An interesting question is often posed to the writer:
for you, is the initial prose more important or the revision of the prose once
written?
For me, there is passion in the prose. There is
something urgent, or maybe not so pressing but interesting, that requires an
outward presence. The self-editing can come later. Hence it is not necessary to
have the “first thought, best thought” approach. But that does not mean that prose
always flows effortlessly or continuously.
Writing fiction with fact – “faction” or historical
fiction – as my books are, there is much research and planning that is
initially conducted, and continues throughout the writing of the entire novel.
Often I research in detail – and sometimes use note-taking as a prompt for
further embellishment, or links to detailed information that takes form like a
thread interwoven into the text.
Once written, the passion for me can be immediate or
it can come days or weeks later when I re-read a paragraph or two and think
it’s just what I wanted to say. More often it doesn’t reflect what I intended,
and then I tag it for revision, or delete it immediately. The passion is
intensified if, while writing, I achieve a sense of knowing that I am on the
right track.
But passions fade. Passion is brief and temporary.
That’s because I know there is an enormous amount of revision to do. But it’s
that first blush of passion, that inspiration, that keeps the wheels on the
ground and in the direction of intent. So like a car, it’s that satisfied
feeling of the key in the ignition, especially if the car starts first time
every time. That’s what I like: the key in the ignition.
That wonderful sound of the engine as it purrs is the
equivalent of the brain about to shift into first gear. Then as the gears shift
(for there is nothing automatic about my process of writing – it is all stick
shift), from first to second, and into top gear, the brain moves into a fine
cognitive state. Of course, as with driving, there are corners and
intersections and ascents and descents and deceleration and acceleration – and braking
and stopping. There are aspects to observe while driving, such as upcoming
traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, children playing on the kerb, over-hanging
trees, dogs darting onto the road, passing cars, overtaking cars, what is
coming from the rear, what is ahead, and the general act of driving. Writing is
like driving.
Just as with driving, with writing there are moments
of pleasure and moments of frustration and moments of confusion and wrong turns
and dead ends. But there are also moments, some extremely long moments, when I’m
on the open road and the scenery is brilliant.
At times though, I don’t feel like driving at all. It
just seems too laborious, especially if I only need to go to the corner shop to
get milk. Why bother driving when I can walk, or ask someone else to get it
while they’re there. Writing blocks, creative blocks, or whatever they are,
come and go. And then there are other distractions too – like “real” work, or
other people’s work, or employment that provides more immediate income.
Some authors say it’s harder to create words and
sentences that lead to narratives than it is to revise and edit them. That, of
course, is true of me too sometimes. Revision is like perfecting the driving so
that it becomes more enjoyable the next time, or trying a different route, or
even cleaning and polishing the car. But sometimes, if the work has to be
completely overhauled or reworked, then the hard work comes in the rewriting
than in the initial writing. Sometimes it’s a combination of the two, like a
mental seesaw.
Overall, the passion comes from the monumental
transition from a blank page to a completed narrative, whether it’s one page or
five hundred. Even though there is never complete satisfaction that the page or
story has finished (for a piece of writing is never really finished – there is
always some tinkering to be done) there is nevertheless passion in the prose.
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