2008-06-24T09:24:00.000-07:00

About shaping the course of his stories, a favorite author of mine once said, “I need to know the beginning and the end, but I’m often wrong about the end.”

Which was all I needed to hear.

After so many endless, toilsome hours shaping the place in which my first novel was to be set, I couldn’t wait any longer. Confident in the buoyancy of my world-building, I shed my inhibitions, cast off any lingering doubts and excuses, and ran bellowing across the sand into the churning literary surf.

Turns out, to my surprise, the waters beyond the fuss and foam are deep. And dark. And, well, kind of scary.

But that wasn’t going to stop me, no siree! From those initial, determined key strokes I watched my story burst forth like a tiny trickle of rain heralding the roaring flood. Before I knew it, I was racing along a swift, strong current of ideas and themes, characters and devices.

I was writing.

A little more than a year later, and presto — I’d done it. I’d written a novel! I printed it out just to gaze at its glorious entirety, drenched by the heady knowledge that all 120,000 of its words had been set down by me. I immediately began showing off each and every one of them.

“Now, be as critical as you can,” I instructed those well-read few whose opinions I truly valued. “A real writer needs honest feedback in order to grow. Don’t feel you have to say nice things just because we’re close. Don’t worry about crushing my spirit with your cruel insensitivity to my work.”

“Hey,” they told me, “this is a really nice start.”

“Thanks!” I beamed. Then: “No, wait. What do you mean, start?”

“The first draft is always really rough,” they assured. “But it looks like it’ll be good when it’s done.”

“WHAT THE #@$&* ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT???” I asked with calm, congenial objectivity. “THAT’S MY NOVEL! THAT’S IT! IT’S DONE!”

“Well,” they said, “it seems here you don’t have a solid grasp on what this group of folks is all about. And over here, this character is too nice. Make him a little darker. You know, like Han Solo back when he shot first. And the ending needs work. You dropped some threads that need explaining.”

After some rationally venomous dismissals of their woefully ignorant observations, followed by some peacefully reflective cursing and faculty-focussing stomping about, I arrived at a sinking realization: They were right.

I’d long ago heard the warnings, seen the signs posted along the coast by those who’d leaped in before me: Outline. Plan. I’d been so eager to dive into authorship that when I looked up after swimming for all I was worth, I found myself in the middle of a vast ocean of my own making with no idea in which direction lie the beach.

Just as swimmers need to know where they’ll depart and again reach land, writers need to know ahead of time — as best they can — where to begin and end their story. A firm grasp of what happens in between doesn’t hurt either.

I slogged my way back to shore, red-penning from my manuscript everything that inexplicably seemed nowhere near as crucial as I’d been convinced. What once felt like the end of the journey had become merely the half-way point.

It was a lot of work. In many ways, more than the initial writing itself. Now, a year later, the novel’s tonnage comes in at a tidy 90,000 — a far cry from its original bloat. More importantly, it’s a better book. And I’d like to think as a result I’m a better writer.

I benefited a great deal by breaking the rules, discovering the hard way that success is indeed 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration. Granted, there are times when the narrative stream veers unexpectedly, when a character does or says something completely unforeseen. Those are moments of magic, to be treasured. Because unfortunately, they’re also the exception.

So, do yourself a favor: Know where you want to go before taking the plunge.

You’re swimming at your own risk, after all.

The Young Man(uscript) and the Sea