The way you describe this process George makes me think it actually could be fun. Like, I can get a peek at that... It so resonates for me that we (I) have come to see editing as fixing something we (I) have royally screwed up vs. a necessary and valuable part of art making. It reminds me of when I first moved to the Bay Area from flat San Diego and it was a challenge to find a place to run without hills. And I could see this hill dread in myself and others in races when almost the whole field would slow in anticipation, way before even hitting the hill. One day I thought- what if you decided you liked hills? And running uphill actually became my favorite way to run and remains so to this day. Who knew? I wonder what if I, what if we, decided to like editing?
I don't really understand NOT liking revising. To me, it's the fun part. Getting down a first draft is very hard for me. But once i have something to work with--let the fun begin!
It's funny, but I dread revising before I start doing it, procrastinate when i know I need to do it, but once I get into it, and it's working, I enjoy it.
Me, too, Mary! I love the fiddling around, the perfecting, the sculpting. I get completely into flow with that. Perhaps it's easier for me on a line-by-line level, though, rather than when it comes to plot and structure, which feels overwhelming and unwieldy to me. Intimidating. As you know, I'm working on this issue with my novel—plot and structure, how to finish—the exact same problems the questioner is facing. I keep being so intimidated to begin, like I'm convincing myself before I start that I can't do it, but I like this idea of convincing myself instead that I like revising plot and structure! Honestly, I haven't given it much of a try. I just keep avoiding it. I really could not only succeed, but enjoy it!
Hi Patti, here's a thought for you re: plot and structure–Have you tried completely forgetting about plot and focusing more on really knowing your characters? Here's the reasoning–characters dictate plot. How? It's what our characters do that shapes plot. Stories unfold based on what characters do, and if we go at them by forcing a plot on them, a reader can feel that forcing, if it doesn't feel authentic. Believable actions that match our characters is what will keep readers carrying on in the narrative dream. Otherwise, the cognitive dissonance will bump readers right out.
Bottom line, take the time to really know your characters. Off the page, like while you might be out walking, you can explore a character by asking them (in your head) things like who are you? what drives you to get out of bed in your world? who do you love? do you hate? any regrets? or are you all about full steam ahead and never look back?
Remember to take your pad and pen, or have your note-taking app open. Talking to your characters is what will make them become real to you. This is what will lead your readers to feel their realness, to become invested in their story. You can even ask one character questions about another character. Try it, you'll be surprised at how your plot will seem to automatically come alive.
As for structure, this is the realm of the magic of creating your story. Structure is what evolves from discovering your themes, seeing your varying character arcs and how they play against one another. Think of structure like you would if you were standing in a darkroom before a developing tray. Your film, or print, is in the soup. You can't see the image yet, but if you stay with it, your image will turn up. Then it will be up to you to carefully bring that image to the right level of density. The lights and shadows will need to balance just so. So it is with our stories.
Trust that what your first draft does is sow the seeds for a structure that you may not necessarily see straightaway. But stay with it, observe the emergence of light and shadow, of the up tempo and release of tension moments. For every writer, there is a unique internal structure which we reiterate time after time, with variations on a theme. Coming to know our own unique song is so crazy good. And getting to know it will really help bring clarity to the task of refining the draft. You'll know when you've done it, because you'll feel like you're flying. Pure joy.
I understand the avoidance. Revising plot/stucture is a job that needs so much focus, so much concentration--it can be exhausting just to think of it. Easier to avoid! The problem with avoiding is that it's always there, in the back of your head. Better to dive in already!
I can't tell from the question: Have you actually finished a first draft of your book yet? Or are you two thirds of the way in and now you don't know how to tie things up? It seems like maybe it's the second--that you haven't finished a draft. My piece of advice--take or leave--is force yourself to finish it whatever way you can. Loose ends be damned, just get to the end. You really can't know what needs fixing until you know how your story ends. Write, write, write, see where you're going with all of it. When you finish, you'll be able to look back on what led you to the ending, and you'll see what needs to go and what can stay. I know there are those who write without knowing anything about where they are going and others who write with an outline in mind. But at some point, these two converge. You have to know where you're going. You have to know the ending. If you can't do that in a spontaneous way, then by all means come up with a plan. But finish you must. Then decide if that's the ending you want or not. Right now, there's a reason you're flailing and I think it's because you don't know where you're headed. Pick a destination, even if it doesn't match up with what's already on the page. Finish. And then revise.
