Thank God I am not alone — I am keeping company with the great George Saunders! And thank you for sharing so much that is so precious with those of us who do not have the wherewithal to upgrade to PAID. God bless you George, which is a nice thought, even for atheists.
"we get more comfortable with the notion that what we’re actually good at — what we’ve been practicing all these years — is improvising within a given context."
That's a brilliant way to think about it. I used to say good writers are good problem solvers, but that never quite sounded right. Improvising within a given context is fantastic.
If it's helpful to the person who asked this question: I used to do the same thing. Only in the past three months have I stopped. What changed? I learned about the "Saturation Point" (a concept popularized by Robert Mackee). The saturation point is essentially an intellectual threshold in which you have learned so much about your world, your characters, what drives them, their mannerisms, their backstories, the plot, etc. that the story seems to start to 'write itself.' The concept is, I believe anyway, most applicable to novels, screen plays, and/or longer works.
Personally, I am on the second draft of a big, honkin' absurdist novel. My first draft was/is a total brain dump and as such is completely unreadable. I had mistakenly thought that since I had a first draft (however messy) it was time to start polishing. But the polishing was glacial because, as I was writing, I was still getting to know the characters and the intricacies of their world.
So my new goal is simply to reach that saturation point. So far, I have noticed that simple change has lead to a greater feeling of play. My output has also quadrupled. Sure my second draft is not pretty but there are large swaths of each scene that feel "complete." And I'm happy with that. For now. Plus I know that things will change.
I also agree whole heartedly with George about the power of printing off and editing your work longhand. I find I am much less precious about each sentence when I print out three or four measly pages and see that oh, the paragraphs I have been beating my head against a wall over are such a small swath of the whole.
At my writing desk, in my "life on earth" this week, it's ALL revision. I like the coincidence of this week's office hours. But the George Saunders take on revising has been part of our conversation many times throughout this year plus of Story Club . And it's done its work on me. How or when it happened, I'm not sure, but the BIG takeaway: I no longer feel the need for revision as a defeat.
Thank you George, as always. It’s such a gift when a master craftsman reveals that he or she struggles with the process. And by struggle I mean revise, polish, discard, etc. the struggle is constructive. It’s how humans move forward. Your answer made me think of two things: 1) wasn’t it Anne LaMott who coined the term “shitty first draft” for the spirit of getting the ideas out of your head and not obsessing, then going back later to revise and discover where the gems are? And 2) in the field of architecture, where I live mostly, there’s a dangerous tendency to publish the “napkin sketch.” It fosters the illusion that the architect is a natural genius and that the idea for their building popped out of their head fully formed and brilliant, then they just scribbled it down on the first piece of paper they could find, and voila! In truth, there are flashes of brilliance or insight that do happen. Lightning does strike, but it’s rare and it’s incomplete. Mastery is about polishing, revising, testing, and even going backwards, hating it, beating one’s head against the wall. It’s a process and an evolution.
A Testimonial: Thirty years ago I took a workshop with a brilliant and famous writer. He gave me thoughtful, detailed criticism and much encouragement. As we parted, he said, "You've got it. Now go do the work." OMG--a mountaintop moment for me! And for thirty years I've been trying with all I've got to "do the work." But I never really knew how; I didn't know what "doing the work" actually was. Until this last year, until Story Club, until George Saunders.
Wouldn't it be interesting if writing stories were more like making an oil painting -- you can't erase, cut, move, or do much to edit what's been done so far. You can paint over, but the original still lingers underneath. You can obliterate with layers of gesso but still, *you* will know what went before. Mainly, you have to make what is to come somehow harmonize with what's already there. What different stories we would write!
Thank you so much for the response George. It still amazes and humbles me that you take the time, out of what must be a very hectic schedule, to reply to so many of us.
I must admit I've been away from Story Club for a little while now (family, work, life gets busy). I've still never missed a post but I am back to hide in the shadows and read everyone's comments as well, and I plan to start by going through all of the CommComm posts.
