Meant to be Read

Last night, I read an article about Stephen King (which I can't seem to find again), where he talked about writing less. I found the quote on his website:

I'm writing but I'm writing at a much slower pace than previously and I think that if I come up with something really, really good, I would be perfectly willing to publish it because that still feels like the final act of the creative process, publishing it so people can read it and you can get feedback and people can talk about it with each other and with you, the writer.

I know some writers want to be commercially published, some want to make money and/or quit their day jobs, some want to be famous and so on.

And although I'm glad I make money as a writer (mostly from my day job, which is writing, and far, far less from my creative hobby, which is writing), for it allows me to spend most of my time writing, King's quote nails it for me.

When I was younger and less realistic, I used to think that by my enthusiastically sharing with others this or that great book I've read would drive them to do likewise so we could talk about it, which, when I've read something compelling, I naturally want to do.

I feel the same about the words I've written. But feature stories, although they find more readership, also have a shorter shelf life, so to speak. They're read today and forgotten before tomorrow.

My fiction, although it has more staying power, has a far shorter reach and less of an audience. Either way, at the end of the day, I spend most of my time crafting words I'll never discuss, and, even if I do, certainly not anywhere near the same depth in which I wrote them.

So the ultimate satisfaction, I think, must come from the process, which, for writers seeking readers of their work, ought to bring comfort when sales are slow.

Nevertheless, having someone to read the words is indeed the culmination. For that reason, I feel, the entire process isn't finished when we hit "publish."

It's when someone clicks on the link or picks up the book that we, as writers, can truly say, "It is finished."

Illustration by Kathleen Rose Van Pelt for "Bryony."

Writers: Save Those Drafts

On Saturday, while searching for a prototype photo I had found online and saved for Kellen Weschler back in 2008 (never did find it), I stumbled across something in my files that I had considered long gone: the original version of Bryony.

No, I'm not referring to those random, typewritten scenes from decades ago, long since rotted in some landfill, scenes I tried pecking out while older children remodeled the fort in the backyard and babies crept around the bedroom, writing was so awful I couldn't bear to read them at the time.

I'm referring to Bryony the pseudo-novella, before it was named (It was actually never named until I'd completed it) and saved only as vampire story, my paltry attempt at pullling the story out of my head and onto paper (well, the computer) as a present for Timothy's seventeenth birthday, that Labor Day weekend in 2007 when I realized Bryony was not a weekend project and not a novella, that to do a proper job, I had to write a book.

All this time, I has believed that I had rewritten that novel's first draft over the original file, that, rough as that draft was, it was the oldest remaining draft. To my delight, I learned on Saturday that it is not.

Delight?

When I first began writing Bryony, I had read a quote by (I think it was by Stephen King), something to the effect of hoping that no first drafts would lying around when he died. I recall vigorously agreeing with that saying after first time I'd read a scene aloud (Henry trapping Melissa in the closet at the Harrington's ball) and nearly gagging at the horrible writing, thankful I had whispered those lines so Rebekah in the next room would not hear how bad it was.

I don't agree with that quote anymore, and here is why. I learned two things from that draft. I saw how far my writing had progressed in seven years, and I also realized how well I could write, even then.

For amongst the badly constructed scenes, characters, dialogue, plot, wordings, I found some very well-done lines that actually appear in the published version. Sprinkled throughout the muck were seedlings of the progress I would make if I actually kept learning, and writing, and rewriting, and editing.

I could not have made this improvement had I not kept writing.

This tells me two more things. One, I'm glad I kept writing, and two, I'm hopeful that if I keep writing, I'll continue to grow as a writer.

And THAT, is very good news.

Okay, now for the real reason you read this far. Excerpts! Average chapter size: 500 words.

The man produced a set of keys, examined one of them and swiftly unlocked the door. The rush of bright light startled his friend. He looked about in amazement and wonder. “Why did you never tell me?” he asked, astonished.

He did not receive an answer to that question. A sudden, sharp pain in his back took his breath away and caused him to fall to the ground. He was dead before he could ask his best friend why he had stabbed him.

