Before I took up writing, my creative outlet of choice was music. I’ve had formal instruction on instruments in all five categories – keyboard, string, woodwind, percussion, and brass – and have been in a number of musical groups over the years.

During high school, I played both the saxophone and the xylophone. I wasn’t able to find a picture of myself with my sax, but here I am with my xylophone in the 1983 Aloha Week parade.

However, it was while playing my tenor sax that I learned a lesson I have applied to my writing these many years later.

The jazz band had already played our formal concert several weeks before, but for some reason we’d been invited to play at another school somewhere else on the island. It was my senior year, and graduation was just around the corner. A ton of homework and class projects had worn me down, and I was not particularly happy about what was to be the final concert of my high school career.

School was stressing me out – probably my pending AP exams – and I was tired from all of the studying. There was also some tension between myself and the baritone sax player – we had dated earlier in the year, and things had ended badly.

I was really not in the mood for this concert, especially since we’d be playing Help Me, Rhonda, and I didn’t want to do the solo again. Although I had practiced it to perfection and executed flawlessly during the regular concert, my solo still fell flat. I could tell the band director was disappointed, as he usually was with my solos. I just didn’t get it, whatever “it” was.

So the concert came, and I went through the motions, playing everything the way I had practiced. Then it was time for my solo.

In my bad mood, I didn’t bother to play the solo the way it was written. I just blew. The notes were close, I stayed in the right key, but all I was really doing was venting my frustrations through my horn. It was the worst solo I’d ever played, but it was strangely therapeutic.

After the concert, the band director approached me. “What was that up there?” he asked. I braced for a good chewing out. “That was the best I ever heard you play. It reminded me of my days back with the [whatever his sixties rock band was called].”

I was shocked; here I thought I’d completely messed up the whole thing, when in fact I’d done what he’d been trying to get me to do for four years – play with feeling.

All the time I’d been working on executing the notes exactly, what I’d really done is scrubbed away all of the emotion. Precision and conformity is exactly what’s needed when playing as part of the band, but during a solo, it’s the passion that counts.

Now that I’ve traded a mouthpiece for a word processor, I notice I tend to be the same way with my writing. I edit and edit until the voice is thoroughly sanitized.

This would be fine for a newspaper article or users manual, but I’m writing fiction. And in fiction, it’s the voice that counts.

More feedback from readers this week. The beginning is boring. Seems to be a trend.

I’ve tried to think if this could possibly be because I’m starting the story in the wrong place, but I’m convinced the story is starting where it needs to start. The problem is my character is too far along his development arc, and needs to be moved further back at the beginning of the book.

Should that be ‘further’ or ‘farther’?

No matter. The problem with my character is I tried to have him too far “progressed” in his development at the beginning of the book, so he has very little room for development until the middle. Once he hits the middle of the book, he begins making real progress, and the story takes off.

In early drafts of the book, I had this main character who was much more shy and awkward, and had a lot of room to develop right off the bat. But in later drafts, I made him a little less shy and a little less awkward, because at that stage in my life I was less shy and awkward.

Unfortunately, in making my character more like me, he became uninteresting and pathetic. Not that this implies anything about me. Really, it doesn’t. Really.

But by moving his development back a bit, and giving him more room to grow, he now has something more to do during the first half of the book other than being, um, uninteresting and pathetic.

“These are your antagonists. These are your antagonists on a theme. Any questions?”

(If you don’t get the reference, you must be too young.)

So today I figured out exactly how my two antagonists fit into the story, and how they relate to the theme.

This is huge for me, because right behind the dance (which I’ve rewritten and I think is better but I don’t have the nerve to reread yet) people complained about my antagonists. I have two, although they seem the same but not quite, and they show up and do their villainy and then disappear. Very weak, I know.

Most of the conflict in this story is internal, but I’ve got a couple of guys that do some things that cause my protagonist grief. And I now recognize that one represents self doubt, and the other represents arrogance – two opposite ends of the spectrum, and both very detrimental.

And by having them be the physical embodiment of these characteristics, I’m even more clear on just what they need to do and how they need to do it.

I’ve read that good writing starts with the story, and the theme follows. That seems to be holding true. How cool!

I learned a lot about how to fix the weak points in my story yesterday, and it didn’t have anything to with the 1325 pages that went from my printer to my beta readers.

No, this insight came from three of the best places to gain writerly knowledge – Kids, Writer’s Groups, and Blogland.

Annette Lyon wrote a great post over at the Writing On The Wall blog talking about Specificity - the way specific details bring a story to life. She accurately pointed out that “writers tend to err on the side of being too vague.” Guilty as charged.