My writing process is slow going, methodical, and potentially tedious in what, sometimes, feels self-sabotaging. It is such a relief to see my process validated here. I honestly feel much better about it now, knowing one our generation's greatest writers takes a similar approach. And the act of "discovering" plot and rhetoric through editing and rewriting (as opposed to planning, I guess?) really suits the way I approach writing. I'm exhilarated and restored and I can't wait to get back to the writing desk. Thanks again, George!
Sensei says, "But, in general, my belief is: "writing is rewriting." Word. I reflect upon the pathological number of writing workshops I've taken since my youth (18-20?), all of them mentored by stalwart artists, possessed of Guggenheims or New Yorker creds and the like, and living the dream, and if anything was discounted, it was revision. Maybe because it seems abstract, or unwieldy and hard to talk about, like it could get off the leash on us. I've taught 20 years worth of composition, peppered with a creative writing here and there, or a remedial when I needed remedy, and all I had for them was "Revision, my friends, which means 'to see again'." And I'd tell them that when I had anything that I could call a preliminary draft I would read each sentence out loud to myself, and tighten, extract, fit and refit, striving for clarity in the hope that if each sentence was clear then the whole thing might be clear. "This is where the magic happens," I'd tell them, and then I would try to avoid eye contact for the rest of the class.
It heartens me to read the words of Sensei, and see, "Yes! That's it exactly. The writing will inform me what it wants to do and be. It helps if I'm paying attention, but yes! That's damned good." So, I will just refer everybody to Mr. Saunders from here on out. His teaching and work resonates.
Hi. I took a workshop with Peter Taylor in 1986, and he told us he used this approach, but any one of us might be tempermentally bent toward another process. But every one of us gave this a shot, because why wouldn’t we. It works, if you like work. Especially if you like writing work.
Whoah. To read this before a day in the writing cubby asking what the ##$% am I doing here with this ever morphing creature that may or may not be a story is just the injection I needed. From frown to clown To persist. With trusting the getting there.. there. That last paragraph. I said yes with a Whoosh. Of gratitude. In the belly. From what if to riff. From listening in silence to laying down tracks then rewind and play. Repeat. Here's to writing a garden that sings to a some one. Word seeds - the scatter and sprout. The weeding. The plucking from the f##$% up Ed Ness in the wild raggedy rows of zig zaggedy words blooming until some kind of harvest. To read aloud. To hear. To tear apart gladly with razor sharp teeth yet find hunger not satisfied. Still To dare and to share the feast and the beast of life on this planet . You are not alone you storytelling earthlings! Okay I play waaay too much but these Words shine colours with a re Verb erating clang and cymbal clash. My metaphor brain in overdrive and tangled but yes yes to answer the beautiful profound question of that perfect last paragraph. Here. Hear.To dream anew. The play's the thing. I am biased. A lifetime of finding sense in nonsense. For there to catch a cadence of joy. So many flavors of joy.. Thank you. Yes whole heartedly. Thanks for the natural high that comes from reading truth. My morning wake up energy shake. Drunk on hope. I will not go gently into this bright day. I will stop now. Almost To the Page. Page page in the sighing of delight. And terror. Smiley face. Hiccup. Persist persisters is my takeaway. Be true. Be you. Whoosh.
George, the photo of your piles of drafts from your current story inspired me to order a new printer today. I like my little Canon Pixma, but before I print anything, I question if I can afford the ink. Now I see that I can't afford NOT to print out each draft. The Brothers printer I ordered today should be easier on the pocketbook. Thanks for lighting the way forward!
Yes, yes, yes. It feels like building a bridge from one side of a river. You need the bridge because you can't get to the other side without it. You build out a section at a time, then go over it carefully, making sure it's as sound as possible before you build out the next section. Even after you've already checked an early section, you'll keep looking it over on each pass. The stakes of getting it wrong are too high. You don't invite anyone to cross it until it's done--and you're as certain as you can be it will hold.
Thank God I am not alone — I am keeping company with the great George Saunders! And thank you for sharing so much that is so precious with those of us who do not have the wherewithal to upgrade to PAID. God bless you George, which is a nice thought, even for atheists.
