Writing is rewriting.
That was a hard lesson for me to learn. I can still remember the early days of my first attempts at writing stories, pouring everything I had into them, considering them complete and perfect and unalterable, and they’d better be because I had nothing left in me.
I mentioned in my last post that I went out to my cabin at Roundrock last weekend. It was (effectively) a solo trip. I had brought along my dog, Flike, but he spent nearly all of the time inside the cabin, alternating between cowering on one of the beds and cowering beneath one of the beds. This dog weighs 75 pounds. He’s pure muscle and energy, with a deep bark. And he is terrified of flies! There. I said it.
August is a bad month in the Ozarks for horseflies. Ticks are on the wane, as are chiggers (evil, evil chiggers!), but if the dragonflies have not been doing their job all summer, the horseflies can be abundant. The males are benign, though annoying enuf being an inch or more long and buzzing angrily in your face, but the females will bite. They need a blood meal in order to produce their eggs so that more horseflies can bedevil my poor dog next August.
For reference, here is Flike:
The brown dog you see at 11:00 is Queequeg, a Pomeranian and, not surprisingly, the alpha male of the pair.
But enuf of that. Back to my point. My little cabin has neither plumbing nor electricity. The lack of plumbing a fellow can deal with fairly reasonably. But the lack of electricity for the laptop — where all of the writing gets done — is harder to deal with. My Mac has about a three-hour battery life, and I’ve experimented with large batteries (the kind you can jump start cars with) to supplement that, giving me about another three hours. But It’s never been that productive for me, perhaps knowing that my time is limited. So my weekend trips to the cabin are times for reflection and note taking (in the paper journal I keep there for that purpose).
I spent most of my time traveling between the comfy chair on the shady porch to the comfy chair before the fire ring. I reflected. I carried on conversations with myself — out loud — and various others who needed to hear my advice and opinions. I worked out story problems in my head and discussed at length with myself bits of dialog and plot development and story enhancements and all kinds of really brilliant things, some of which I remembered long enuf to write in my journal.
Foremost among the ideas I developed was a need to rewrite about a third of the penultimate story in the One-Match Fire cycle, “Little Gray Birds.” In that story the grandson, Curt, reflects on a discovery he made about his past. It is introspective, and I think it’s well done as it stands, but I think it can be done better as dialog between Curt and his mother. His mother can reveal/confess something in her background that is tremendously important to Curt. I think it works better that way, is more dramatic, and gives the mother character a little more presence in the stories.
And so, writing is rewriting. The brilliant way I had figured out how to write this new development, sitting around the campfire and drinking beer, has somehow escaped me. Or much of it has. Or perhaps the seeming brilliance of it has. But I’m working on it. Somehow I’ll finish it then shoehorn it into the story and see what I think of it.
I don’t foresee another trip to the cabin soon, so maybe I’ll finally be able to put these stories to rest.