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It's that time of year.

Many years have passed since I had to worry about who my teachers would be, and if any of my friends would be in my classes. But the days grow shorter. There's urgency in the air. The newspaper is filled with ads for notebooks and pencils. It's time for a fresh start.

My latest novel, THE BOOK OF DARES FOR LOST FRIENDS, takes place at that time of transition. One of my characters Lanora remarks -- "How many times do we get the chance to begin again?"

She proceeds to make terrible choices. (Something must go wrong in a book before things can go well.) But she's right about one thing. How many times do we get the chance? How many times do we seize that chance? We are made of our memories and our past connections. Can we ever really begin again?

Yes, I say. Yes we can.

Whenever I rewrite a manuscript, I'm always tempted to paste in long sections from previous drafts. I resist the effort of starting fresh, even when I know that's exactly what I need to do!

But it's time to go back to school. Time to sharpen the pencils. Time for a clean page. Time for cool breezes to clear the air. Time to begin the final rewrite for a novel I've been working on for longer than I care to admit.

So here we go!

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So it’s Groundhog Day. And though lots of folks will be keeping an eye on Punxsutawney Phil and that whole shadow thing, I’ll be writing—and hoping to keep Groundhog Day time loops far away from my manuscript.

Do you know what I mean, about the Groundhog Day time loop? It’s from the 1993 movie with Bill Murray. The actor plays a journalist caught in a time loop who’s forced to relive the same day—February 2nd—over and over again. Basically, the poor guy is stuck until he figures out what he’s supposed to figure out.

It’s a very funny movie. But getting stuck in a time loop is not that amusing in real life. And now you’re re-reading that line, because you think time loops don’t happen in real life.

But they do, my writer friends. Only we call them…(dum, dum, dum) rewrites.

Now, sometimes a rewrite or two can make the difference between a so-so story and a scathingly brilliant story. But other times, when a writer gets stuck in the same manuscript, over and over and over again, it can drive one right over the edge and into the abyss of…well, I don’t want to think what might be in the abyss.

I have thought about the problem of endless rewrites, however, and I can tell you why I get stuck in a manuscript: I keep trying to make a story (or an article) work without really figuring out what I want to say. And so in my rewrite loop, I move a paragraph here or a chunk of text there. I revise the opening fifteen times or obsess over a sentence until every individual word shines. But when I read what I've (re)written, it still doesn't work. Because moving words around doesn't help me figure out what I want to say.

It’s awful, getting stuck in that rewrite loop. And it’s even more awful when it’s a 60,000-word novel manuscript rather than a 2,000-word article or a 500-word essay. But the way to get unstuck is the same, no matter how many words are on the page.

Step back from the words and think. Think about the point you want to make, the theme you’re trying to convey. Strip away the pretty phrases, the chunks of subtext, and get down on the page the very basic idea you started with when you began to write.

Then go back to your work and craft the words into sentences, the sentences into paragraphs, the paragraphs into story. Your rewrite might be a completely different manuscript than the twenty that have come before, but at last you will have figured it out. Birds will sing, the sun will shine, and you and Bill Murray and yes, even Punxsutawney Phil, can finally move on.

~Cathy C. Hall

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I’ve spent some time today reading a terrific little book of writing instruction for both the beginning and experienced writer. The book’s been around for a long while.

After some thought,  I have some questions regarding how certain aspects of writing discussed in the book are handled by today’s editors. I’d like to address one aspect in particular.

Transitions

In Brandon Rotal’s Little Red Writing Book the subject of transitions placed near the beginning. Rotal goes through the four types of transitions: contrast, illustration, continuation, and conclusion. All writers use transitions. They’re a necessary step in moving an essay, article, or story from start to finish.

Regardless of transition’s importance, in much of today’s editorial preference, specific transition words are currently discouraged. I’ve read recent articles written about the overuse of “however”, “though”, “therefore”, “but, etc. I’ve been told by various other writers to limit my use of such traffic signals in my writing.

Two important questions arise for me. How do transitions happen without initial trigger words? Does a writer’s style dictate use of transition words?

New Transitions

Whether a writer has fifteen years freelance experience or a mere few months, small considerations such as transitions can make or break an acceptance in today’s competitive market. If former transition words are no longer received favorably, something else must take their place.