"we get more comfortable with the notion that what we’re actually good at — what we’ve been practicing all these years — is improvising within a given context."
That's a brilliant way to think about it. I used to say good writers are good problem solvers, but that never quite sounded right. Improvising within a given context is fantastic.
If it's helpful to the person who asked this question: I used to do the same thing. Only in the past three months have I stopped. What changed? I learned about the "Saturation Point" (a concept popularized by Robert Mackee). The saturation point is essentially an intellectual threshold in which you have learned so much about your world, your characters, what drives them, their mannerisms, their backstories, the plot, etc. that the story seems to start to 'write itself.' The concept is, I believe anyway, most applicable to novels, screen plays, and/or longer works.
Personally, I am on the second draft of a big, honkin' absurdist novel. My first draft was/is a total brain dump and as such is completely unreadable. I had mistakenly thought that since I had a first draft (however messy) it was time to start polishing. But the polishing was glacial because, as I was writing, I was still getting to know the characters and the intricacies of their world.
So my new goal is simply to reach that saturation point. So far, I have noticed that simple change has lead to a greater feeling of play. My output has also quadrupled. Sure my second draft is not pretty but there are large swaths of each scene that feel "complete." And I'm happy with that. For now. Plus I know that things will change.
I also agree whole heartedly with George about the power of printing off and editing your work longhand. I find I am much less precious about each sentence when I print out three or four measly pages and see that oh, the paragraphs I have been beating my head against a wall over are such a small swath of the whole.
At my writing desk, in my "life on earth" this week, it's ALL revision. I like the coincidence of this week's office hours. But the George Saunders take on revising has been part of our conversation many times throughout this year plus of Story Club . And it's done its work on me. How or when it happened, I'm not sure, but the BIG takeaway: I no longer feel the need for revision as a defeat.
Open the champagne.
Here's the key takeaway: "Honestly, for me, it’s a different approach with every story."
Thank you George, as always. It’s such a gift when a master craftsman reveals that he or she struggles with the process. And by struggle I mean revise, polish, discard, etc. the struggle is constructive. It’s how humans move forward. Your answer made me think of two things: 1) wasn’t it Anne LaMott who coined the term “shitty first draft” for the spirit of getting the ideas out of your head and not obsessing, then going back later to revise and discover where the gems are? And 2) in the field of architecture, where I live mostly, there’s a dangerous tendency to publish the “napkin sketch.” It fosters the illusion that the architect is a natural genius and that the idea for their building popped out of their head fully formed and brilliant, then they just scribbled it down on the first piece of paper they could find, and voila! In truth, there are flashes of brilliance or insight that do happen. Lightning does strike, but it’s rare and it’s incomplete. Mastery is about polishing, revising, testing, and even going backwards, hating it, beating one’s head against the wall. It’s a process and an evolution.
A Testimonial: Thirty years ago I took a workshop with a brilliant and famous writer. He gave me thoughtful, detailed criticism and much encouragement. As we parted, he said, "You've got it. Now go do the work." OMG--a mountaintop moment for me! And for thirty years I've been trying with all I've got to "do the work." But I never really knew how; I didn't know what "doing the work" actually was. Until this last year, until Story Club, until George Saunders.
As Edith Ann says, "And that's the truth."
Wouldn't it be interesting if writing stories were more like making an oil painting -- you can't erase, cut, move, or do much to edit what's been done so far. You can paint over, but the original still lingers underneath. You can obliterate with layers of gesso but still, *you* will know what went before. Mainly, you have to make what is to come somehow harmonize with what's already there. What different stories we would write!
Thank you so much for the response George. It still amazes and humbles me that you take the time, out of what must be a very hectic schedule, to reply to so many of us.
I must admit I've been away from Story Club for a little while now (family, work, life gets busy). I've still never missed a post but I am back to hide in the shadows and read everyone's comments as well, and I plan to start by going through all of the CommComm posts.