I am reading Rick Rubin's book (listening actually, which is lovely and meditative) and he mentions this same concept - finish it. Do not try to perfect segments but rather let the whole rough shape or shapes unfold. Then see what you want to do with them. He quoted John Lennon as saying, "when you sit down to write a song, don't get up until you've written the whole thing"
i read that Rubin book, but maybe I'll also listen to it one of these days. i ended up copying out so much of what he said. And yes, the finishing part of writing is just so basic and important. I wrote with a friend for years. We'd meet in the library to write together.
After two years of meeting up, i'd completed a novel, while she was still working on the first third of the novel-in-progress she'd been working on when we started meeting. Eight years later, i asked her what had become of that novel. Still working on it, she said.
I know I used to suffer from this endless loop polishing of the beginning, never getting to the end . . . A habit that must, must, MUST be broken!
When I was truly honest with myself, I recognised that this wasn't a quest for quality, but avoidance of finishing. I had to consciously decide it was better to finish and potentially fail, than to protect the 'dream' that I might have succeeded, if only I'd finished.
I read the question this way too. It really depends on whether you like revising as you go or revising once you've got a full draft. George mentions somewhere that when he is in doubt he revises the first part so that it can tell him which way to go next. I find that approach often helps me too.
I think it's helpful to remember that George--for the most part--writes short stories and not novels. Honing early parts of short stories to see where they lead makes sense to me. The whole time you are reworking those early parts, your subconscious (and conscious) brain is working overtime. Thoughts, images, ideas come and go and all of it starts to bind, all of it begins to lead where the story wants to go. But working over the first two thirds of a novel when you haven't gotten to the end yet isn't a strategy that works for me. (Others may love that strategy!) There's too much to hold in your head. With a novel, you can be reworking those beginning parts forever! So it seems one possible idea is to just keep going, even if it ends up being the wrong direction entirely. Everyone's different; what works for one won't work for another. And what works for one project may not work for the next one. But I love all of these ideas for the questioner to ponder.
That idea of holding a story in your head really resonates with me.
I'm lucky enough to be part of a very supportive writing group, who were the first to point out to me the great length I'd talk for if they asked me what the play I was working on was about. This was (in my case) clear evidence that I hadn't really nailed the story yet.
There's a writer I know and admire who told me about a play he was writing that he knew was good, but somehow couldn't get a real handle on, until a trusted Dramaturg told him 'You seem to be writing about a story of men living without the women who used to be important in their lives'. A real lightbulb moment for him, partly in light of which the play became a great success.
Beware of fool's gold, though! If someone comes up with a convincing-sounding summary of your story at a time you're floundering, the desire to grasp it may overcome your own instincts as a writer!
I often find that, if I don't know how to progress, I need to change something I've already written. It's one of several writer's blocks I've encountered - in my experience, if you can identify precisely what sort of writer's block you're encountering, finding a remedy that works becomes much more likely.
Dear Questioner. This situation you are in sounds exactly like the same situation that virtually every novelist finds themselves in. That is, you have not done anything wrong. This is normal. That you've enjoyed the writing shows me that you've probably done a lot of things right.
I often tell people writing a novel is like putting a wedding dress on a cat.
Finish the draft. Let things dangle. Leave loose ends untied, and tie up things you have no loose ends for. That's okay, it's only a draft. Just write the bits that intuitively feel good to write and ignore the ones you aren't interested in, but try to plunge in bravely on the ones you're a little afraid of. Let it be messy.
Then congratulate yourself, because finishing the draft is a big deal. Take a rest. Do other things.
Take some time to re-read your novel without trying to fix it. Just try to understand what it's really about. What really interests you. Take some time to think about the novel you set out to write and how it's evolved and changed.
Use that as your filter for what stays and what goes. What needs rewriting and what doesn't, what calls for new scenes, new characters, etc. Be brave, and don't worry about how much work it takes. It takes what it takes. Then revise.
You'll get once fancy lace sleeve over the cats paw and meanwhile they'll pull their head out of the neck and try to run off. This is fine. Let it be messy. Have faith it will eventually get less messy. This too, is normal.
At times, you may want to get a friend who gives good feedback involved, but generally not in an early draft. Up to you though.
I love the analogy of trying to get a wedding dress on a cat. I still make the mistake of polishing my prose too soon. I need to keep pushing forward on my long projects (memoir; novel). As you say, let it be messy.
Sonal–"...writing a novel is like putting a wedding dress on a cat." This is definitely among the most memorable similes for writing a novel. Ever!
I laughed out loud. And I did content editing for a few years in my youth. So I think that I'm somewhat qualified to say that you nailed it. Brill !