Let’s start with the contrast transitions. If “however,”  “but,”  “on the other hand”, etc. doesn’t cut it anymore, there are ways to shift thoughts. After all, the brain does it all day long.

For instance: Rather than say “However, we couldn’t move the fallen tree without more industrial power,” create a substitute. Try something like “Moving the fallen tree would require more industrial power than we possessed.”

The meaning remains the same. The sentence is stronger. The traditional transition was eliminated.

“Nevertheless” can be left behind for “Notwithstanding.” It isn’t used as often. The key is to refrain from using it often. Of course, the writer doesn’t have to use any trigger words.

Example: “Nevertheless, the fallen tree would take more resources to remove than we had available.” becomes “Without bringing in additional resources from outside, we couldn’t move the fallen tree.”

The latter transition takes one less word and doesn’t use trigger words.

Using Style Transitions

As seen above, the writer uses a shift of thought to bring about transition in subject direction. Transitions don’t have to be abrupt and jarring. The writer can slide through them without breaking for turns.

For example: “While writing this piece I’ve had to think up more unusual transitions than I’ve taken time for in many weeks. Normally, I don’t sit and ponder the use of traditional transition words. I could get stuck in each sentence, if I allowed myself that luxury.

 Instead, I try to ignore the existence of traditional transition words. I think of them as unnecessary descriptors and work to leave them out of my writing.  It’s difficult, especially when a person has to change a total perception of proper writing style.”

New Version: “As I write this I have to create many new transitions. To eliminate the difficulty, I try to ignore the existence of traditional transitions. Shifting thought allows the writer to say as much in a more fluid way. If I think of transition words as unnecessary descriptors, my writing flows with strength and clarity.

The second version says the same thing as the first. The difference is length and flow. Personally, I like it better than the first one. In the end, that’s all that matters. If it works better, the likelihood of an editor liking it, too, increases, which is the final writer�

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Writing is a personal experience. Each writer faces his or her own obstacles and processes. But, one common aspect of writing is it always starts with an idea. You may take that idea and turn it into an outline. You then take your outline and sprinkle it with letters and words and watch it grow. Words turn into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into chapters. The journey can take months and even years. But, the love of writing, the love of your story, and the hope of publication keep you dedicated.

Then, the day finally arrives. Your manuscript is complete. The envelopes are ready. All you have to do is submit, submit, and submit again. But, hold on a minute. Have you gone over all the necessary steps to ensure your manuscript is actually ready to be submitted to a publisher or agent?

The writing journey can take months and even years. But, the love of writing, the love of your story, and the hope of publication keep you dedicated.

Time passes, and finally your manuscript is complete. The envelopes are ready. All you have to do is submit, submit, and submit again. But, hold on a minute. Have you gone over all the necessary steps to ensure your manuscript is actually ready to be submitted to a publisher or agent?

There are eight steps that every writer, especially those new to the business of writing, should follow before submitting a manuscript:

1.    Rewrite, rewrite, rewrite. Then self-edit your story until it’s the best you can do.

2.    Make sure you belong to a critique group in your genre. Submit your ms for critique.

3.    Revise your story again taking into account the critiques you received. Here you want to use common sense in regard to which critiques you listen to. If all your critique group members tell you a particular section of your children’s story is age inappropriate, listen. If one member tells you he/she doesn’t like the protagonist’s name, use your own discretion.

4.    Resubmit the manuscript to the critique group again. See if you’ve revised or removed all the problem areas.

5.    Proofread and self-edit the manuscript until you think it’s perfect.

6.    Print the manuscript and check it again. You’ll be surprised at the different types of errors that will be found in this format. You should use a colored pen or pencil for these corrections so they’ll be easy to spot later on.

7.    Now, it’s time for the final corrections. Give it another go over.

8.    Have your manuscript professionally edited.

If you’re questioning why you need to have your manuscript professionally edited after going to the trouble of having it critiqued and worked on it meticulously and endlessly, the answer is simple: An author and a critique group are not a match for the expert eyes of a professional editor.

Did you and your critique group catch all the punctuation errors? How about knowing when or if it is permissible to use quotation marks outside of dialogue? Do you know about the Find function on your word program to check for over used words, such as was and very. What about ellipsis dots, or the over use of adjectives and adverbs? This is just the tip of the iceberg. Isn’t it understandable why it’s important to take that extra step, and yes, expense, to have your manuscript edited. If you’re undecided, ask the professional writers you know if they recommend it. You can also a

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When I was a child, our house was littered with drawings, on used, opened-out envelopes, or old wallpaper, and even drawing-pads. My brother drew dinosaurs or battles (and battling dinosaurs), my sister drew swimming seals or people, and my father's drawings were usually of aeroplanes or birds.

