page but imbued in every word she writes. Every author, in theory, has a unique voice and many faithful readers can identify a paragraph written by their favorite author whether or not the byline is present.

In general, voice is considered to be pretty damn important.

But what if you have more than one voice?

None of us is one dimensional. We are all complex beings who can't be easily pigeonholed, and I doubt finding a consistent voice is easy for any new author. Finding your voice, I expect, is rather like finding yourself - not a simple project.

However there is an assumption built into the idea of finding your voice. The assumption that each person has only one voice or should restrict themself to a single voice.

And here is where I am 'doing it wrong.' At least, if I listen to conventional wisdom. Luckily for me, I've never blindly followed the conventional wisdom yet, so I doubt I'll start now.

A Chameleon? Or a Variety Show?

When I was still going to college, I took a psychology course which talked about the way other people affect our behavior. In particular, I remember one class when the teacher explained how studies show that some people behave pretty much the same no matter where they are or who they are with. Other people are less consistent - their behavior changes depending on the circumstances.

We all do this to a certain extent - you probably dress differently for a day at work (if you have a 'regular job') than you do for going out with friends. A lot of people are more comfortable talking about their sex lives with friends then their mother. These are ways the vast majority of people change their behavior depending on where they are and who they are with.

By Florent HARDY, CC 3.0

Some people take it a step farther. Some people's behavior changes so much that they may seem to have a completely different personality depending on which group of friends they are hanging out with at the time. I don't know where it came from, but the term 'social chameleon' stuck in my head for people like this.

And I suppose you could say I'm one of them. At least, my old psych teacher probably would have said so. The thing is, from my perspective, I am always consistent with myself. Myself is just pretty complicated, and sometimes I'm crazy and silly and wild, sometimes I'm quiet and watch and listen and absorb what is going on. Sometimes I'll hold nothing back, other times I may be discrete in what I share and why. Is the quiet serenity I show when entering a forest any less 'me' than the giddy nut who has dice-throwing fights and stages random tickle ambushes on her partner? Is the fun loving mom any less me than the obsessive writer? Is the woman who when truly upset about something can curse like a truck driver more or less 'real' than the woman who almost never curses, because what's the point?

Who I am doesn't change depending on who I am with. I don't act differently to blend in with others the way a chameleon changes color to blend in with the forest. I just am different. I am multitude and I am one. I like having a complicated personality and being just as comfortable in a meditation group as I am squealing over some great piece of steampunk or dancing in the middle of the street, just because I like the music the busker on the corner is playing.

I'm not a social chameleon - I'm a walking, talking variety show. Stick around me long enough and you'll see just how varied it can get.  Yet each different 'segment' is all me - just a different side of me.

So how does a person who's theme song is Meredith Brook's "I'm a Bitch" find a consistent voice to express myself?

I don't.

My Voice is a Symphony

I'm not playing a single instrument here, I'm the entire band. My voice will change depending on my topic, my feelings, and my audience. Each time I write, I am adding a new note to the song. And it is the interplay of the different notes - the fact that my voice is not consistent, but is instead varying through the scale of who I am - that makes my voice mine.

My Voice:

In this strange woodland, the trail is a dark brown blaze against a riot of green. I'm sure there are leaves beneath the verdant growth, but they are hidden by vines, bushes, and saplings. If I were to step off the trail two feet I would not be able to see the trail, because it would be hidden by this overgrown jungle. Assuming I could step off the trail, without a machete to hack my way through the undergrowth. It is almost disturbing to know that if I stumbled back onto the trail I would recognize it immediately.

  --Things are Different Here

And western culture follows that pattern. Again, partly out of necessity. Would I prefer to be able to refer to the spirit-workers (yeah it's a shit term, I'm trying to avoid 'shaman' and IMO 'medicine man' is just as bad) of each Native American tribe, African tribe, Amazon tribe, etc, etc etc by their proper names? Yeah. Do I have any way to learn those proper names? At most, a handful. And no equivalent term exists in English. So with apologies, I will probably continue using the word 'shaman' (actually, spirit-worker is kinda growing on me) and if I meet anyone from those cultures I will tell them "I'm sorry, I don't know the word I should use. I'll be happy to use the word in your language if you can tell me what it is."

--Cultural What?

Marie’s eyes narrowed as she saw Paul and a strange woman laughing and holding hands outside the movie theater. She stormed up to them and slapped him. Hard.
“What the hell!” Hand to his face, he growled at her, “Marie, what is your fucking problem.”
“Fuck you,” she said, “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. My sister is marrying you next week and you have the fucking balls to be out at the movies making kissy noises with someone else?”

 --Inspiration: Perplexed

Deep in the dark earth, all was still. Nothing moved, nothing lived. In the deep cavern, hidden from the world, there was silence.
Until a heart began to beat.. barely perceptible, it was still almost overwhelming. A subliminal thunder.
A moment later a new sound entered the hidden world. The quiet rush of breath filled the cavern.

