Some people suggest that when writing crucial scenes in your book, you should employ at least three out of the five senses. As in: “Sara listened to the computer hum impatiently while she tried to think of a good example. She stalled, grimacing as she took a gulp of bitter coffee-gone-cold. The shiny, smooth keys of her computer beckoned her to be brilliant, but alas, she wrote this instead.”

This is a great technique and I like to expand it to the story creation process. Because unless the world feels real to you, in all five senses, it’s not going to feel real to the reader. Bringing your fiction into the physical world anchors you in your character’s voice and setting in a way that nothing else does. So in the past I’ve talked about building dioramas, collecting shoe boxes full of stuff my character loves, and, most importantly for me, finding a soundtrack to my story.

In my last project, I incessantly listened to the soundtrack to Battlestar Galactica, letting its Taiko drums and wailing flutes build tension and tone in my writing space. I can’t help but feel that the words are infused with a sense of that music, much like honey is flavored by the flowers that bees visit.

So when I started a new story, I felt lost without music for my new world. I started avidly listening to the radio, asking friends what they were listening to, paying attention to soundtracks in movies. At the same time, I was searching for the voice of my main character. For a while, writing was frustrating, my words feeling more like an outline than a book. Then I found Sigur Ros.

This Icelandic band has a raw tone that feels bleak and wistful and, occasionally, soaringly hopeful. The first song I heard by them stunned me. I could literally see one of my key scenes unfolding in my mind. It was like being given a key to this world I had been circling and spying on for so long. Suddenly, I could walk with my character through the streets of my story. Amazingly, when my husband heard the same song later, he had the same experience. For weeks I’d been talking about this world, about this character, bouncing ideas off of him, and this song triggered the same emotions in him as it did in me.  Now I could not only visualize my world, I could hear it too. And in the space of one song, my story had come to life.

See, during the past months of revision, I daydreamed about starting a new story. I’d sit next to a waterlily-filled pond somewhere, seized by inspiration, scribbling down long, brilliant paragraphs. (Why a pond? Especially since Laptop+Water= Tragedy) Anyway, my thoughts would weave themselves together, creating a manuscript with a beginning you couldn’t put down, an intriguing middle, AND a surprising, yet inevitable ending.

Instead, I’ve found the process of writing a first draft just like I remembered it, clumsy and full of doubt. And clumsy isn’t fun. Surprisingly, neither is doubt.

And suddenly, I wished I was revising again. In hindsight, revision seems like strolling through a lovely greenhouse, rearranging plants, watering this one here, pruning that one there. Now, I find myself back on a dusty plain with a handful of seeds and a empty watering can. True, I can create whatever I want in this vast open space, but first I have to find some water, figure out what kind of seeds I have, and get digging. All of this is awkward, hard work that leaves your hands calloused and caked with mud.

Wow. Sorry, I guess I got a little carried away with myself there. Plus now, I have two competing metaphors. Puppies and gardening. Hmmm… better throw in a third one, just for good measure.

Vroom! Meep, Meep!

Right now, in the middle of my first draft, I can hear the Road Runner, I can see him, but he just keeps racing in dizzying circles around me. For the last few weeks, I’ve been forging ahead anyway. Since I know my beginning and I know my ending, surely I can find a path between the two points. But somewhere in the middle there, the story gets boring. And I’ve learned to heed the warning signs. When you sit down to write a scene and you think to yourself, ‘Ugh!’ then whoever reads it is going to think ‘Ugh!’ too.

I’ve figured out that something is missing in my story and it’s as elusive and taunting as the Road Runner himself. But this morning and every morning, I will sit down at my computer and start again, creating contraptions, building traps, and scheming new schemes. After all, I’m Wile E. Coyote, Suuuuuper Gen-i-us and I’m bound to catch him sometime, right?

Right?

So I finished my revision… now what?  As a way to deal with the dismal No Man’s Land that lurks between revisions and new projects, I’ve been getting crafty.  This past September at the SCBWI Working Writers’ Retreat, the creative Julie Williams gave us some unusual ideas about how to build an authentic world for our stories.  Found-book collages, paper dolls, and object-inspired writing exercises made me realize that there’s more to grounding yourself in a new world than outlines and brainstorms.

I’ve had some ‘in between’ time on my hands, so I pulled out my notes for my next book and got to work.  Or play, rather.  You can see I’ve made a mess. But that’s what it’s all about.  Or is that the hokey-pokey?

As I construct this world in a literal, hands-on way, specific and rich details are floating into my brain like gifts from the ether.  Scenes have begun playing themselves out in front of me and characters are finding forms.

It’s been a fantastic way to travel from the analytical territory of revisions to the open space of creation. And it’s reminded me that this whole venture is supposed to be fun.  Here’s a peek at the world I’m just starting to imagine.

It’s wonderful to be presented with delicious stories and get to dream alongside the creators. I don’t have the stress of actually having to come up with the ‘right’ solution. I don’t have to judge the worthiness of my ideas. I just hand them over to someone else who has to do the tough stuff. It’s brainstorming without consequences.

The experience has taught me a lot about my own revision process. The pressure and restrictions I put on myself to ’solve’ my problems. Now, I hope to bring some of the freedom and creativity that I felt on the sidelines into my own work.

Starting a story is actually my favorite part. It’s fresh and perfect and you’re sure that this time you’re going to be able to put it all down exactly like it is in your head. If I could spend my life writing the first 20 pages of stories, I would.

Unfortunately, you have to move on to page 21 and page 59 and page 167. Oh yes. They’re out there right now. Waiting for you.

But for now, I’m in bliss. I’m starting a new story and I’m using everything I’ve learned with the YA novel I’ve been slaving away on to help me get started. Suddenly, outlining is my friend. Character development. Story arcs. Research. I’m no longer afraid that these things will take the magic out of the story. And I’m already wielding them with stealthy ninja skill.

Also, I recently discovered Scrivener. It’s one of the many great writing programs out there. With it, I can compile my research all in one place. I can create notecards of my chapters and tack them up on virtual corkboards. I can see 2 documents I’m working on at the same time. I can use my nunchucks to bring rogue words into line! Oops. Got a bit carried away there.

But all the computer programs and notecards and sparkly pens in the world don’t change what I have to do. I need to sit down and, as quickly and truly as possible, disgorge the story. The dream draft, someone once called it. More like the technicolor yawn of words.