And I'll add that I find one of the most effective ways to keep that cat in arm's reach is to actually read to your cat. Yes, read your drafts out loud. If you find your tongue is tying over sentences that don't cut it as they are, the cat will know. If the cat has sprung out of your narrative dream, so will your eventual readers. Read out loud, often, repeat, read it all out loud.
And quickly mark those hiccups in the draft, even as you press on–got to press on! To reach with the hand that isn't holding the pen. Reach quick, catch that cat by the nape! Keep in mind that you're ever after that final image at the end of your novel. The chase is on until the last line is drafted, until the last lingering image is laid.
Why the rush? With every great story, isn't wanting to know what's going to happen a universal drive? Of course! So that first pass in the rewrite is really like the unveiling of a mystery. Writer beholds that mountain of seat-of-the-pants–your gattling gun spray of words, white knuckling, your herds of darlings, and other hair-raising and sometimes nauseating delights. Also remember that in every great story there are themes, like horses, that carry the reader from start to finish.
And nestled right at the beginning, there are the desires-thus, the story takes off. You can think of those expressed desires as the "hook". It's what the reader will identify straightaway, in a "Yes, this will be good, I've always wanted ... x, y, z. Gotta buy this book before I board the plane." sort of way.
Even when writing about, say... Satan–for sure, Satan must have a myriad of desires. It may be a novel that only a horror genre lover can love, but the fascination for this kind of reading is still fired from the same starting gun–what do your characters want? How misguided, brilliant, uncomfortable, illusive, etc, etc ... are these wants? And what will your characters do about getting satisfied? Will it be self-sabotage, or will your mad scientist come up with the ultimate mind-control elixir, a remedy for a severe Trump hangover, or perhaps a little murder will stir the soul of your dastardly darling.
Now the story horses are out of the gate. Make sure your gleaming diamond bits of draft are laid out along the track. Keep the ones that serve your themes. There could be a few that don't, just cut and paste them into a separate "Maybe Later" file. As you refine during your actual rewriting, you might re-read from this file occasionally. And you might be surprised to find that something in your Maybe Later makes absolute sense somewhere in your novel, after all. Or not. But better to keep those potentially hidden clues at hand, than to lament having zorched that diamond in a fit of slash and dash.
So much more to say about the great adventure of sculpting drafts into full-on delight, with all the highs and lows and newly gained perspectives that bring readers to wanting more. In a nutshell, commit to finding your end, no matter how awful that draft. First drafts hold the privilege of getting to be drek. And it's OK. Just go read it to the cat, no one else has to know. And know that your final scene/image will inform your beginning. So no use over polishing your beginning before you have that end.
Thank you! And thanks for adding and elaborating. I agree, read to the cat. And I love the images in "gattling gun spray of words...." Yes, very much so.
Great question. I often think when I’m chopping things out of my writing that those things are still there, they are still part of the piece but they are not seen. They are like the under painting the Renaissance painters used to do beneath the painting itself. They somehow need to be there but in an invisible way. There is a certain economy to creativity where nothing goes to waste. The problem area may function in a different way—getting something unstuck or opening a new channel—once it does that it gets cut, or exits the stage.
Really like this reply Regina. It resonates. I've had exactly the same idea for my own work, and those pieces I've written not used or removed, I often see as 'studies' or sketches that helped me construct the whole piece. Kind of makes me feel good, less alone as a writer (as we often feel) that someone also had this thought.
Thanks Denis! I just spent an inordinate amount of trying to go back and edit my post. I failed to figure out how to do it. But the meaning is the same—I just wanted to tighten up the delivery. I try to use everything in some way. Like Elizabeth Bishop advises on what to do with a negative, and absence a loss—“Write it!” The part that we jettison does have a function~ even if we don’t love it.
One Art
BY ELIZABETH BISHOP
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Caution: Users are warned that this work is protected under copyright laws and downloading is strictly prohibited. The right to reproduce or transfer the work via any medium must be secured with Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.
Regina, I love this analogy. I'm not a painter, but I know that many (most?) painters still use an under-painting upon which they create the final painting. And, Denis, yes, the "studies" and "sketches" a visual artist makes are absolutely tools or techniques that we writers also use. Your comments are lovely and useful. Thank you.
I, for about 15 years, had a career in the theatre - both as actor and director. One of the “rules” I came to, through experience, was that if a moment, a scene was not working it was worthless to spend time there. The problem always was occurring way before. So, George’s advice about going back into the first two thirds, no matter how much you hold writing those pages to your heart, is bang on. The problems you are experiencing in this final third, lie there.
