#writing: the process of progress

As much as I’d like to be a writer who pumps out a short story every couple of weeks, I am not. A single short story can take me as long as three months to finish. A combination of abrupt writing sessions and an obsession with drafting means that committing to any creative project is a big decision; an invitation to obsession.

The basic premise of the story I’m working on at the moment is two men, refugees perhaps, stranded metres from the shore of a new country, unable to cross the few last yards due to the presence of a man of some authority waiting for them on the shore.

The premise is typical of how I start most of my stories, an initial spark of creativity with an intriguing situation, something to get me interested enough to explore further. Once I have that catalyst for creativity, I begin drafting. I usually have an idea for how long the story must be and as I go through successive drafts, I’ll usually discard or write over around 30-40% of the previous draft.

The first two drafts are about working out the narrative structure. The language at this point is full of hackneyed or derivative phrasing; water is blue (and often marine blue), characters are tired, the sun is hot, the beach is inviting.

This stage of drafting can be depressing. Often while exploring the plot I’ll fall victim to my own narrative holes; I can see where the story needs to go, but the writing isn’t taking it there. The story is at its most vulnerable, and only the occasional burst of willpower prevents me from giving up.

After the second draft I need some creative breathing space so I’ll usually take a break from the story for a while. Sometimes a week, sometimes two. If I was not working full time, and not working on other hobbies, a couple of days would be enough. But my writing sessions are infrequent, structured mostly around coffee shop breaks during work hours. Each day that I don’t write the story seems less and less likely to be finished, so I make efforts to ensure the story doesn’t escape by reading other books and stories related to my topic/setting.

From this point on each successive draft reveals a more mature story. I edge out of the cliched grooves. The plot starts to stick together, though I still have placeholder text for key scenes (for example, there is a climactic scene that involves a rip and in the story I have written [insert dramatic rip scene here]). Even after draft four I know not to hold too tightly to the narrative I’ve created, as when I invariably get around to writing and researching the missing scenes, I may change the idea altogether.

My biggest challenge at the moment has been developing rhythm. Having studied naturalist storytelling techniques in my recent honours thesis, and being a big fan of Cormac McCarthy, I have fallen into a habit of using simple, pared down language wherever possible in my writing, often to the detriment of the piece. Some of my recent efforts have started to feel a little lifeless, stilted and even derivative. McCarthy’s ‘simplicity’ is actually incredibly complex, and imitation of his techniques does not always lead to the desired outcome.

So I have been returning to passages of my story to inject some rhythm back into the prose. The only way I can effectively do this is by choosing a scene and completely re-writing it on a blank sheet of paper. If I revise over the top of the original, I’ll tend to copy the same style as what’s on the page. Breaking the existing rhythm, even if there doesn’t seem to be any, is a very difficult thing. I would compare it to trying to sing the words of one song to the beat of another.

I make large lists of all the words used to describe different aspects of the ocean: rollers, boiled, crashed, foaming, immovable, wind, crest, splashed, capsized, drowning, streaks, violence, knifed, swarmed, corked, foaming, jagged, swirled, grim, snarling, undertow...

With the basic scenes written, and some idea of how the writing should be paced, I turn to each sentence to refine word use. As said, by this stage it is not uncommon to read a cliche or hackneyed term in every second sentence. Metaphors are infrequent, similes are very frequent and very basic.

I’m writing about the sea and yet I have only used a few variations repeatedly to describe it; light/dark, choppy/calm, cold/hot. I go back to all the stories and books I can think of that describe the ocean. I make large lists of all the words used to describe different aspects of the ocean: rollers, boiled, crashed, foaming, immovable, wind, crest, splashed, capsized, drowning, streaks, violence, knifed, swarmed, corked, foaming, jagged, swirled, grim, snarling, undertow...

The words help form a better vocabulary of the water, but also expand my vision of the landscape. When starting out with any landscape I can usually only imagine the obvious details that come from real life or movies. To draw a story from it, and to create interest for a reader, I need to move outside of the broad picture. By developing lists of words I can better imagine an ocean with variety, with intricacy, even if the final words I use don’t come from the set I’ve developed. The list is a key.

If possible, I go out and take notes in the field. I was fortunate enough that the writing of this story coincided with a writing trip up the coast, so with notebook in hand I spent a couple of hours sitting on the sand making more lists – smells, textures, sights, tastes. These are observations free from the shackles of prose:

Mini dunes of the seabed. Mounds of fresh sand beside the crab holes. Dunes pocked with dry weed and cuttlefish. Combers peeling across a distant reef, their tops blown off by the wind. The rocks jagged and steep, whitewashed in gull shit. Scaly crustaceans fixed to the rocks.

I take the words and re-write my existing sentences. It will take me about half an hour to finish a paragraph, an hour or two for a page. Once I’ve gone through from start to finish I am usually so entrenched in the story that I give it away for someone else to look over.

And that is where I am now. The seventh draft burning a hole in my desk drawer, waiting for me to return.

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The photographs in this article are from a recent writing weekend in the fishing town of Cervantes, which is about 2.5 hours north of Perth. Thanks to Dan for making it happen.

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