The Pursuit of Imperfection

So, I've been having some issues with my lastest WIP. I think about the story all the time, and I feel like I have a good grasp of the characters. But when I open up my word processor, I go blank. I may write a few sentences, but then I delete them. They feel false, not as good as they could be. They aren't perfect. And from that fear of what could be, or in my mind what should be, I close the window, convinced that I'll have a better shot later today, tomorrow, next week. And that's how I've avoided writing for the last few weeks.

However, I think I've found the key. I stumbled across the software, Write or Die, while surfing the blogs of some writers I follow. I was familiar with it, and with Nanowrimo, who promotes its use. During Nanowrimo in high school, the same phrase was repeated over and over. "The point is just to get something down. You can't edit what isn't there."

Feeling a little better, I set the 30 minute timer on Kamikazi mode. That means that if I were to stop writing for more than a few seconds, my words would be deleted, one by one, by the program. Talk about inspiration to keep typing. The first 30 minutes flew by, with more than 1,000 words. Woah. I'd never typed so much in such a small span of time. When I read over what I'd done, I realized that there were some elements that had sprung up that I hadn't originally intended for. However, these new leads strengthened the overall mood of the novel.

However, not all of the product was usable. Some of my sentences were clumsy. The same modifiers were used and used again. But it was a start. It was a new way of looking at my first chapter, in 300 more words. Not all of those words will stay. In fact, many of them will get whittled down during editing. But you can't edit what's not there.

After a few hours, I realized something I'd begun to do. I was intentionally writing some things, knowing that they would be removed. I would recognize a mistake, a misspelling, or something that no longer made sense. But I stuck with it, keeping the not-so-great old with the interesting new. It bumped up my word count, and helped me to decide more what my vision for the story was. The mistakes will be culled during editing, but I was no longer afraid to try something new, to sound a little silly. I made impromptu flashbacks, strange word structures, and things that would never appear in something I would want people to read.

This is much different than my modus operandi in the past. I would write a chapter, then send it to my closest friends, begging for praise. But what I've written now I feel I can show no one. I've never created so rough a draft. But that's okay. I made a few notes at the end of each chapter with some ideas I came up with as to the changing, and then I set it aside. I need to get it all down first, the good and the bad, then decide what I think is worth keeping, and what really needs to be removed. Then, I can have people look at it, telling me what they think works and what doesn't. But I will no longer be afraid of my own mistakes in the first draft. Because I know that so much of it is wrong on purpose. There will be no distinction, looking back, between accidents that make me question my ability and intentional inaccuracies. And that is a weight I will be happy to get off my chest.

          Wow. It's been nearly a year since I wrote in this blog. I feel like I have become a completely different person since I last wrote, and so I don't intend on keeping the blog exactly as I have before. I hope to write something in it every day, hopefully with a literary or scholarly bent to it, but just something every day, to give me a way to center my day. I won't pretend to be a book reviewer, but I'll post what I'm reading, and give a few of my opinions of the work. I'll post about cool giveaways and contests, and talk about my own pursuits. I have a few goals this summer, before I return to school. One of them is to work on the project which consumed me last summer. It was called Parade at that time. I'm not sure what its name will be now, but I hope to continue it and refine it. Also, I'm working on research for a scholarly paper which requires lots of translation and the reading of lots of notes on the author I'm studying. It's a top secret topic, for now, until I can get more of a claim on it, but I'll probably include some notes on how the research project is going. My final goal is to find some gainful employment, but I find that venture pretty much hopeless, since I'm only back for the summer and I have to be gone a couple times for commitments I've already made. But I've resigned myself to try, and I'll let you know how that goes.

          Also, for those of you who followed me on twitter, in an interesting couple of days I deactivated my twitter, and in doing so lost all of my followers. So, if you would like to continue hearing about my works and some of my musings, follow me at @sarahckeith.

Have a nice day!

Sarah Keith

Adjusted 250 Words

I took a step back and worked with a smaller range of events, so here's what I've come up with for the log-line and 250 words. Check out the contest here: http://brenleedrake.blogspot.com/2011/06/four-teens-judge-your-story-with-three.html?showComment=1309464008080#c191944983326420783



Let me know what you think of my new entry idea!

Sarah Keith

Logline for Masque:

Blue discovers the secrets of the Writer, the all-powerful ruler of their little village, while searching for her sister and being romanced by the power of lies and disguises. 

250 words:

I knew there was something wrong as soon as I heard the tinkling of the bell. There was only one reason for someone to ring at our house at this time of night. Something was wrong with Molly.

                My parents entered the hallway about the same time that I did. There were no locks on our doors, or on the doors of any other house in the hamlet. The Writer disallowed it. And as soon as I saw Charles standing inside the front door of our home, I registered how short my nightgown was, how sheer. My heart was throbbing in my chest. What was it?