 --Inspiration: Subterranean

Gearge didn’t know why Franj had insisted on the strange name for the ship, but since he didn’t much care, he went along with it.. Out of curiosity, he tried looking up the name in on the planetary ‘net. All he found was a song, from several centuries back, about baseball. Catchy thing, he’d caught himself whistling it several times that week. He might even hit one of the re-enactor events on their next leave, see if he could figure out what made baseball so wonderful.
Didn’t help him figure out what the crazy name Franj had come up with.

--Inspiration: Crackerjack

Things are Different Here

This Saturday, I went for a walk in the woods for the first time since moving to Memphis. It was an uncomfortable and bewildering experience. For the first time since moving here, I truly felt that I was in a strange place. A place I am not sure I belong.

For as long as I can remember, I've been at home among the trees. Instinctively, I was drawn to the woods. A tiny patch by the local high school was a favorite hide out as a child. When I got my license, I would drive out to state parks and spend hours walking the trails. The forests of North Jersey were more home than my parents house.

Yeah, you heard me. I know for a lot of people Jersey equals 'Jersey Shore', Atlantic City and the Turnpike. Let me show you my New Jersey.

Red Trail at the Tourne NJ by Steven Reynolds

Terrace Pond Trail Clearing by Steven Reynolds

Jockey Hollow, by Karendotcom127

These are the state parks and reservations that can be found throughout North Jersey. In the south, is the giant pine forest known as the Pine Barrens - an area bigger than Rhode Island. No matter what you see on TV, NJ is a beautiful area. And even growing up by Paramus (mall capital of the world) and off G.S. Parkway exit 63, I am still a child of Appalachia.

My biggest worry about moving to western Tennessee, was leaving the mountains and forests where I feel I truly belong. The move was necessary, the right thing for my family. And friends assured me that even if there were no mountains, there were forests a-plenty.

Saturday, I entered one of those forests. With the feeling of a weight lifting from my chest, I returned to the trees. I knew that in the green depths I would be welcome, and at peace. I knew it wasn't the woods of Appalachia, but it was a forest, and that, I thought, would be enough.

Instead I stepped into an new world.

In the forests I am familiar with, the trail and forest alike are carpeted with leaves. Trails are marked with small signs 'trail marks' - usually just a square of paint - on the trees. The trail marks aren't close together - you can usually only see one at any given time. If you walk a dozen paces off the trail, and lose sight of the next trail mark, you can cross the trail a dozen times looking for it, and never know. The trail is an invention of man, and except for the trail marks, no different from the rest of the forest floor.

In this strange woodland, the trail is a dark brown blaze against a riot of green. I'm sure there are leaves beneath the verdant growth, but they are hidden by vines, bushes, and saplings. If I were to step off the trail two feet I would not be able to see the trail, because it would be hidden by this overgrown jungle. Assuming I could step off the trail, without a machete to hack my way through the undergrowth. It is almost disturbing to know that if I stumbled back onto the trail I would recognize it immediately.

The mountainous parks and reservations I am used to are filled with granite outcroppings, low ridge lines, dried water courses that turn into raging streams in the spring melt. The underbrush is thin unless the forest has been disturbed - the wide branching trees block the light, greedily crowding out their lesser siblings.

Here, tall, narrow trees stretch upwards, with no branches or wide limbs. A sudden narrow burst of leaves at their top makes them look like tiny umbrellas with huge shafts. The trucks of these lithe giants often twist and turn, reminding me of dancers frozen in place. They do nothing to block the light from their small siblings, and even the greatest tree is surrounded by a burgeoning court of greenery. Often the trees themselves are overgrown with vines, forming shaggy monstrosities that fit perfectly in their madcap world.

I am used to silent woods. In the dry seasons, one is accompanied by the crackle of leaves beneath ones feet. Occasionally a bird will call, or a squirrel with disturb the underbrush before darting up a tree. Otherwise, all is quiet. It is a good place to hear God's whisper

This forest has a voice that never stops. Frogs sing in constant counterpoint to cicadas, whose drone rises and falls at unpredictable intervals. The bird calls, at least, are almost the same. But the constant hum of these woods is a pressure on my ears, a weight on my mind that disquiets me even while it sings of peace and life and growth.

I am welcome in these woods, among these trees. I feel, as I always have, the green things and those that live among them. Stranger that I am, they whisper that I belong here. That the paved and manicured lands in which I live are just a stopping place, and my true home is among the woodlands that call to my heart and soul.

Yet here, in the woods that call out welcome, I feel for the first time a stranger. I have been told, constantly, that things are different in the south. I felt no culture shock, no dislocation here. There were things that were different, but no more different than Pennsylvania is from Jersey, or both are from the City. Walking into the woods, the welcoming woods that whisper of home, for the first time I truly felt it - things are different here.