By: Beth Malone
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The novel didn’t care, though, about any of that. It lurked
around like a stray cat yowling to be fed. Maybe just to shut the thing up, I
wrote a little bit; when it kept yowling, I wrote a bit more. The more I wrote,
the more real the characters became.
They acquired backstories and habits and inconsistencies,
and they started making all kinds of choices. The problems facing them were
like knots I just kept cinching tighter, worrying all the while that I wouldn’t
be able to unravel them.
So for a year, I worked on it, and I made, basically, a
mess.
That’s where I got stuck. I couldn’t figure out what I
needed to do to move the novel forward, so I kept going around and around what
I’d already written, caught in a writer’s eddy of endless revisions.
It was around this time I decided I needed a writer’s
conference. I needed a place where I could take a step back from my ordinary
life and view my work with some kind of perspective. I needed to clear away all
the noise. I needed to be able to focus completely, to judge objectively, to
hear ideas from others and to share my own.
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Some things at the conference encouraged me, for instance
one agent calling his audience to write—no matter what—with honesty and hope,
because we are hoping not just to tell a good story but to change hearts, to
change who someone is, even in some small way. It’s a hope that I’ve always had,
but maybe lost sight of, and hearing it come from someone else’s mouth suddenly
gave me faith again in the rightness of it.
Some things at the conference challenged me, like hearing an
author tell me, “You know the difference between me and you? I finished the
damn book. That’s really it.” Somehow, I believed him.
Finally, some things at the conference put my book on an
operating table, opened it up, and showed me exactly where I needed to put the
stitches in. By breaking the writing into components—character, plot arc,
setting, dialogue—the whole project suddenly felt possible, even probable. I just have to go home, pick up the tools
I’ve acquired, and use them.
I left PPWC not only with a renewed fire for writing
fiction, but with the tools I needed to finish
the damn book.
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