They all had one thing in common: there would be repeated attempts at the drawings. My Dad, for instance, would do a sketch of the whole plane, and then, underneath, another drawing of its undercarriage, and another of its wings. He hadn't been happy with the first drawing, so he practiced the bits he felt needed improving. Turn the paper over, and there would be another, larger, better drawing of the whole plane.

These sketches taught me something without my ever realising I'd learned anything at all - 'You won't get things right the first time, so repeat them until you do'.

My own drawings were usually of people. As a child, I drew far more than I wrote; in my early teens, I drew and wrote about equally. After my first book was accepted, when I was sixteen, writing took over from drawing (and I haven't seriously drawn anything for about thirty years now). But the lesson that I never knew I'd learned moved with me from drawing to writing. If I wasn't happy with something I'd written, I rewrote it – and if I still wasn't happy, I rewrote it again, and again, many times if need be, until I thought I couldn't improve it any more.

I didn't think I was doing anything noteworthy. Rewriting was part and parcel of writing. It was just what you did; as much a part of writing as using a pen.

Years passed, and, in the way of impoverished writers, I started teaching Creative Writing. But between you and me, gentle reader, I was puzzled as to what 'Creative Writing' was exactly. And even more puzzled as to what I could teach my students. If I had ever stopped to think about what I did when I wrote a book, I couldn't remember doing it.

I consulted a few 'How to Write' books, to find out what those authors told their students, and it was enlightening. “Oh, I do that! Who'd have thought it?” I resolved only to steal those 'creative writing' tips that I could honestly say I used myself. (So you'll hear only a perfunctory mention in my classes about keeping notebooks, or meditating, or doing ten minutes of 'automatic writing' every morning.) My classes were about setting scenes, writing dialogue, building plots. It never occurred to me to tell anyone to rewrite, because to me rewriting was writing. I didn't think anyone would need to be told that.

Slowly, over weeks, it became apparent to me that the idea of rewriting had never, ever occurred to many – not just a few, but many – of my students. A lot of them seemed to think it was cheating. A real writer, they seemed to think – Thomas Hardy, let's say – just sat down and wrote Tess of the D'Urbervilles straight off, from beginning to end, never blotting a word; and then he packed it off to his publishers who printed it without asking for a single change. That's the kind of genius he was. That's the way a real writer works.

If my students wrote a story, and found themselves dissatisfied with it, they concluded that it was another failure, put it away, and tried to forget about it. The next thing they wrote, that might be perfect.

“Couldn't you,” I suggested nervously, not at all sure I was on firm ground here, “couldn't you rewrite it?”

They were astonished. But they'd finished it! And it wasn't any good. What was the point of wasting more time on it?

“But nothing I've ever written,” I said, “was much good in its first draft. But if I like the idea – if there are bits that are good – I rewrite it, and improve it. I've rewritten some things dozens of times over. I rewrote the whole of GHOST DRUM six or seven times, and I rewrote the ending many more times than that.”

Some of the class were quite excited by this revolutionary idea. Others were as plainly horrified, reminding me of a little girl in Year 4 of a school I once visited. Her story was so good, I told her, that she should rewrite it. The look she gave me would have reduced a lesser writer to a pair of smouldering boots.

But having belatedly realised that rewriting was actually a tool of the writer's trade that I'd never before suspected I was using, I became evangelistic about it. “Rewrite!” I cried to each new intake of students. “You must rewrite!”

And then one of my students stopped me in my tracks by asking, “But how do I know what parts I have to rewrite? How do I know which words I should change?”

Well – er – quite. Obviously, these are the technical complexities Jordan was referring to when she spoke of her ghost writer 'putting it into book words'. When a writer, like wot I am, takes the raw first draft and puts it into book words, what exactly is it I are doing?

I hadn't a clue. Look, I only write the stuff – I don't waste my time thinking about it, any more than a ditch-digger thinks much about ditch-digging. She just heaves another shovel-ful of mud.

But there were my students, waiting for an answer. So I gave thinking about it a try. And boy, did my brain hurt...

To be continued....

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