The Great Do-Over

I’ve spent this summer working on draft two of my novel, which, I’ll be honest, I was completely dreading. After all, who likes rewrites?

I knew it had a few problems, mainly plot-related. I tried everything possible during the first draft to outline the plot the way the experts tell you – I used note cards, I tried to write the whole thing out in a Word document, I read book after book about writing blockbuster novels and mastering the three-act story structure. And you know what?

I still have to rewrite it.

You always have to rewrite it, to some degree.

Now that I’m back in the thick of it I’m discovering places where the story works, but I can go deeper with the actual prose. And I’m finding it enjoyable, this layering of the story. It’s what I imagine plastering a room must feel like – adding to the base in nice, thin layers so you have an even coat, a perfect mix of imagery, characterization and story. I know the characters so much more intimately now – they took me in directions during the first draft that I never expected, and they continue to refine their own stories as I revise.

Every now and then I’ll admit to a small freak-out when I realize I’m on page 250 of a 500-page Word document, but I’ve set a deadline for myself (October 10) and I’ll make it through. I suspect the revisions on the back half won’t be as intense as the front, but you never know.

And when I’m done, of course, it’s probably on to round three.

Finding Time

Lately I’ve been thinking about time a lot. Not its passing so much (though that’s bothersome) but how to cram everything in. I catch myself saying, “if I just took an hour a day to do x,” and then I realize I have 26 “hour a day” things and only 24 hours in which to do them.

Obviously, there are choices (and sacrifices) to be made.

This article by Anne Lamott is a great prompt for writers who “never have the time” to follow their passion.

How to Find Time

Book Nine: The Book of Negroes

Okay, not really. It’s probably book 25, but I’ll have to fill in the list backwards.

I’d had my eye on this book for a long time. I bought a copy for my sister and mailed it off to England, and promised myself I’d buy my own copy soon, only I never got around to it.  Then my mom had a copy from the library at the seniors’ centre where she volunteers, and she lent it to me. So. Finally.

It’s obvious that Lawrence Hill has done a metric pantload of research in order to write this book, and as a result he creates a narrative that takes us back to the sights, sounds, and smells of the mid-1700s. Animata’s story is full of compelling, descriptive prose – the kind that lets your brain work overtime as you try to comprehend how awful things must have been.

For the most part, I couldn’t put the book down. Once I started the story, I was hooked. This is basically what you want in any novel, right? So three cheers for that. But every now and then I had to pause and think. You know when you read a book that’s truly epic, that spans a pivotal time in history when major changes are afoot and major people are involved, and every last thing of significance happens to one character before she turns 25? It’s a syndrome often seen in Oprah Book Club picks, and Animata had a nagging case of it. It didn’t make me like her less as a character, but now and then it pulled me out of the story a bit and I’d think, “Aha, so she’s a conduit for telling me about this Major Event. Well, okay. I guess this could all happen to one person.” And really, I’m sure much of it did. I’m sure there were many men and women who were stolen and traded as slaves who had lives that would make our jaws drop. So I’m not going to hold it against the character, not at all.

Besides, I was too busy having my mind blown by all the horrible things that happened to everyone, which was the point of the story. The Book of Negroes definitely made me think about a dark part of Canada’s history. Nicely done, Mr Hill.

Book Seven – The New Yorkers, by Catherine Schine

I picked this book up because one of my favorite things about being a dog owner is going for a walk every day. I’m continually astounded at how many people you meet when you’re following a small animal on a leash (yes, following. Not leading, like Cesar Millan always tells everyone. I was definitely being walked, not the other way around).

Dogs and dog ownership is pretty much what unites all the characters in this book. Jody and her white pit-bull mix, Beatrice. There’s Polly and her brother George, who find an abandoned puppy in Polly’s new apartment (vacated in that most New York of ways, when the previous tenant commits suicide). There’s the restaurant owner and his puppies. There are Doris and Everett, who don’t care much for dogs at all but find their lives transformed, indirectly, because of contact with them. And Simon, a reclusive social worker who lives down the street, who enters into a complex relationship with Jody.

The New Yorkers isn’t a deep read, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t enjoyable. I did enjoy it, very much. Some of the stories were heartwarming and funny, and others made me bust out bawling. The Amazon listing for the book cites a Seattle Times reviewer who says that if The New Yorkers ever became a movie, it’d be directed by Nora Ephron, and everyone would be wearing fuzzy sweaters. Sometimes that’s not so bad. Sometimes, that’s exactly what you want in a book: a good laugh, and a good cry.

I’m not going to pretend to be a literary snob with this list. Ultimately, I like a good book, and good books are good for any number of reasons. There are plenty of books I’ve read over the years that make me savour every word, to linger over sentences and dissect how the writer put it all together. There are others that do nothing more than offer escapism, with colourful characters and diverting plots. The New Yorkers was one of the latter, and that’s fine with me!

Book Five – Howards End, by E.M. Forster

And so begins a flurry of posts! Even though I haven’t written here, I’ve been reading, ravenously. And while I still miss my favorite reading buddy, we’re slowly getting used to the extra room on the couch. And because she and her mate always started what they finished (whether a walk or a DentaBone), I figured I’d better get back on the posting wagon. So, onwards.

I’ve wanted to read Howards End for a long time. I saw the Merchant-Ivory movie in the 90s, and I loved the story, but for some reason shied away from the book. I’m so glad I finally picked it up. Forster wrote it in 1910, before the First World War, but I found it in many ways a very refreshing read. There were things he wrote about – the rampant development in London, the isolation people felt from their neighbors – that resonated with me in ways I didn’t expect.

The story follows the Schlegel sisters, Margaret and Helen, who live in Wyckham Place with their brother, Tibby. The Schlegels are “intellectuals” – they are not wealthy by the standards of their circle, but they enjoy going out to concerts, reading, and discussion topics of Great Social Importance with their friends. The story begins when Helen Schlegel goes to stay with the Wilcoxes, a wealthy family the sisters met on vacation, at their country home, Howards End.

The novel chronicles the relationship between the two families, starting with Helen’s (extremely) brief affair with one of the Wilcox sons, the subsequent fallout, and the relationship that develops, awkwardly at first, between Margaret and Mrs Wilcox. Knowing the Schlegels are going to be evicted from their home (to make way for a complex of flats!), Ruth Wilcox leaves Howards End to Margaret, someone who appreciates the beauty of the place as she does. When Ruth passes away, her family conspires to keep the property within the family – not because they care for it as much as Ruth did, but because it’s a financial asset to them.

(OK, whoops, I didn’t mean to hit ‘publish’ there. Not done!)

Of course, you have to know hiding this information from Margaret could not possibly end well, and it certainly doesn’t, especially since she ends up marrying Henry Wilcox. Meanwhile Helen has an unfortunate entanglement with Leonard Bast, who is trying to work his way up in the world as a clerk. Forster neatly illustrates the divide between the classes with the Wilcoxes, Schlegels, and Basts and makes some interesting comments on the blurring boundaries of the new twentieth century.

As I said above, even 100 years later this book holds a surprising relevance, as the Schlegels lament the rampant greed and consumerism that seems to color their social circle. They seem to be searching for meaningful relationships and connection in a society that’s slowly steering towards the impersonal and disconnected. One can only wonder what they’d think of Facebook, condo complexes, and front-drive garages.