“There isn’t much to tell,” Melissa said. She and Brittany had looked him up on the Internet. His name was John Simons and he had lived at the turn of the last century. John Simons was a composer and pianist who had played all over the world. The rest of the story was a mixture of fact and fancy.

   Apparently, while vacationing at Munson, John had met the beautiful young Bryony Marseilles, just 16, daughter of the local minister and asked her father’s permission to marry her. The minister refused. He thought John too worldly and Bryony too young.

   But Bryony had other ideas. She had fallen in love with the handsome musician and begged and pleaded for her father to marry them. She said if he didn’t, they would have to leave Munson forever and he would never see her again. Against his better wishes, the Reverend Marseilles married John and Bryony. 

CHAPTER 4

The cottage was too square, too old and most of all too ugly. Melissa thought she would rather die than ever live in such a stupid looking place.

 But Brian was excited with the idea of living next to a mansion that might have some mystery to it.

 “Remember, Liss,” Brian must have told her at least a dozen times already, “No one REALLY knows what happened to John Simons. He just went away and never came back. What if his ghost haunts the place by night? How awesome would that be?”

 “Don’t be ridiculous,” Melissa snapped at him. Scooter tugged at his leash and Melissa tugged back. Brian grabbed the leash from Melissa and walked the brown-spotted white terrier around the yard, letting him sniff at the delightful scents of his new home.

 Darlene bought the dog as their “new home” surprise present for Melissa and Brian. They had never before owned a dog. Frank had not thought it fair to a dog to keep it in the city although Melissa and Brian had often begged for one anyway. Frank thought a dog should have lots of room to run free. But now that she had a dog, Melissa didn’t care if she had one or not. Melissa would have traded a hundred dogs to have her father back.

CHAPTER 5:

 “I’m sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for it,” Steve said as he bit into his hamburger. While Melissa and Brian were exploring Simons Woods, Steve Burns the maintenance man had dropped by the house to measure their bedrooms for the new built-in shelves he was going to build tomorrow. He was a lanky man, about 30, with a friendly face and a length of blond hair that kept falling over his brow.

Darlene brought out hamburgers and hot dogs and invited Steve to stay for dinner. He said he would, on the condition that Darlene allowed him the pleasure of grilling the meats. As they ate, Brian told them about the mysterious mist in the woods, the mist that Brian had not seen at all. Steve assured them that it was probably nothing more than cold air mixing with warm air, much the same way clouds are formed. Brian was not convinced.

CHAPTER 6:

“For your homework this weekend, do page 22 in your algebra textbook and begin working on your research project for the celebration,” said Mrs. Rebstock. “Class dismissed.” The small class filed out into the hallway. Although school had been in session for a week now, Melissa still could not get used to its small size.

Munson High School was located in the same building as Munson Junior High and Munson Elementary Schools. There were only about 15 freshman and less than 50 high school students altogether. Melissa was astonished her first day at the new school. “Why, the whole school is smaller than my eighth grade class was last year in Chicago,” she thought.

The ancient red brick building was three stories high and had survived two severe fires over the years. It stood near the town square as if to say, “It takes a lot to destroy us Munsoners.”

There was absolutely nothing modern about it—there wasn’t a computer lab or even a gymnasium for crying out loud—but Melissa could grudgingly admit it had a kind of charm. 

Wake Not The Dead by Johann Ludwig Tieck

Before Stephen King’s Pet Semetery, there was Johann Ludwig Tieck’s 1820 Wake Not the Dead. The story centers around a count who marries for passion and is despondent when his bride dies. He soon marries another woman, has two children with her, and finds this gentle wife inspires a joy and serenity in his household that was not there when his first wife lived.

But as the years pass, the count misses the fervor of his earlier marriage and entreats a sorcerer to restore her to life. After three nights and three warnings of, “Wake not the dead,” the sorcerer complies with the count’s request. The count sends away his second wife and the evil begins in earnest. Read it online.