Task one for the next draft – be more specific.

The other lesson I learned involved both a child and a writer’s group. I’m fortunate to have my daughter Anna as a member of our group for many reasons. One thing I noticed during our meeting last night and the conversations that followed is that she is very much like me, and makes many of the same mistakes I do. The thing is, it’s much easier for me to see those mistakes when she makes them.

For example, she read a little piece she had written that involved cryptic text messages from a mysterious stranger seeking help in an underwater excavation, and requesting a meeting at a nearby bridge. I was intrigued – this sounded very interesting.

Others in the group expressed concerns about the potential for danger and mysterious nature of the messages. Red flags and warning lights should have been going off all over the place. Nobody would rush headlong into danger like that.

I mentioned that as long as she gave the protagonist a good reason to go against her better judgment, the things she wrote were great. As we talked about it later, she said “I think I’ll just make these two people old friends or something.”

“Why?” I asked. “The mystery and suspense is what makes the story exciting.”

“I know, but it’s just too tricky.”

“Honey, the tricky stuff is what makes it exciting!”

And of course, that’s when it hit me: The weakest places in my story are the ones where I shied away from the tricky stuff.

Task two for the next draft – tackle the tricky stuff.

A couple of weeks ago, Heather Moore posted about Wimpy Characters over at the Writing On The Wall blog. It’s a good read. You should check it out if you haven’t seen it already.

But it caused me some concern.

In this post, a wimpy character is defined as one “who won’t fight, who retreats from conflict, who is indecisive, who sits around passively, who whines…” and they are to be avoided for a number of very good reasons.

The problem is that my main character is quite conflict averse, at least at the beginning. Overcoming this character flaw is the main character development arc.

So I had to ask myself: Is my main character a wimp?

Well, he’s not indecisive, and he doesn’t sit around passively, and he never whines. But he retreats from conflict, and one instance in particular sets up the catalyst event for the story. But does this make him a wimp? Does it make him a character that is not interesting or sympathetic?

I decided the answer to this resides in his motivation. He believes that maintaining peace and harmony is important, and works very hard at it. He incorrectly believes that stepping aside is the right thing to do in this case.

He looks like a wimp to those around him, but my job is to make sure the reader understands his actions are not weakness, but a misguided attempt at nobility. If I can do that, I think the story has a chance.

I know that in general, Christmas trees made of wood are preferred, as they fill a home with that pine-fresh scent that screams “Holiday!”

However, circumstances at this house require the pine-fresh scent be left outdoors, so our yule festivities take place around a tree made of vinyl and wire. Sad, I know.

But putting up the artificial tree last night I was struck with an analogy to writing fiction, also known as “artificial stories.” (I seem to suffer from an affliction that causes me to see writing analogies nearly everywhere I look. I’m guessing it’s a fairly common writer’s affliction.)

When the plastic boughs come out of the box, they don’t look anything like real tree branches, other than the general color. But after some quick shaping, they are attached to the trunk, and soon the general shape of a tree emerges.

This is the rough draft. It looks basically like a tree, but the branches and boughs and twigs just look, well, fake. After years of experience, the first draft looks less fake than it used to, but the tree still needs quite a bit of work. Some people will leave the tree in it’s rough state, but most will at least try and shape the branches so they look real.

With time, practice, and patience, this fake tree can be shaped into something that satisfactorily resembles a real one. However, it’s possible to continue to tweak branches here and there long after that point is reached. This practice doesn’t really help the appearance of the tree, and only serves to tick off the people waiting to add the ornaments.

OK. I’m going to leave the analogy there.

I didn’t get to write the way I wanted to this week. The biggest problem was that I had to spend my usual writing time rebuilding a wall. The story unfolds here and here and here. There are pictures.

I learned from this experience. The first thing I learned, of course, is that if you get angry and break a wall, you will have to give up your writing time to fix it.

But in addition to that, I thought of a few writing analogies. For example:

It’s a lot easier to lay tile when the surface is straight and smooth. Likewise, the foundation of a good story should be solid and well laid-out. Otherwise, distracting imperfections will carry through all the way to the finished product.

When hanging tile on the wall, I did the two end pieces to make sure they lined up exactly with the edge of the wall, then filled in the two in the middle, who’s placement didn’t really matter as much. Likewise, when writing I’ve found it’s best to write the most important, pivotal scenes first, then fill in the others.

Filling in the gaps is fun but messy.

Final clean-up takes more than a few passes. Both grout and writing need to be cleaned and cleaned and cleaned, then given a good finishing polish.

