One of the main reasons I made my recent trip back east was to do some location scouting for the novel. Actual locations for certain scenes, in some cases, but mostly I wanted to wander the streets in specific neighborhoods and soak in the bits and pieces of subtle detail that create the illusion of place in the reader's mind. It doesn't take much: a few choice details are generally enough for the reader to hang his own stage backdrop upon. Too much fussy description can have the paradoxical effect of pulling the reader out of the scene by focusing his attention on what you're writing rather than what's actually going on. Better to let him do some of the work, which will create an easy engagement with the setting that leaves a more vivid impression than a torrent of precise details.
You must choose your details carefully. I wanted to reimmerse myself in the locations and gather a nice catch of sights, sounds, and smells in my mental baleen. Because...my mind is like a whale. And details are...krill. Or something.
Instead, I spent my detail-gathering time puking. I managed one night about town, but because I failed to anticipate the next seventy two hours of brutal gastric upheaval, I was taking it easy on the observation and focused on enjoying a couple of key lime martinis (which sounded better than they turned out to be) instead of looking for sparkling prose in the streets. I anticipated returning with an SD card full of digital images, backed up by a full weekend's worth of fresh, writerly memories.
But I didn't get that, and I am thus missing what I had hoped would be a motivational bounce fueled by purpose-driven experience. This evening I eked out the first lines of a shiny new chapter two, like so:
It's one of those tricks my creaking, recalcitrant brain plays. If only I had this bit of knowledge, or that particular experience, or this kind of desk chair, or maybe a proper espresso machine, this whole novel thing would be much easier, and the words would fountain forth into a work of engaging genius.
Which is, of course, a load of procrastinatory camel droppings. It's about getting your ass in the chair and writing the thing. The first draft is always shit. You polish the shit later.
Anything else is just an excuse.
You must choose your details carefully. I wanted to reimmerse myself in the locations and gather a nice catch of sights, sounds, and smells in my mental baleen. Because...my mind is like a whale. And details are...krill. Or something.
Instead, I spent my detail-gathering time puking. I managed one night about town, but because I failed to anticipate the next seventy two hours of brutal gastric upheaval, I was taking it easy on the observation and focused on enjoying a couple of key lime martinis (which sounded better than they turned out to be) instead of looking for sparkling prose in the streets. I anticipated returning with an SD card full of digital images, backed up by a full weekend's worth of fresh, writerly memories.
But I didn't get that, and I am thus missing what I had hoped would be a motivational bounce fueled by purpose-driven experience. This evening I eked out the first lines of a shiny new chapter two, like so:
So we did. We fled to the east, away from the cops and the mob and the flames, because Putnam's brownstone was to the east and it seemed wise to run somewhere in particular rather than just away.Then I stopped, thinking, It would be fab if I had some vivid impressions of the evening streets, wouldn't it?
It's one of those tricks my creaking, recalcitrant brain plays. If only I had this bit of knowledge, or that particular experience, or this kind of desk chair, or maybe a proper espresso machine, this whole novel thing would be much easier, and the words would fountain forth into a work of engaging genius.
Which is, of course, a load of procrastinatory camel droppings. It's about getting your ass in the chair and writing the thing. The first draft is always shit. You polish the shit later.
Anything else is just an excuse.
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