Write the bad sentence, then improve it

I don't think I'm alone in this, but I had a revelation on how to increase my word count per hour.

Now folks will say, "Jay! You shouldn't focus on word count. Quality over quantity. Let the story flow. More platitudes."

I get that, but there's room for improvement. So here's the revelation I wanted to share:

While writing, there are moments where you hesitate in writing the next sentence. You anticipate that it will suck balls and that it's stupid garbage. Because of this, you slow down. Sometimes, you start to write what you think is the proper sentence, but second-guess yourself so you hit backspace. Back and forth, back and forth--you're pulling your hair because you need to pass through this goddamn sentence!

Enough!

Instead of hesitating or even deleting the errant sentence, write it out and let it stay there. Once you've brought that sentence to light, write another that improves on it. For me, I separate the bad sentence from the improved one with a slash (/). Once you have the two sentences to compare, delete the bad one and move on. You can do three possible sentences, but no more than that--you don't want to get stuck writing and rewriting that damn sentence. Pick one and move on.

That's it. I anticipate that this works when you're writing the first draft or rewriting your manuscript. I believe this is efficient rather than moving your mouse or cursor and editing it within.

50k and Counting

I've hit the 50k mark! Hurray! I feel tingly, and I'm smiling like a pirate who just stumbled upon loads and loads of treasure.

I always thought 50k words was impossible. Well, not impossible; that would be an exaggeration. Maybe hard to reach or a gruesome crawl. I thought that writing 50k words would take six months or more. Nope. It took two months and two weeks to reach this goalpost.

Now, a few things I had picked up along the way.

Free writing--

This one's an amazing writing tool. Before, I only used free writing to get me out of writer's block in the middle of a writing session.

Now, I use free writing before I start my writing session. It gets my creative juices going, and it also breaks down my 'inner editor.' Even though I'm on the 2nd draft, I'm rewriting everything, which means I need to bring my 'inner creator' out rather than my 'inner editor.'

For those who don't know what free writing is, it's a writing exercise where just write down everything inside your head. It's stream of consciousness. While you are free writing, you are forbidden to hit the backspace and correct any typos. You just go on and on and on.

However, you need to set a time limit. Ten minutes is the max, and anything more than that is procrastination. Most of the time, I don't use all ten minutes. Usually I end my free writing exercise at the five minute mark.

The novel is moving pretty good, and I'm estimating that the word count could be around 100k. I'll probably do another blogpost when I reach 75k. Until then, I have to write the adventures and heartbreaks of my two protagonists.

The First and Second Draft

Started the 2nd draft of my novel on July 16. On August 11, the novel was at 20,000 words, and as of now, September 13, it's at 39,800 words.

It's strange. I began the 1st draft this year on January and finished it around April. When I started on the 2nd draft, I threw out everything except for the beginning and the end. The middle part is completely rewritten.

My 1st draft was written by the seat of my pants. That means I did not have an outline, a character sheet or a world building sheet to begin with. The only thing I began with was an idea for a short story that eventually turned into a novel.

The 1st draft was terrible: cliched, action packed, with little room for character introspection. On the 2nd draft, however, I fixed what was lacking and added some backstory to illuminate my characters.

The 2nd draft is now relying on an outline. I created an outline for my 2nd draft so I can steer the direction of the story and reinforce its structure.

Sometimes I wonder why I began the story without an outline. Surely, beginning with an outline would save me time from completely rewriting the 2nd draft! But I can't start a story with an outline. I had tried it once. I had an in depth outline to a story I named Powerless, and when the time came to actually write, I lost my enthusiasm.

In retrospect, I understood why. When I write, I don't want to know what's going to happen. I like to venture in a story without an idea of what the outcome might be. I'm a discovery writer.

But that's for the 1st draft. Once I was finished with my 1st draft, I created an outline to bolster my story and give more depth to my characters. I was in the editing/revising phase, so the outline was appropriate. I played in the 1st draft; now I'm working on the 2nd draft. Two hats of the writer.