                I wasn’t used to seeing him so close. On stage, he always looked so confident. Framed in my tiny doorway, he looked taller than usual. His strawberry-blond hair, usually slicked back, fell into his eyes. His face was etched in a strange sorrow. I wrapped my arms around my chest as I stood in the hallway. My father went up to Charles and took the small letter he held.

                “I wasn’t supposed to open it,” Charles said. The seam had been ripped.

                My father nodded. He understood. We all did. Charles and Molly were so close. My father opened the parchment and scanned it quickly, then looked up at Charles. “You have no idea where she could have gone?  Why?”

                Charles shook his head. “I wish I did, sir. This letter was given to me by the Writer. I was given no other information.”

The First 250 words...

Here's the first 250 words of my latest project Masque, a YA Dystopian novel. I have until 11:59 on July 20th to collect as much feedback as possible and submit my final 250 word beginning. Please let me know what you think! I know it's condensed, but I hope that there will still be some constructive feedback that can assist me. Here's the logline and 250 words. Thanks again!

Sarah Keith

Logline:

The Writer scripts village life. The Players perform. No matter what. Blue is summoned to join them when her sister disappears. When Blue learns the truth, can she save her sister, her friends, her world?


250:

                I knew there was something wrong with Molly. There was no other reason for Charles to be standing in my house in the middle of the night. He was a Player, they both were. They weren’t allowed in the village, except to perform. He’d invited himself in, the door wasn’t locked. None were allowed to be, by order of the Writer.

                I caught my breath and averted my eyes as my parents entered the hall. My nightgown was too short, too sheer. And Charles was far too attractive. But tonight, his eyes were sunken, his faced etched in sadness. He gave my father a crumpled note.

                “I wasn’t to open it,” Charles said. He gestured to the open seam. “I’m sorry.”

                My father nodded. He understood. We all did.

                “So she’s gone?” my father asked.

                Charles shrugged. “I don’t know anything. I thought, maybe you would know more.”

                Molly. My perfect sister. Most popular on the stage. Five years ago, before she’d joined the Writer’s Players, she’d been my best, my only friend. She hadn’t spoken to me since. I saw her every other day, on the stage by the beach. But where could she have gone?

                My mother knotted her fingers in her nightgown. “But you were so close. Surely, surely you know something.” Usually, she could have talked for hours. Now, she was frightened into silence.

                Charles turned to go. “Mr. and Mrs. Ackleman,” he said. His dark eyes met mine. “Blue.”

                I nodded and he was gone.

My First Rejection

It wasn't a rejection. Not really. Actually, it's something I'm rather proud of. I was a finalist in the Gatekeepers' Post contest on Wattpad.com. I did not win. This would be the first time something like this has happened to me in the writing world.

Now comes the great part. It's because this is the first thing to happen to me in the writing world. Ever. I've written for years, but mainly in my room in the dark. A few select friends privy to my scribblings. This marks the very first time I have done ANYTHING outside my comfort zone. Never before have I introduced my writings to people I didn't know, or on such a scale. And it has done things for me that I could not have anticipated.

The book I submitted, THE HEAD THAT WEARS THE CROWN, was born just about 5 years before the beginning of the contest. It had taken on many forms, and was re-written about once a year. But this time, it was different. I had a deadline. I had an audience. I got feedback while I was writing, re-writing, and revising. And I got a chance to live like a real writer, to work everyday on something I felt passionate about. And for the first time, I found others who enjoyed my work. Others who didn't have to be wheedled into reading it.

So today, I could be really, really upset. I could cry, throw my manuscript into the trash, rip it into little pieces, or any number of other cathartic things. But I'm not. I'm working on another project, giving that one a break. I'm practicing the art of the query letter, so that when the time comes to share it again, I'll be prepared.

Because this isn't bad. It's not the end of my success as a writer. It's the beginning. Rejection means that I'm trying, and that I have something I believe in enough to put out there. And eventually, after what is sure to be a long road, success will come. And rejection will only serve to make it sweeter.

The Breathings of My Heart

William Wordsworth said "Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart."


As a writer, I take those words seriously. It's what I try to do. Whenever I think about a story, plot it out, begin to type. What do I want it to say? And how does that relate to what I think and feel?

When I read a good book, I know immediately. I know how the characters feel. And quite often, if the viewpoint of the character doesn't match that of the author, they feel strongly in some way about a topic that the author feels strongly about. It's impossible to fake. Passion is passion, and too many books fall flat without it. It's a missing feeling, and nothing else can make up for it.

As I travel the road towards publishing, consider my options, look for possible agents and publishers, it's something I remind myself of. I could have the best agent, the most dedicated publisher. I could have the most comprehensive ad campaign imaginable. But if I don't love my writing, if there's no passion running through it and around it, it won't work. There's no substitute.

For me, it takes the pressure off. I need to work my best at my job, creating stories that I think will entertain, and hopefully force one to think. The rest will come, but not without an excellent product. And that can only come from the breathings of my heart.