I was once directing a play about a man estranged from his family, who was reminiscing about better times. He spoke of getting his young son the only present he could afford - a small pack of plastic cups with spaceships and superheroes on them. He was a brilliant actor, but something about this memory just wasn't convincing me.
I asked him to close his eyes, actually visualise the scene, and describe it to me, which he did (even though it wasn't described in the play, though it was in the play's 'past'). He even described the boy in a way that was completely convincing.
When it came to the cups, I asked him 'Do all the cups have spaceships and superheroes on them, or do some have spaceships, the others superheroes?' It was the one thing he hadn't visualised, and doing so freed him up entirely.
Hi Stephen. I'm wondering if you ever read/used the book Backwards & Forwards. It posits that in order for an actor to understand the motivation of a line/action, you've got to work backwards. I read it a long time ago but you've motivated me to pull it from my shelf and take another look. Thanks!
Hi Mary! No, I haven’t read Backwards & Forwards; but sounds in line with what I came to (mostly as a director, oddly). I was just reminded of this when reading G’s comments. Again, oddly, one can really see this in play in popular genre writing, like murder mysteries, sci fi, spy thrillers. Stephen King is a good example of how he, visibly, earns” his endings. It’s more obtuse often in “higher end lit” - but there and fun to dig out, especially when the last third surprises or leaves things seemingly unresolved.
If the book is for children, could you possibly find some children? I'm talking about visiting a school once a week and reading the story aloud. a chapter at a time. A certain kind of teacher might consider this valuable enrichment. Or perhaps a library book club would let you come and read. Talking to young people about your book--asking for their ideas--is beyond rubies.
If you're reading aloud to them, and they grow restive, you'll notice yourself starting to rush toward the next "good part"--and all at once, you'll know where the good parts are. When they're bored or confused, you'll be able to tell. If they're polite young people, they'll be quiet, but it's a blanked-out kind of quiet, not the quiet of concentration. When they story's working, they'll demand to know what's going to happen next. If you refuse to tell them, they'll groan in frustration.
I always begin by asking young people to be kind to me, because I'm enormously thin-skinned where my writing is concerned. And they always are kind--but they are also incapable of dissembling. Try to find some young people. They'll help you.
Welcome, Guin! (as in Ursula Le Guin?) Great name for a handsome guy! Oh dear, about the septic system, George. I hope you hired someone & have relinquished the need for hands-on! As for the questioner's concerns, "working with this sort problem IS writing" is such a terrific & necessary reminder, so thanks, George: writing is problem-solving. I also wonder, though, and as you say from such a distance as we in SC are this may be off the mark, but could it be that the questioner already has, right there, everything necessary? Is it possible that the seat-of-the-pants flow stopped because nothing else from that part of the brain was required? That now it's a matter of re-ordering what's been put down on the page? That the actual answers are right there, if you look? As I've said in previous posts, I'm a big believer in stepping away from a project, letting the back of the brain do it's work, which it will do like it or not, and then when coming back to the work with fresh eyes seeing everything next that must be done. As I say, I could be waaaay off base here, but I do wonder if the stoppage isn't an indication that no more is required, that only re-ordering/revising is necessary. Good luck, questioner---and it was a great question.
I was going to say “Guin and bear it,” but . . . Please don’t hurt me!
The photo of Guin makes me smile. Can you go back and read what you’ve written and find the best parts? Is there a process similar to walking a dog that you can open up to? Think: what’s interesting? What’s fun? What requires attention? What requires a lot of attention? (You know what dogs do. They sniff.) And because it’s imaginary Guin, she/he doesn’t have to you-know-what. But: Look! A squirrel! In other words, don’t lift your leg on your book. It’s not perfect, but it’s precious.
I’m just being silly here. But I think you might want to take a closer look at what you already have, and that will lead you to see what you need to do to next.
Thank you so much for this response, George. Do you ever find yourself stuck continually “picking out knots” or rewriting early chapters and then have a hard time moving onto that later big picture stuff? I usually write for theatre, so there are definitely “bird’s eye” moments in redrafting that are about big structural shifts and “worm’s eye” moments that are detail oriented. Or I also like to think of it as “gardener mode” vs. “architect mode.” With long form prose though it does feel different, and maybe the answer is just that rewriting a novel just takes a really long time - it is like decluttering a mansion Marie Kondo style. Picking up each word in a sentence and asking yourself “does this bring me joy?”
