Revisions

Revisions suck. Did I just use that word? Yes, because I am surrounded by teenagers. I have two of them, a boy and a girl, and they’re getting ready for prom. Girl-child wants her two best buddies to get ready at our house so they can descend the stairs like three princesses going to the ball. Problem is, buddy number two is boy-child’s date, and he wanted to pick her up at her house in his cool car, not walk out of his own living room and haul her out to the garage. Thus we have war.

But I digress. Revisions come at every stage of writing. I’m currently in the first-draft, “why did I ever think this idea was going to work” stage. The one where you hit dead-ends in the middle of a scene, start over, stare into space for an hour, write a sentence and delete it, have a brain storm and write ten pages straight, move that scene into an earlier chapter, rewrite it because it has screwed up the timeline, and on and on.

Eventually I’m going to get to the end of this manuscript. Then my husband (brilliant analytical soul that he is) will read it and point out every illogical plot swerve, lame piece of dialogue and boring report (he says I do this occasionally, though I deny it vigorously). Then I will struggle to repair all those things.

At that point I give it to my critique partner who is an attorney and organizes her day with colored dots. You know those kinds of people. She will proceed to find more illogical character motivations, “ly” adverbs (how do those wretched things sneak in there when I’m not looking?) and awkward metaphors. Rats. I’m supposed to be beyond all that.

But I revise for the last time (yeah right) and ship it off to highly educated editor who will undoubtedly find other problems and ask me to revise again. And that’s not even taking into consideration line edits and copy edits.

Eventually, of course, the book will be printed and I will run out of opportunities to revise. Yep, that’s what it is. I don’t have to revise, I get to revise. I’m allowed to correct mistakes, say things a little more clearly, trade a boring adverb for a fresh strong verb.

I think that’s what the discipline of Christ is like. He allows my mistakes to be corrected, clarified, freshened. I get to be strengthened to be more like Him, more fit for heaven every day. He will not quit on me until it’s time for me to join Him. No point being discouraged; the revisions are part of the process, as inevitable as breathing.

There may be some other analogies here that I don’t have time for now. Maybe somebody else can come up with them.

Clay Pots

I have been bludgeoned by my friend Brenda Coulter--whom I would link with one of those fancy hyperlinks if I only knew how--into trying a blog. I don't have time to do this, but I always journal anyway, so I figured why not try to make myself articulate enough for public consumption.

So here goes. I am a writer. I am a published writer. I am a published writer in the throes of deadline. I am about to drive myself off a bridge. Just kidding. Sort of.

I write fiction with a Christian worldview, which sort of makes it imperative that I live what I write. Have to confess loudly and often that I am not smart enough, educated enough, funny enough, whatever enough to write a novel and turn it in on time. I am wildly undisciplined, often inarticulate, and highly insecure.

Interesting thing is, that is generally exactly the kind of person God picks for sticky tasks. Just this morning I read--quite by accident, I'm sure (NOT)--the story of Gideon and his 100 warriors conquering the hordes of the Midianites with ram's horns and torches in clay jars. Then I read somewhere else that men are but clay vessels in the hands of the Potter. Okay, I getcha loud and clear. The light don't shine unless the clay pot breaks.

I'm broke. I have 5 days to write 100 words. That's pretty stinkin scary. So let's see what the Lord of Hosts does with this clay pot.