My writing process is slow going, methodical, and potentially tedious in what, sometimes, feels self-sabotaging. It is such a relief to see my process validated here. I honestly feel much better about it now, knowing one our generation's greatest writers takes a similar approach. And the act of "discovering" plot and rhetoric through editing and rewriting (as opposed to planning, I guess?) really suits the way I approach writing. I'm exhilarated and restored and I can't wait to get back to the writing desk. Thanks again, George!
Sensei says, "But, in general, my belief is: "writing is rewriting." Word. I reflect upon the pathological number of writing workshops I've taken since my youth (18-20?), all of them mentored by stalwart artists, possessed of Guggenheims or New Yorker creds and the like, and living the dream, and if anything was discounted, it was revision. Maybe because it seems abstract, or unwieldy and hard to talk about, like it could get off the leash on us. I've taught 20 years worth of composition, peppered with a creative writing here and there, or a remedial when I needed remedy, and all I had for them was "Revision, my friends, which means 'to see again'." And I'd tell them that when I had anything that I could call a preliminary draft I would read each sentence out loud to myself, and tighten, extract, fit and refit, striving for clarity in the hope that if each sentence was clear then the whole thing might be clear. "This is where the magic happens," I'd tell them, and then I would try to avoid eye contact for the rest of the class.
It heartens me to read the words of Sensei, and see, "Yes! That's it exactly. The writing will inform me what it wants to do and be. It helps if I'm paying attention, but yes! That's damned good." So, I will just refer everybody to Mr. Saunders from here on out. His teaching and work resonates.
Hi. I took a workshop with Peter Taylor in 1986, and he told us he used this approach, but any one of us might be tempermentally bent toward another process. But every one of us gave this a shot, because why wouldn’t we. It works, if you like work. Especially if you like writing work.
Whoah. To read this before a day in the writing cubby asking what the ##$% am I doing here with this ever morphing creature that may or may not be a story is just the injection I needed. From frown to clown To persist. With trusting the getting there.. there. That last paragraph. I said yes with a Whoosh. Of gratitude. In the belly. From what if to riff. From listening in silence to laying down tracks then rewind and play. Repeat. Here's to writing a garden that sings to a some one. Word seeds - the scatter and sprout. The weeding. The plucking from the f##$% up Ed Ness in the wild raggedy rows of zig zaggedy words blooming until some kind of harvest. To read aloud. To hear. To tear apart gladly with razor sharp teeth yet find hunger not satisfied. Still To dare and to share the feast and the beast of life on this planet . You are not alone you storytelling earthlings! Okay I play waaay too much but these Words shine colours with a re Verb erating clang and cymbal clash. My metaphor brain in overdrive and tangled but yes yes to answer the beautiful profound question of that perfect last paragraph. Here. Hear.To dream anew. The play's the thing. I am biased. A lifetime of finding sense in nonsense. For there to catch a cadence of joy. So many flavors of joy.. Thank you. Yes whole heartedly. Thanks for the natural high that comes from reading truth. My morning wake up energy shake. Drunk on hope. I will not go gently into this bright day. I will stop now. Almost To the Page. Page page in the sighing of delight. And terror. Smiley face. Hiccup. Persist persisters is my takeaway. Be true. Be you. Whoosh.
All that paper!
Thanks for that explanation! Do you work on more than one story at a time?
George, the photo of your piles of drafts from your current story inspired me to order a new printer today. I like my little Canon Pixma, but before I print anything, I question if I can afford the ink. Now I see that I can't afford NOT to print out each draft. The Brothers printer I ordered today should be easier on the pocketbook. Thanks for lighting the way forward!
Yes, yes, yes. It feels like building a bridge from one side of a river. You need the bridge because you can't get to the other side without it. You build out a section at a time, then go over it carefully, making sure it's as sound as possible before you build out the next section. Even after you've already checked an early section, you'll keep looking it over on each pass. The stakes of getting it wrong are too high. You don't invite anyone to cross it until it's done--and you're as certain as you can be it will hold.