The Enemy of Progress
Did I just fall off the face of the earth? Where have I been hiding? What have I been doing? Just who do I think I am kickstarting this cutting edge dispatch only to provide intermittent and incoherent updates whenever I remember it exists?
If you, like me, have a lot of unanswered questions or are just interested in my general ramblings about the state of my descent into authordom, hello. Welcome. I’m Jamison, and this is my dispatch from Hel(sinki).
Do I have news? 📰
No.
But I will tell you what I’ve been up to: revising. Editing. Keyboard-smashing. Staring into space. Drinking coffee. Googling synonyms for “severe” and “fracture.” Wondering how many different ways a character can swallow, taste bile, and smile. Not… suffering?
Let’s rewind.
Three weeks ago, perhaps more—what is time, really?—I received an edit letter from my agent. (Still a very weird thing to say.) 11-and-a-half pages, single-spaced, all about I FEED HER TO THE BEAST AND THE BEAST IS ME. You may be thinking, “11-and-a-half pages of shit you have to edit????” And now imagine me saying, “No.”
The edit letter is a collection of praise, things that work really well in this manuscript that maybe I shouldn’t change, and also suggestions, things that aren’t working as well but here’s a litany of ways to make it stronger. Now, technically, I don’t have to do any of the suggestions. It’s my book, I’m the author. However, the edit letter comes from a person whose editorial experience and eye I trust—I literally sought out her opinion. I said, “Yes, tell me all your ideas,” and so she did. And after annotating this letter and having a lengthy brainstorming session, I hid away in my writing cave to bring these edits to fruition.
The Craft Corner 🎨
“Perfection is the enemy of progress.”
It wasn’t my intention to quote Churchill today (ew)—I just wanted to talk about perfection and progress and that was the quote I thought of. Getting an edit letter is daunting because you spend years and millions of cups of coffee on a manuscript just to get a single Word doc to list all of its problems. Even though you know perfection is impossible, and you know this isn’t a reflection of you and your worth as a human being, you want to be the exception. And knowing the letter is coming and then reading it are two different things.
Let’s say you finish reading it, you agree with all of it, but you get to the end and you’re like, “Well fuck, where do I go from here?”
Well, first, for me, is the reverse outline. Be Your Own Mentor has a great blog post explaining what this is, but essentially you’re just outlining everything that currently happens in the book. I finished this book months ago and then yeeted it into the querying ether. Out of sight, out of mind. I don’t remember what happens in it. I couldn’t even remember some of the characters’ names, I was so thoroughly removed from it. This reverse outline gives me a clear outline of what I’m working with.
Then, I break the edit letter into categories—more character backstory, simplify the cast, raise the paranoia levels, everyone is creepy. Which edits have the bigger implications? What requires the most change? Going through each of these categories, I annotate my reverse outline with potential edits. Move this character’s introduction to another chapter, reference this sacred object in that chapter, threaten murder during this dialogue. Eventually, my annotations start to paint a new picture of an improved story and I’m off to the races to execute.
I cannot, just yet, tell you what the real changes are. Maybe if/when the book is published, I will detail all the drafts and half-drafts, how we went from frosted kingdoms and secret societies to the Catacombs and a skeleton army. Edits, for me, are extensive in the way that a manuscript is like a network of fungi and everything is connected. Even if my plot and major arc don’t change (and they don’t), while my leading lady Laure and her issues remain the same, the touchstones that enrich her story are getting adjustments. Today I’m trying to find ways to incorporate a flashback without it feeling like a flashback (they just feel cheesy to me, I’m sorry).
Why does this take so long? Because this book is 375 pages, and everything that happens on every page is connected to everything else. Every word, every sentence, everyone’s position in a room was intentional, and I must not only remember my intention when I first wrote it but also the implications of every change I make (metaphors and symbols that no longer work, plot holes, weakened conflicts, character inconsistency, continuity errors). Yet despite my impatience, it’s going surprisingly well. No imposter syndrome in sight.
Why? I’ve forgone perfection. Maggie Stiefvater has a lecture series for writers, and in it, she begins by explaining that the moment your story transitions from thought to written word, it has become imperfect. The story’s most perfect form is in your head, and the instant you start writing, you have to compromise. You are translating thought to word, meaning you have to find the right words for every little thing, but it’ll never capture that same essence. Something always gets lost in translation.
And that’s okay.
My goal as a writer, as I pursue authordom and publication, is to convey a story that readers can take with them. And they’ll interpret things however they want to interpret it, envision characters however they want, bringing their own personal experiences and opinions to the text. There can be no perfection in that dynamic. So, my mindset must shift from having a perfect manuscript or telling the perfect story or writing the perfect chapter to just… making its elements as strong I can. I can’t control what a reader thinks of my main character, but I can reinforce the text with which they engage with her. Make her justifications for what she does stronger. Show firsthand why she is the way she is. Write a richer environment to explain why they behave and hunger the way that they do. I make things less convoluted. I refine some of the ingredients, sifting out the grit from older drafts that weren’t clearly conveyed. Smooth out the fabric so there aren’t ripples that snag and tear.
That is progress.
If I can make a reader feel something while reading (rage, excitement, fear, grief), then that is also progress. Trying to keep a story in its most perfect form (in my brain) won’t give me that.
Word Candy
Since I’ve been neglecting you on the poem front, here is one that I loved recently. Content warning, there is reference to suicide/suicidal ideation.
Sometimes I wish that I were dead
As dead can be, but then again
At times when I've been nicely fed
On caviar or guinea hen
And I am wearing something new
And reassuring, I decide
It might be better to eschew
My tendency to cyanide.
— Margaret Fishback, “Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall” (1933)
I can’t explain exactly how this is relevant to what I was just saying but it is, trust me.
And a little Digestif 🧉
As usual, I have an assortment of delicious digestifs to carry you into the weekend.
LISTENING TO: “Clockwork” by Northlane and “When We Were Young” by Architects. Goddesses know I love a two-for.
WATCHING: Our Flag Means Death (on HBO)
READING: The Chronology of Water: A Memoir by Lidia Yuknavitch
PLAYING: Assassin’s Creed Revelations, but very excited for Ravenous Devils Vampire the Masquerade: Swansong
À la votre! Happy weekend! Hyvää viikkonloppua! ❤️