Live To Write Another Day (5 page)

 

Hallelujah! It's time to start writing. This is where all the hard work and patience in the beginning of the process finally pays off. Now that you've taken the time to research the subject of your story, clearly articulated what you want to say, and fully understand who your characters are, you can really begin to play and have fun within the world you've created. Even more importantly, because you've constructed an outline that's so rich in detail and depth that it's essentially a rough draft, you also don't have to worry that the whole damn thing will fall apart. In other words, you've successfully tuned in the radio and conceived this idea, this “child of your mind.” Now its cells are starting to multiply!

To me, this is the most sacred part of the writing process, which is why I believe it's critical that you don't tell anyone—
not a
single soul
—about this child that you're now carrying. Why?

Because this draft's for you.

Think about it. If you are essentially this story's “mother,” if you're the one who's going to be charged with nurturing it, with protecting it, with being the best possible vessel you can be for it (for God-only-knows how many months or years), then damn it, why should you share it now, when it's so rife with possibilities and endless potential? What's the hurry? Why not take this opportunity to savor it a little bit before you expose it to the harsh, cruel world?

Like any expectant mother, you know it's going to be tough. You know there are going to be mornings when you don't feel so well, afternoons when you're going to pass out for no apparent reason, and days when you're tempted with strange cravings and inspirations. But you should also know that it's going to be okay, that all these things are simply part of the ride. Besides, there's no turning back now even if you wanted to, right? You're pregnant. Embrace it.

This is the juice of being a writer. This is as good as it gets, right here in the thick of this first draft.
You've got to be fully conscious of this moment and know that this is what you do it for. You don't do it just to show off the finished product or to be recognized as some great genius or to get paid a lot of money. All of those things are nice, and I wish every writer in the world that kind of success, but at the end of the day that's not what writing is really about.

It's about the doing of it. That's the only part of it that's truly meaningful—the actual act of writing.

If you have the writer gene you know exactly what I'm talking about here, even if you won't (or can't) bring yourself to admit it. As writers, we're so full of passion and ambition. We have so much to say to the world, so many things we want to express, that we sometimes get caught up in this grand notion that the next script is the
one
; the next book is the
one
; the next great whatever is the
one
. But the truth is, it's the little moments of pleasure you receive along the way, the little successes that make it all worthwhile—writing a breakthrough scene or fixing a problematic line of dialogue or realizing that cutting a character will strengthen the whole piece, even when it's a character you're in love with.
Especially
when it's a character you're in love with.

Understanding and accepting this reality is so vital to your career. Why? Because no matter how much you've written in your life, you still have to start at square one each and every time. No two stories are the same, yet you will run into the same problems on story number one thousand that you ran into on story number one. Sure, some will come together easier than others, but you never get a free lunch. You still have to make each and every story work in its own unique way.

And what's the only thing that you can
really
count on through all this, the only thing that's consistent from one effort to the next? That's right, your process.
Your
process. Not the one that someone else has neatly laid out for you in a book about writing (including this one). The process that you've developed for yourself, the one that makes sense and works for
you
, the one that you will never enjoy more than when the story belongs
exclusively
to you. The one that you have no choice but to hone, refine, and love. That's where your gold is.

After all, if you're going to spend your entire life doing something day in and day out, year after year, you
better
love it. Otherwise what's the point?

 

There's one particular storytelling element that is especially relevant to this discussion about keeping your original story to yourself while it incubates. It has to do with the tension or central conflict in a story, which frequently involves the presence of a villain.

It's often said, and I think quite correctly, that the best villains are the ones that aren't just evil, but are truly flawed human beings. While you clearly don't empathize with these characters in the same way that you do the hero of the story, you understand their motivation, and you can see why they've become such a powerful force of antagonism in the hero's world. In the case of theater, film, and television, if these villains are also portrayed by gifted actors as real, believable people, then their twisted, immoral agendas enhance the experience all the more.

In some stories though, there is no villain in the form of a person. The true villain is a thing, an idea, an emotion
.
Take
Romeo and Juliet,
for example. There are characters in the story that antagonize in various ways, but the real villain is the intolerance that exists between the two families, the
fear of the other
. It's this human failing, this overwhelming villainous force that conspires to ruin the happiness of the star-crossed lovers.

If you embrace this concept and start looking at every story through this lens, you quickly come to the conclusion that every hero's struggle is really a struggle against the underlying villainy, not the villain itself, even in stories where an actual human villain plays a clear and prominent role. In the hands of a talented writer, this character becomes a three-dimensional person, but really, it's just the personification of the conflict.

Where does this conflict come from then? What is the true source of this antagonism?

As I've already mentioned, I think you always need to be able to clearly articulate what you're writing about thematically. I think it's also important to be able to identify what it is in your own life that's inspiring you to tell a particular story at any given time. In other words:

How is your life experience shaping this work? What's going on in your life right now that you're struggling with?
What villainy, past or present, are you personally trying to overcome?

When you can answer these questions, you've probably found the source of your main character's antagonism. Even if your main character is nothing like you, even if their background, their personality, and their circumstances are completely different than yours, even if they're not the same gender as you, their struggle is your struggle. This is another reason why it's so critical to keep the process to yourself in the early stages of development, to allow yourself to become more conscious of this relationship between you, your story, and your main character and to keep it free from outside interference.

We all have our demons to battle in life. The difference between us writers and everyone else in the world is that we're driven to battle them with words—which means that every story we tell is an exorcism on some level, a constructive way of emancipating ourselves of thoughts and feelings we couldn't possibly resolve in any other way.

 

Congratulations, you've finished your first draft. Woohoo! Guess what? Now it's time to let it go.

“What?” you say. “You just spent the last five pages telling me how important it is to keep this thing to myself, to nurture it, to savor it, to not tell another living soul about it, and now you expect me to let it go? Just like that?”

Yup. Here's why. Now that you're done with that first draft, this brainchild of yours is ready to be born. And just like a real live human child, from the moment you introduce it into the world, it's no longer just yours anymore. There's a whole host of other people who will immediately have an influence on it, beginning with the very first person who reads it. You have no choice but to cut the umbilical cord at some point. The only choice that remains is
when
to cut it. So always, always, always make sure you're 100% psychologically prepared before you do.

The key to this tricky piece of business is to remain humble and remember that this story exists separately from you, that it's a privilege to have been blessed with the gifts to tune it in and carry it to term. Your job now is to be the best steward you can be. Allow your story to be influenced by others, but also make sure the influence is positive and constructive and doesn't dilute the original intention or the core message you're trying to convey. It's never easy, but with the right frame of mind there's always a way to rise to this occasion.

For most writers, novices and veterans alike, this can be a pretty anxious time. It's worth noting, though not necessarily any more comforting, that storytelling has never been a one-way experience. From prehistoric campfires to the stages of Aeschylus and Moli
è
re, to the bright lights of Broadway and Hollywood, writers' works have always been shaped by the common culture. After all, that is your goal as a storyteller, right? You want to share your stories with the world—you want to let other people be a part of them, don't you?

Like it or not, at this point of the process, your story, like the millions that have come before it, now belongs to everyone. And the sooner you accept this fact, the better off both you and your story will be.