Do you listen to your writing?

“I will then let the first few versions of the novel tell me what it wants me to do from there.” -me

If you leave comments in comment boxes then read on. I recently left a few lines in the comment box of a writer’s post. See above. The post itself explored the author’s method and how she created her stories. I replied because I identified with her method of starting out using handwritten drafts. I ended up leaving a comment on my method of rewriting, revising and sharpening my works of fiction. I hoped my reply made sense. A week or so later, I am afraid it didn’t. So, I have an example of what I meant below. Not that anyone cares be me, but let me explain.

I wrote, or actually typed, the core of both passages over two decades ago. It was no until several year ago that I picked those pages up again and took up revising all of Back outta the World. Maybe distance and detachment are elements that help a writer to figure out their work. I sometimes think working to get something done by a certain time can be harmful to the creative process. Then again, I may be overcompensating by taking a two decade hiatus between rewrites. That being said, I was then able to see these two passages as companions, even though originally they were just episodes written based on the notes I took on an old legal pad. Why were they there? Was it actually random? The novel was always meant to be called Back outta the World. Did I subconsciously compare and contrast both type of balls to be like the world, like a globe, at the very least? I honestly do not know. What I do know is that I have attempted to do just that during this last pass on the manuscript as I saw the connection between the world in Back outta the World, the two types of balls (globes, worlds) and Jay’s choice to try to avoid both by hitting the road. That is what I mean by letting the novel tell me what to write. I left excerpts to help clarify. If you care to comment please do. But, I think subconsciously, I wrote this post mainly for me.

BotW Excerpt – The “coconut” shaped pool was filled only half way with murky water. The pool itself was not ready for swimming and the water was likely put there to test the pumps, drains and filters. Someone from the construction crew working on the place must have found a beach ball and thrown it on top of the water. The ball glided randomly and slowly across the water, eased along by whatever air movement was in the Sun Dome. The Dome itself was complete, sealing off the chilly Midwest evening. About a dozen tall palms trees installed and planted in pots were positioned around the pool. Set back a bit from the pool sat a small tropical themed bar. It had a green grass skirt draped around it, fake bamboo shelves backed it up, not yet filled by bottles. All the poolside tables had large umbrellas over them for protection from the sun or glare from the dome, or both. Other fixtures, chairs and still empty pool towel racks had the look of something meant to withstand the splash of water and beating of the sun. Everything was new. Near the main entrance, several large crates still sat unopened. The stairs leading the actual rooms overlooking the pool were roped off. Two large decorative fountains stood awaiting water to animate them. The Sun Dome was anticipating holding the future noises of kids splashing and running and parents telling them to stop.

Excerpt number 2 – A stew of events, some of his making, some not, had pushed him out of his world. Was that it? He didn’t recall signing on the dotted line. Was he running to or away from something? Too late now. Jay took off on this trip regardless, undercover now of the trees and night. He was the one who was wronged. He had to do what he did, simply had no choice. The past ran in his veins and thoughts now. A little ways back to the draft dodger who had surely slept in the lodge. They took him farther back to his childhood front yard and a game of war with his neighborhood friends. Was this where the trip really started? No longer are there the trees and this road out of the van’s windshield, but his front yard and youth. There he is, in the right, doing the right thing by yelling at his friend, Mike. Mike the strongest of his friends and the only one left in the game besides Jay. He had the ball and wouldn’t throw it. He held it there, across the imaginary line of separation between the opposing teams’ turf. Jay is yelling at him that the game cannot end like this. One of them has to be put out, to be hit by the ball. The ball was the world to them both there on the front lawn in a summer afternoon. Still Mike stood back against the fence smiling stupidly. Finally, in anger and rightness, he, Jay, walked up to the imaginary line and dared Mike to throw the kickball at him. Point blank. The rest of our friends watch. Now in my driving mind, I see the kickball smash my nose, snapping my neck back and blood splatter my face and white T-shirt. I see the kickball now, its odd deep purple color, rotating in slow motion like a spun globe, set in motion by its impact on my face, somehow landing in my arms. I catch it, winning the game. I clutch it in the basket of my thin brown arms, convinced that I was right.