Edting Ediding Editing

Do I continue with where ideas come from?  It's been on my mind, not only because I was asked that question recently but also because I sometimes try to understand the volcano between my ears. But only sometimes. Most of the time, I just try to keep up with the eruptions. 

I'll come back to it another time. 

I'm heavily involved with editing as well as writing right now. There's a difference between editing for publication and critiquing. Critiquing is looking over a story and giving feedback on how you perceive it.  It's often done on a story draft that isn't ready for submission. Yes, it still involves applying rules of punctuation, rules of grammar, structural integrity of the story, attention to sequence, etc., etc.  But you look at the story primarily as a reader. If there are holes or errors in the plot or characterization, if something isn't making sense, you mention it so the writer can correct it or discuss why s/he's writing something a certain way (there may be good reason after all).  In the most effective critiques, you also relate what you like about the story, what you perceive as the strong points.  It's not only for encouragement  but also to let the writer know in what ways s/he's on the right track. 

Editing for publication is lapidary work.  It's taking a gemstone story the writer has polished to the best of his/her ability and giving it the final cuts to make the facets scintillate with their shine.  Or, depending on the type of gemstone, maybe it's smoothing the last tiny flaws, perfecting the shape of a glowing cabochon.  It's shining that gem according to the requirements, the specifications of a particular publisher.

And doing it under the banner of a publisher means being willing to subject the edits, the suggestions and recommendations to the approval  or rejection of the press's owner or managing/senior editor.  It means acknowledging my say is not the final one.   There's no place for arrogance or resentment in this kind of editing.    

  

I took  another of those personality tests recently.  Can't remember the name of the particular test, just that it was one more Myers-Briggs variation.  It verified (again) that my thinking process is intuitive.   Intuitive— gee, that  sounds pretty, almost ethereal,  mystical.   But like so many categorizing labels, it carries the implication of both strength and weakness.  I see the strength & weakness most clearly when I write and edit.

For one thing, the intuitive process doesn't necessarily mean orderly.  I'm a messy writer.  At least half of my stories didn't start at the beginning. They started with the glimpse of an idea or scene so compelling I had to write it; but it was an ending scene or one somewhere in the middle.  The rest of the writing involved how did the character(s) get to this scene and/or what happened after this scene.   

Editing or critiquing someone else's work — now that gets interesting.  Intuition helps me slip into another's style and empathetically "see" the story the person is telling.  I don't lose myself, but I can adapt edits to help bring out the shine of that writer's particular voice.  

I try to be careful to explain my reasons for whatever edits I do.  First, I don't want the writer to think I'm  trying to mold their writing style into a likeness of my style. (No cloning around, thanks.) Second,  I want the writer to understand the why's of any edits.  Changes I recommend are not arbitrary, not capricious.  If I do, however, suggest a change that has more to do with a personal preference, I let the author know it's a personal preference as well as why I have that preference. S/He's at liberty to agree or disagree. 

But the main thing I want to happen when I edit another's work is for the writer to think through the writing.  Writers need to be able to articulate how and why they write as they do. 

To Be Contunide Cotninude Continued (someday)

Rescuing a Dragon(fly)

The spider, much smaller than the dragonfly caught in its web,  works busily at wrapping its meal in silk.  The dragonfly's eyes are frosted white with death. 

I don’t revile the spider for the other little life taken.  Catching and feeding on prey is, after all, one of the things spiders are designed to do.  But a couple of days ago, I rescued another dragonfly  — a blue rather than green like this dead one — from a spider web.  This one is properly called a damselfly, but more people know what a dragonfly is; and the damselflies are close cousins.

The arachnid had not yet injected the venom to kill it and begin the digestion process; and the damsel-dragonfly had not yet tangled itself so thoroughly that it could not be extricated without damage from the web.  So, I gently got the dragonfly loose and eased bits of spider silk from its forelegs and one wing with a pin.  It flew to a leaf on a nearby althea and spent several minutes cleaning itself before it darted away.  It, too, is a predator; and there's an abundance of mosquitoes, flies, and ants to keep it well fed here.

And as I watched the slender blue creature go, another story erupted.  Not dragonflies.  No, lop off the last syllable — this is a dragon story. 

People often ask where an author gets ideas.  The pat answer is everywhere.  I don't often hear writers give any specifics beyond everywhere.  Maybe the idea founts are so varied or so ephemeral that the writer him-/herself isn't exactly certain.  For myself, something as transient as hearing a single word or glimpsing a color/texture/shape will ignite a story.  More often, it's more substantial than that, even if the substance is a dream.  Or some moment in life that no one else would give a second thought.

I have two dragon stories in progress already and one more waiting **ahem** in the wings.  One in process is a companion story, a side story, to my Kamanthian world and novels. The other story can only be described as steampunk with dragon. The waiting one is in-brain brewing; and some research will be needed because it involves a couple of odd twists on dragon lore.

Creatures fill my world, my imagination, my dreams, my stories.  There are, of course, natural ones — dogs, cats, horses, and a wide diversity of wild animals; but from dream-time has come some odd variations.  I've ridden tigers the size of Clydesdales.  A spaniel-sized zebra gave birth to a pair of baby zebras in my laundry room.  I've faced challenges in getting a basilisk ready for a reptile show, including cooking up bait-treats for the show ring and making goggles to cover its eyes.  My neighbors have threatened to call animal control when I had a minotaur calf grazing in the backyard.  Sooner or later, some version of a dream creatures shows up in a story.

