Cake baking has never been my thing. Too fussy. The ingredients make it look deceptively easy—butter, flour, salt, sugar, baking powder, milk, eggs and Bob's your uncle. But the ingredients must be at a just-so temperature. The flour must be aerated, light. And if we're talking layers and frosting, know that my inner klutz is cringing. Candy thermometers. Cake plates. Offset spatulas. Crumb coating. Pastry bags. Cakes that bubble on top or sink in the middle. Cakes that cling to the bottom of the pan, peeling away like a thick layer of epidermis. Frosting that is too thick, tearing at the fragile skin, or too thin, running down the sides like desultory rain, pooling on the plate, soaking your cake's feet.
But when it comes to writing, I'm Martha Stewart. I'm a Six-Layer Coconut Cake with Lemon Curd filling.
I'm revising my second novel, The Crows of Beara, following my agent's suggestions, questions, and cautions as a guide. I'm in a bit of a rush, emotionally. Agent wants to get this out "on sub" by mid-spring, before the summer doldrums sweep everyone out of their offices. On sub is writer jargon for 'agent sending manuscript to editors, looking for novel's publishing home.'
Practically speaking, the story is hitting its stride. When I finished the first draft a year ago, it had 105,000 words. After three revisions last fall, I submitted a 99,000 word second draft as my entry for the Siskiyou Prize for New Environmental Fiction. The Crows of Beara was one of two finalists for the prize, which gave me confidence that publication was worth pursuing.
Now into my second revision of a third draft, I'm working with 88,700 words. Over fifteen percent of a novel, gone.
My first drafts aren't brain dumps, per se, but I do try to silence the inner editor. I do resist returning to earlier scenes or chapters, for fear of falling into a doubt trap, or miring myself in the revision process. I'm simpatico with Cheryl Strayed, who so succinctly gets it: "I write to find what I have to say. I edit to figure out how to say it right." (From The New York Times Sunday Book Review, March 24, 2015)
Once I begin revising, it's a meticulous excising of excess detail and repetitive language and meandering thoughts and conversations to get at the heart of the story.
I may delete. But I never throw anything away.
During the first round of writer-editor revisions of In Another Life, I encountered notes from my editor requesting more detail here, more exposition or background there, clarification of background. In some cases, she was asking for layers—character motivation, a shoring up of sub-plot; in other instances, she was looking for frosting—a rounding out or plumping up of detail, filling in the crevices of the story's foundation. Fortunately, I had nearly all of what she wanted from earlier drafts. It was a matter of copying, pasting, refining to fit the story as it had evolved.
The notes off to the side of The Crows of Beara read a bit differently. My agent has been unsparing and insightful at pointing out where I've gone too far, given away too much, overdone it, rambled on. These revisions have been like restoring a piece of furniture, stripping away the layers of thick paint to reveal the clean bare bones beneath.
In careful revision, I see the layers of story for what they are. I'm able to shift sentences and phrases around, picking up something I discarded on page 113 and adding it to a paragraph on page 87. I see where the second scene in Chapter 12 really should be the first scene and a thoughtful transition shows something about a character not yet revealed or a clean end to a chapter leads the reader naturally to the next. All these minute layers building to a stronger whole.
I'm a bread baker. It's not fussy, it's physical. I've learned over the years that it all comes down to the knead. You can knock most mistakes out of a lump of yeast dough if you're willing to put time and energy into kneading (bread machines and Kitchen Aid bread hooks need not apply. That's not bread baking, that's an assembly line). Forget what the recipe says; most underestimate the time it takes to knead dough into submission by at least half. Probably because they know you wouldn't start the process if you knew the truth.
Kind of like writing a novel.