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Story Surgery

/ Gerry Wilson / Leave a comment

I re-read a short story recently that I had put away because I didn’t know what to do with it. I’d submitted it a few times with no luck—a sign the story isn’t bad, but it’s not as good as it could be.

I had never been satisfied with the ending, so I started there. I pushed words around. I cut them. I agonized. I lost sleep. I worked on the last two paragraphs for days (yes, sometimes that’s how long it takes), and finally, the ending seemed to gel. No small victory. I thought the story was almost ready to send out.

But then I read it again—one last time, I told myself. I checked white space and typos. I read for clichés, sentence variety, scene and narrative summary balance, tension, character arc and change . . . If you’re a fiction writer, you know the drill. As I read, I remembered a masterful writer of fiction once asked in a workshop: “Does every sentence belong? What does it add to the story?” And my heart sank. The story was still heavy with gratuitous details and phrases, even whole sentences that didn’t contribute much.

So I started cutting. By the time I was done, the story was almost 500 words lighter. Tighter. Stronger. Why had it taken me so long to see what it needed?

Sometimes, time and distance give me perspective. I agree with the advice to “put it away for a while,” then reread with a sharp, critical eye. I often puzzle over a story for a long time before I figure out what it needs. Occasionally, I never figure it out, but that’s another post.

“Does every sentence belong? What does it add to the story?”

Someone—surely more than one writer of advice on story craft—has said that nothing should go in the story that doesn’t advance it in some way. 

I believe that’s the crux of revision whether you’re writing short or long fiction.

Ask yourself: Does this scene (substitute paragraph, dialogue, sentence, image, particular word—yes, it comes down to word choice!) move the story forward and/or grow the character? What does it add? Strike it out and read the passage aloud without it. See if you miss it, not because it was a brilliant turn of phrase but because without it, something absolutely essential has gone missing from the story. If not, cut. Cut. Cut. Painful, but necessary.

Be wary of language that calls attention to itself. In this story, I threw away a metaphor I loved, a beautiful image, but it didn’t do anything for the story. Sometimes we do have to “kill our darlings.”

Granted, it’s possible to chop the life right out of a story. I know. I’ve done it. But sometimes, if we cut a story to its bones, we find a better way to tell it.

How does “chopping” figure into your revision process?

This post has also been published at Story Circle Network.

Image courtesy of Vecteezy.com.

Own the Emotion, Give It Away

/ Gerry Wilson / 1 Comment

Some years ago, I volunteered as a studio monitor during a regional ballet association festival. I watched nervously as the teacher pushed and corrected the young dancers, but I was happy to see how he also encouraged and praised. Toward the end of the session, he told the dancers something I’ve never forgotten: Technique isn’t enough. You can be technically proficient, but without emotion, you’ll never be a true artist. He urged them to feel the music, to make their entire bodies expressions of emotion.

Credit: Samantha Hurley at Burst

I believe the same is true of writing. Artistry on the page isn’t only about skill or eloquence. We study and master craft; we may have a gift for language and storytelling; but if we can’t re-create emotion in ways that allow readers to feel, the prose will most likely be flat, no matter how well it’s written.

I learned a long time ago that my best work comes from an emotional place where I often would rather not be. So, when I become aware that a story isn’t working, I look hard for what I’m holding back.

There may be places we can never go in our fiction. I read once, though, that in one way or another, a fictional character will always be the writer.

One of the first stories I ever published gave me fits while I was writing it. The story dealt with betrayal, an experience I knew firsthand. Writing about that trauma was fraught with deep emotion, and yet I struggled to portray the feelings on the page in a way that didn’t feel stiff and superficial. A wise reader told me I was too close to the story; the protagonist was too much me. I needed to find a way to step back and give those emotions away. I was aware of the autobiographical elements, but I hadn’t realized how they were confining me. Instead of asking “What if…” I was locked into “This happened.” Once I changed the point of view, the story came pouring out. During the week it took to get the draft onto the page, I went upstairs every night after I stopped working, locked myself in the bathroom, and turned on the shower so my children couldn’t hear me crying.

Tapping painful experiences isn’t necessary for every story, and probing our personal stories isn’t right for every writer. There may be places we can never go in our fiction. I read once, though, that in one way or another, a fictional character will always be the writer, whether we intend it or not. It’s important that if we’re dealing with difficult feelings, we create distance. If we can manage that, if we can step back and at the same time go deep and open our hearts in the harsh light of the page, if we can mine our feelings that way, then the emotions that weigh us down can become genuine gifts of connection with our readers.

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This post appeared on Telling Her Stories at Story Circle Network on October 21, 2022.

Find Your Voice, Make It Sing

/ Gerry Wilson / Leave a comment

Many years ago, when I was teaching English and creative writing to high school students, I attended a creative workshop for teachers “up East” where we learned fresh approaches to teaching writing. More importantly for me, it turned out, was the encouragement to write a story of my own.

I remember sitting on a bench in the sun, writing in longhand about a secret my mother had told me, one that if she were living, I would never have attempted to write about, let alone share. I couldn’t get the words down fast enough, and I cried when I finished it. I didn’t know then that my stories would hardly ever feel “finished”; they always, always go through many drafts.

I wondered if people were taken with my Southern drawl or just surprised that a forty-something teacher from Mississippi could put together a decent narrative.

When we shared our stories in the workshop, I wasn’t nervous. I was learning that a trusted cohort, even one of strangers, can be a blessed space. When I read my short story at the gathering on the last night, I was stunned when everybody stood and applauded. I wondered if people were taken with my Southern drawl or just surprised that a forty-something teacher from Mississippi could put together a decent narrative. It was heady yet sobering stuff, and I began to wonder: could I really do this thing called writing?         

That remained a question for a long time. After I retired from teaching, I read everything I could get my hands on about craft. I participated in as many workshops, conferences, and residencies as money allowed. Over the years, I managed to get published here and there, but I’ll confess I had little ambition to do more. I don’t regret those years. I couldn’t have written those stories outside the context of my then-life. It took time, experience, and some heartbreak before my stories could come together in a collection that was published in 2015. And now? I have a novel coming out in 2024. That little miracle is still sinking in!       

So here we are, thinking about this writing life. You may look at my productivity or the lack of it and scratch your head: only a handful of published stories and two books to show for a lifetime of work. No MFA. No Big Five publisher. No agent. No big advance.

That’s okay. The thing is, my journey matters and so does yours.

Some of you may be starting to figure out this writing thing, or maybe you’ve already achieved more success quickly than I have in a lifetime. Maybe you juggle writing, jobs, and families. Maybe you struggle with disappointments and circumstances that hold you back. Maybe some of you are like me: the late bloomers, into your second or third act, the women who have worn many different hats in your lives, and you’ve come late to the writing party.

Remember: it’s never too late. Find your voice. Make it sing.

~

“Find Your Voice, Make It Sing” appeared as “A Little History” September 23, 2022 on the Telling Her Stories Blog at Story Circle Network.