The story erupting  now involves rescue.  Will it be the rescue of a dragon?  Perhaps the companion of a dragon?  Or something else? Don't know yet, but I do know this dragon combines reptilian and insectile features. Its purpose isn't to guard a mountain of precious metal treasures; but it is a guardian, one under siege, with enemy snares around it and venom poised to destroy it and that which it guards.  

And outside —among althea, bonsai cypress, dwarf spruce, and too many weeds climbing over the fence — a mosquito nourishes a dragon damsel.

Caution: Volcano at Work

Writing today, at least for a while.  But I'm also on a quest.

The challenge with any transition is that some things get left behind, fall by the wayside. Life goes on.  Maybe there's regret or maybe it just drops out of active memory ... until the day when you need it again.  Then the hunt is on. 

So it is with me.  Amid eruptions of stories of other worlds or other times, I'm also looking for poetry I've written then chucked away on a shelf or stacked somewhere in one of 15 boxes waiting for sorting and saving or disposal. Maybe I'll find Bird Watchers, The Dueling Tree, or Not Real Horsemen in a frayed steno pad or on a 5x8 index card — or a restaurant napkin tucked in a blank book.  And I hope — please, oh please — some version of a few I'm looking for weren't among the papers that fell victim to a puppy litter's  happy day of Shred & Spread a dozen years ago.  

And while I quest and write —an interruption to an eruption.  What to title this collection of speculative poetry, verses exploring edges where real and unreal converge?  Do I pick a poem and use its title? Dreamspinner? That might work, but I wonder how unique, how fitting it is. Raw People? Might get attention, but this isn't a collection of cannibal poems.  Or do I try for a title to summarize or brand it in some way?   Illusions and Visions?  Leaping the Limits?  Aaaack — I know I can do better ! 

Maybe it's time to switch to another eruption — there's a quintet of Krakatoa's  needing attention. Let the lava from this lyrical one flow undisturbed for a bit.  I can still continue the quest when I leave the keyboard.

Or  **hearing whines and toenails tap-dancing** maybe it's time to chase the skinks from basking spots before I let the dogs outside.   Reality goes on.

Clay Feet in Flip-Flops

I thought I would start with something lofty or profound: My Thoughtful Insights on God, Faith, Family, Friends, Humanity, Country, or the Environment — a weighty introduction about my Philosophy of Life.  Maybe I'll get to some of those things later. Maybe.

Today, I'm thinking how bloody hot it is outside — I'm ready for October. I'm thinking about writing and about my newest watercolors. I'm thinking about critters — my old dog, my young dog, my old cat, and the brain-damaged squirrel — but won't write about them right now.

I was born in a summer month but summer isn't  friendly to me. Oh, I appreciate summery things. I like the flowers, the fruits & veggies, the thunderstorms, the canopy of trees. I have great memories of bicycling, horseback riding, camping, and picnics. But my internal thermostat isn't reliable and I get heat sick easily. I can always layer on more for the cold months; but there's only so much undress anyone can do without being arrested for indecent exposure. Me in a bikini might even constitute domestic terrorism or public nuisance. 

I bought my first pair of flip-flops — yellow and hot pink — since 1972.  It's a great relief from toaster-oven socks when the temps climb into the upper 90's (and beyond) and the heat index is in triple digits.  I like not doing the hot concrete & pointy rock folk dance in bare feet; but I'm still not used to the feel of the straps or the clop-clop-clop they make when I walk. I suspect they'll petrify long before the rubber molds to arches high enough to drive a car under.

So I dream for the cycle turning to days of flannel shirts under sweaters, wool britches, and half-inch thick legwarmers. I dry sweat from my hands and work on picking wool to felt for toasty house-boots or crochet new armwarmers, legwarmers, and hats.  I work, dream, create — draw, paint, and write.

There's a volcano in my brain.  Stories, characters, images of scenes erupt constantly. If I were faster at typing, drawing, painting I might be able to capture them all, give them their voices, their portraits, their landscapes.  Alas, I'm turtle slow and a touch arthritic so they have to wait their turn in the queue.  But on the days when the volcano transforms into a pinball machine — sweet!  Every ding-ding-ding of completion means a score for another play.

Ley Rhaed nav-chart — ding, new play. Sincerely, Simon — ding, new play. The Grain Remembers Nails — ding, new play. Tools of the Trade — ding,  new play.  Stigmata of the Green Flame  — ding,  new play.  Capturing Whirlwind — ding,  new play.  Bloomship — ding, new play. Feast — ding, new play.  

Ding-ding-ding — bonus points.  The new play is this blog, logging the journey of a clay-footed wanderer in life and in the lands between my ears.  Today, I wander realms in flip-flops.  I listen for the rumble of the volcano, the ding-ding of the pinball machine.  But most of all, I ignore the clop-clop of summer footwear and listen for the Voice at the center of all my wandering. 

And to travelers who would journey with me, I wave a hearty welcome to you.    :)