The end result is truly great, and just about anyone can do it if they have basic skills, some good mentors, and a willingness to put in the necessary time and effort.

The lying game has been going around, and it’s been fun to play. (Click here to try and figure out which is my lie.) I have tried to guess three other blogger’s lies, and twice I was one of the few to answer correctly. In both cases, there was something just not right about the lie that gave it away.

My purpose in writing this entry is not to brag on this fact (well, OK – maybe a little), but instead to talk about believable writing.

One of the few talents I have that just might qualify me to be a writer is the sense of when something I read isn’t right. This blog entry, for example, is very awkward and disjointed. But oh, well.

Obviously, the ability to spot written problems doesn’t necessarily come with the ability to fix them, but here I’m hoping that with enough practice I can produce a manuscript that is grammatically pleasing, structurally sound, and entirely believable.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone to a movie or picked up a book, only to be distracted to the point of disgust by implausible situation, inconsistent characters, and an inept plot structure.

Right now, my partial rough draft is full of these problems, and quite a few others as well. I’m OK with that, though – it’s a rough draft, after all, and the fact that I have written over 30,000 words of anything is a great accomplishment for me.

I believe I will be able to work through these issues, but I won’t know for sure until the time comes. Hopefully I can hook up with a good critique group by then. As deluded as I am, I do recognize I could use all the help I can get.

This past year I have been trying to expand my literary horizons by picking up books that I otherwise wouldn’t have read. This was in response to advice given in many different writing guides. Most of these stories have come to me by way of audio books, but I’ve actually read a few as well.

As a result of my literary wanderings, I’ve been bored by Clive Cussler, annoyed by Danielle Steele, awed by Stephen King, and embarrassed by Nicholas Sparks (skipping chapters with my 10-year old in the car).

The thing that has surprised me most is how much I have liked and learned from my Grandmother’s favorite author, Louis L’Amour.

Knowing just how prolific L’Amour was, and how tired and cliched the Western genre can be, I expected threadbare, formulaic tales that might be good for a laugh. What I got, however, was much more rich and inspiring than I had imagined. And much less embarrassing with the kids around.

I was especially impressed by L’Amour’s ability to write evocative description, and I would like to leave you with one of my favorite excerpts. This comes from Sackett’s Land, in which Barnabas Sackett prepares to leave England for America, setting the stage for the many frontier and western adventures of his descendants. I hope someday I can write prose half as descriptive.

Saint Paul’s Walk was where London’s heart could be heard beating. Actually, it was the nave of the great cathedral, but forgetting that Jesus had driven the moneylenders from the temple, the Dean had welcomed them back, and with them had come the scribes, the lawyers, sellers of badges and souvenirs, and in fact, every sort of business. The playing of ball was forbidden, as was the riding or leading of horses.

It had become the greatest promenade in London, haunted by gallants courting their ladies (or prospecting for new ladies to court), and by thieves, pick-pockets and traders. Tailors came here to study the latest in fashions, and around the north door gathered balladmongers, sellers of broadsides, and street musicians.

We made our way through a confusion of people and their accompanying odors.

As I mentioned in my first post, my current Work In Progress has been in progress for years now. The process has for the most part been trial and error, with far more error than I would like. But I have learned a few things in the process, and that has made the effort worthwhile.

A couple of years ago, when I first decided to write this story in novel form, I would write a chapter, then rework, revise, and edit that scene until I felt it was tight and smooth and flowed really well.

Unfortunately, this process took one or two weeks of writing for each chapter, and I began to feel as though I would never make any progress at all. Soon I became discouraged at the slow pace and set the project aside.

Contrast that with the writing I have done during the last month. One of the guidelines for Tristi’s BIAM challenge was to write now, edit later. Once I was finally able to embrace this method, I began making tremendous progress in my writing.

Now granted, what I have written is not very good. It lacks the flowing prose and inspiring visualizations that I want my work to have. But what it does have is form, structure, and substance.

While pondering this new writing strategy, I thought of the similarity between writing a novel and sculpting an elephant from clay. A life-sized elephant.

In my earlier attempts, it was as if I were focused on creating realistic dimensions and skin texture when all I had in place was a portion of a foot. What I had looked good, but stepping back it didn’t look much like an elephant.

The way I’m writing now, it’s as though I’m throwing great handfuls of clay together, slowly but surely creating the form of an elephant. I’m writing something new each time I sit at the keyboard, which has helped keep my interest and stretch my imagination.

Fine details and texture will come later, once I’m sure that the basic shape actually looks like what I want. I figure if I can keep up the current pace, I’ll be at that point in another three or four months.