Messy middles and beyond

 I have enjoyed both Charlotte's and Donis's posts this week, and boy, can I identify. Every comment and experience they related made me smile. I too am a "mostly" pantser, who never outlines at the beginning because that would be a boring way to write a novel and the outline would just get thrown away anyway. Not only do I like the surprises that my imagination comes up with along the way, but the richness, depth and direction of the novel comes to me during the writing. If I were following a pre-conceived outline, all that would be lost. It would feel like "paint by number" writing.

I do, however, sometimes have to lift my head above the parapet to see where I'm going. As new ideas come to me for upcoming scenes, I scribble them down so I won't forget them, and they act as an outline of sorts for the next few scenes. Sometimes I have to brainstorm or change direction to get myself out of a dead end (or more likely a tangle).

The "messy middle" is where I have to brainstorm the hardest. Sometimes it's the halfway point, but more often it's the two-thirds mark. The first half of the book is devoted to throwing balls up in the air – piling up the complications, challenges, and question marks. By the middle I usually have quite a few balls swirling in the air, and not only do I have to remember them all, but I also have to start thinking about how to tie them together and catch them all in the right order. My messy middle is not so much a dearth of things going on as too many. Not so much stagnant as overwhelmed. How on earth do I get from here to the end? In less than 200,000 words!

I love Charlotte's very helpful suggestions about techniques to spice up a sagging middle. I've used several of them. When I'm feeling overwhelmed and bewildered, one of my techniques is to list all the balls I can think of – the things that need to to revealed, the questions that need to be answered, the loose ends that need to be explained by the end of the book (bearing in mind I don't know what that end is). And then I brainstorm ideas, jotting the ideas as they come to me, exploring what would happen if?, and if this then that... Keeping in mind the basics of our genre. Avoid exposition, build from small to big, keep the action on the page, etc.

As I brainstorm, I'm also guided by a few questions that help to make the story authentic and alive. 1. What would logically happen next, or what would this character do next? Note: I sometimes do the opposite, just for spice. 2. What the worst thing that could happen? 

I have now made it through to the end of my current first draft and have done some tidying of loose ends (those balls that would otherwise land on my head), checked for major plot holes, and made sure the whole thing makes sense. I'm now at the stage of hating the book. I suspect every author goes through this stage at some point. I'm tired of it and can't see the forest for the trees. It holds no surprises or excitement for me, and so I am afraid it won't for the readers either. If a writer is on a deadline, as I am, we don't have the luxury of shelving it for a few months to get some distance from it. Now is the time to let trusted beta readers look at it with fresh eyes and tell me if it's as bad as I think it is. If so, hopefully they'll have some ideas for rescuing it.

The extraordinary journey of the peony bud

Rick's Tuesday post made me smile. Distraction is the mood of the day. Are we all in the same boat? After a long winter of record-breaking cold and snow and a spring that sputtered and stalled, summer has suddenly burst upon us. At least in the past week, for those of us in Central Canada. I shouldn't cheer too loudly, lest summer decide to retreat back under its rock. But joy has overwhelmed us. People are flocking to patios, picnicking in the parks, painting their toe nails and hauling their flouncy summer frocks out of storage. It's hard to concentrate on anything serious.

Quite literally, after shivering in the endless, damp cold and struggling to poke their heads up, the flowers in my garden have exploded into colour.  It turns out all that rain was good for them, even as the grey days deadened our spirits. There are certain flowers in my garden that I wait for every year. I watch the buds of the peonies grow fatter and juicier for weeks, all for a few fleeting moments of glory. I watch the lilacs and the Siberian iris. I fuss over the early rose buds. Sometimes flowers surprise me. Plants I thought were dead, or at least unable to thrive, suddenly materialize where I least expect them.

There's a metaphor for life in there somewhere, and it is particularly apt for the writer's life. Perhaps we have to struggle through the darkness, not sure where we're going or whether the journey is worthwhile. Not sure we'll ever see the light at the end of the tunnel or the resolution at the end of our story. Not sure there IS an end. Nonetheless, possibly because we have a deadline and an expectant publisher, or simply because we're writers and we have to, we push on, trusting that the journey we're on will lead somewhere. After facing this angst through sixteen books, I know that despite all my misgivings this time, some sort of book will emerge at the end.

Rarely does the book suddenly explode in colour, sadly. Hey, the metaphor isn't perfect. But bit by bit, the bud opens. The story unfolds and its core is revealed – the high point towards which everything has been building. At that point, however flawed or muddled that high point is, I always feel a flood of relief. I have a book! The flower has opened. Light shines in, lifting my spirits and helping me to tackle all the flaws and messy bits. The rest is rewrites. I can prune and dead-head and fertilize until I've made it the best it can be.

This is a whimsical post, reflecting my mood as I sit in my garden enjoying all the colours. Savouring them to remember the next time the darkness settles in.