I always thought that writing a novel was hard, but I'm finding out it's doable. As for publishing this book, that's debatable. It's my first novel and so it's going to stink. However, I won't see it as a waste if it doesn't get published. Think of it as a tuition fee--an expenditure of time and effort and loss of sleep.

That Night

I see him in you.
That night he took me, the night he came.
Felt everything, then nothing.
Cold steel to my neck, ready to draw red.
His voice coarse and putrid and calloused hands to my wrists.
In my darkness I hide,
Calling you within the void.
My knight in shining armor,
Nothing more but a faded symbol.
The terrible orgasm, the frightening climax.
Then the blue men took him away.
Locked him in two cages.
Yet his blade haunts me.
Your kiss I cannot...
I smell his breath.
Your passion I cannot...
His skin.
You are not him!

You say goodbye--
To memories.
To intimacy we once held dear.
I see him in you.

Home

This piece was inspired from a writing prompt in reddit: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/3cjjf8/wp_on_the_first_manned_mission_to_mars_a_crew_of/

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Yana looked up at the Martian sky and saw no Earth.

It had been a week since they had landed on ground zero and lost contact with mission control. But the mission continued. Base camp was set up. Their living quarters erected at the fringes of their landing site. The buildings looked like ping pong balls, plastic and white. There were portlets at either side, a view to the red wasteland that abounded.

Pietr told the four astronauts that mission control had ceased its signals. Asked as to why, Pietr didn't know.

"Could be maintenance. Relay must've broke down," said Frank.

"If it were, they should've repaired it days ago." Pietr scratched his beard. "We'll keep the console up. If we get anything, I'll let everyone know."

Three days later, still no signal. The astronauts remained on their duties. Yana maintained the crop and their diet. She prepared a salad, cutting lettuce and tomatoes, throwing in some legumes until she saw something out in the surface of Mars.

Yana squinted at the sight. There, at the distance, were two people standing hand-in-hand, waving at her. Yana closed her eyes and shook her head. When she opened them, the two people remained, still waving at her.

Wishstick

The last cigarette pointed up inside the crumpled pack. Ray made a wish, begged for a million dollars from a benevolent Goddess he often called lady luck. He lit it up, smoked it and snuffed it out when the burn reached the filter.

Ray entered the corner store nearby. The door swung in, jingling the bell. He was greeted by the smell of heavy incense that hung inside the cramped store.

"Good afternoon my friend!" said the store owner. He placed a pack of Marlboros and a scratch-off ticket on the counter. Ray nodded and gave him a twenty.

He took out a penny and began scratching. The top four numbers gave him 32, 19, 44, 5, and the bottom numbers gave him nothing to match. So much for that.

"Maybe next time," said the owner, still retaining a smile.

My Friend Kyle

It had been three years since I saw Kyle. Although pictures of him were sparse in Facebook, in my memory he was that shy 11-year old boy. We were close, almost like brothers. My mother didn’t like him, and she told me never to go to his place. Yet she tolerated him out of pity--Kyle was the youngest of five children, all raised by a single mother.

I remember one day when he came over at my place with a large sweater that was an old hand-me-down. His sweater had two small holes on the back and one near the collar. When he took it off, the holes on the back stretched and then merged into a larger one. I felt bad and offered one of my sweaters. I even picked my favorite sweater--a plain green sweater with a decal of the Philadelphia Eagles at the front. He turned down the offer, but I insisted, told him it was cold outside and I didn’t want him to get sick. Eventually, he caved and took it.

Last night, in my dream, he was wearing that sweater. There was something odd by the way he stood at the far edge of unreality. I remembered approaching him slowly like a predator mindful of his steps. The scene turned into a green pasture, grass curling beneath my feet and the mountains stretched before the edge of the cliff. Kyle had his back towards me, and the sun blazed around his head like a halo.