Tag Archives | revising

Worst advice I got as a beginner was…

By on April 28, 2010 in Writing

cut, cut, cut. 

Let me explain. I got the writing bug. (And it wasn’t anything like the tick my hubbie just pulled from scalp. I know. Ew.)

I researched. I wrote the story.

Then I stumbled across some great advice on websites. You know, the list of words to avoid (seemed to, just, started to, actually…) I gasped and then scrolled through my manuscript like a crazy woman to free my writing of those words. Those websites were a terrific help.

But, when it came to revising, the big piece of advice plastered everywhere was cut, cut, cut. I couldn’t see anything to cut, so I went to query. No surprise, my early attempts were rejected.

I couldn’t cut, cut, cut because I underwrite. I still do. I didn’t have pages and pages of description, unneeded dialogue, or rambling inner thoughts to trim. I still don’t. When I’m done with a first draft, I have to read through and mark the places to flesh out, add more internal thoughts, add some description, add details…

So before you cut, cut, cut – first you have to figure out if you overwrite or underwrite. Sure, my first work needed major rewriting, but I couldn’t see that then. What beginner can?

When you were starting out, what was the biggest piece of advice that either misguided you or you totally didn’t get until later?

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I’m turning into a crocodile. Really.

By on January 25, 2010 in Writing

I didn’t set out to become a crocodile. Honestly.

It just happened.

I mean, yeah, sure, they’ve got nice choppers. And it would be really nice to just open my mouth and have a bunch of birds clean my teeth instead of visiting the dentist. But as much as I hate going to the dentist, I never thought transmorgrifying into a crocodile was the best alternative.

After all, I’ve got kids.

So, one day, I caught my reflection in the computer screen. Scary.

 

 

I turned away in horror at my disfigurement. But then I got to thinking. Cover Girl or Maybelline might not ask me to advertise mascara for them, but a keen and crafty eye could come in quite handy. Typos, run-ons, and split infinitives would be a thing of the past. Extra verbiage, boring words, and weak verbs would be dead in the water. And best of all, I would never lose my keys, sunglasses, or chapstick again. And that would be cool.

I didn’t dare look at my reflection but I looked down, and my writer’s butt was gone.

 

I panicked. What would I wear to church? Why couldn’t it have been a mermaid’s tail so I could fulfill my life long dream of lying across a rock as the sun sets and waves crash as I slap my tail and toss my long hair. But I digress. A strong powerful tail might be nice. I could power through revisions. Unnecessary characters would flee. Distracting plot lines would shape up or ship out. And with one swipe, all my sentences and paragraphs would vary in structure, style, and length. And with a couple flips of my tail, the carpet would be cleared of all toys. More time for cleaning the attic writing.

I was beginning to warm up to my new look. So I peeked at my reflection again.

 

Wow. I could get used to this. No more worries about fine lines or wrinkles or sun spots. I could put all my saved money from creams and lotions into postage or workshops. The bumpy thick skin would probably be the new black. I’d be the envy of the town. And with such thick skin, tough critiques and rejections would be just a drop in the pond.

But then something caught my eye between the icons on my desktop.

 

I put sparkly vampire guy to shame. They’d probably ask me to star in the next Twilight movie. Sure my kids might not want too many kisses goodnight anymore. And my sister in law probably won’t ask me to babysit. But think of what I could do with teeth like that? I could bite into my manuscript, tear it up, revise, and rewrite in no time at all. And just one little grin would send my kids running to clean their room.

I took one last look. I couldn’t help myself.

 

I might not win the local beauty pangeant.  And I definitely shouldn’t volunteer in my son’s art class when they’re making their clay bowls.

But I can write. I can revise. And I can take rough critiques and tough rejections. And now I have the perfect excuse in the morning for being a little grumpy and slow-going before my cup of hot coffee – I need some time to warm up. You know, the whole cold blooded thing.

Have you turned into a croc yet? Really, it’s the new rage.

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