But do you ever have those big structural change moments? Do they emerge out of the granular rewriting? Is it a question of discipline? Thank you so much for your brilliant brain and for sharing thoughts about this with us.
Yes -these can come out the granular stuff - the granular work solidifies what the preceding sections are, or “are saying” - which might then produce a spontaneous larger (structural) realization. Like: “Oh, this thing that I’ve had here forever is not , after all, what’s needed.
What George said was correct--we ARE entering our third year. But we are at the very beginning of Year Three! The whole she-bang started December 2, 2021.
What a lovely problem to have - a story so unruly and full of life that it's a bit hard to tame at the end!
I'm thinking of a "Georgian" tool that might help tie together loose strands and wrap everything up, perhaps without conflicting with your "seat-of-the-pants" nature: how about the 50/200 story?
I adore them as a puzzle. I've probably written a hundred of them. Wonders never cease with how the constraints guide the story to wrap itself up in unexpected, unforeseen ways; something about looking through the word list releases possibilities for different characters and aspects of the story to bump up against each other in fresh ways.
So, what if? Would 20 or 30 words be enough to represent some of the characters and main aspects of your world? The remaining words should be enough to lubricate the workings, and then I'm guessing it would be a fun brainstorming exercise to look through the word list and see what's possible. I'm a seat-of-the-pants person myself, and many types of planning just do not compute for me, but I could see myself gathering momentum with this rather than getting stuck or feeling boxed in.
I wouldn't expect a single resulting 50/200 story to solve everything, but it's a tool. Sentences or ideas from the 50/200 might become index cards of scenes you realize you do want to write. By looking over the word bank afterward, you'll see which words are left over and didn't get adequate playtime. You could do more than one 50/200 if it proves useful, using each as a sandbox for a different mix of aspects of your tale... I'm excited for you, and excited to read this when it's ready to share!
As with last week's questioner, I can relate. In my early twenties, I reached a point where editing was part of the fun. Somehow I've lost that. I can feel myself dread sitting down to edit. I'm avoiding it.
But I'm taking this opportunity to make a resolution for myself: I'm going to shift my thinking back to the "editing as play" mentality this year. Thanks for the inspiration!
Aye Andrew, same dread occurred with me until, mostly through this excellent masterclass that is Storyclub, I learnt that perfecting a sentence to the Eradication of Even the Slightest Twinge of Discontent is thrilling! and so much fun. Just one polished sentence a session, that'll do it. lapidary work indeed.
I have the same struggle, I just don’t like revising that much. It’s not the same as when you’re writing that first draft and have these moments where ‘POOF!’ all of a sudden this great idea comes rolling out of your brain, like a shiny coin.
This is such excellent advice! Thanks George. And doesn't that equally work for a piece, a chapter, a string of paragraphs that are just not working. That somewhere along the line we've taken a wrong turn, (a pivot sentence I call them) that while looking like a leafy path quickly turned into dense forest. It's then we have to take those very tough decisions. Unpicking the knot. That's what we call 'craft', right? 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration.
welcome Guin! What a beautiful dog, and a 'lab' to boot!
If you love dogs, too, then check out my goofy Labrador retriever's viral YouTube video. Filmed on our back deck in Royal Oaks, California (a few miles south of Watsonville), the video has brought joy to over 39 million people worldwide. May it bring joy to you, too -- or at least a brief respite from your writing : )
Love it! We have a Neopolitan Mastiff who has, so far, six hedgehogs that she loves to honk. Throwing them one at a time down the hall makes everybody deliriously happy!
You're not alone! I'm on the ninth draft of a book which was radically different when I started working on it a year ago, and each time I go over it the parts of it that I like - which are close to the kind of writing I like to emulate - come through clearer and clearer, making it less like other things and more like myself.
The thing I've found most helpful is to treat each draft as a free-for-all where you can cut and hack as much as you like (you'll always have the last draft if you want to recover something). It's incredibly liberating and goes some way towards eliminating fear. But trust your instincts, if something is good your mind will pull you to it, even if you accidentally cut it you will want to put it back again.
I also find during revisions (this is something my writerly friends have told me as well) that you start to solve problems as you go. ie, the act of writing can itself produce potential solutions, and many times the solutions are already there in the text, they're just hidden under some ol' crap. You can combine similar characters, shuffle things around, change the flow of paragraphs or order of timelines, and then move everything back again if you don't like it. It's all there in your mind and on the page.
btw I'm really looking forward to reading your book! :)
That sense of liberation is great, if you can find it and hang on to it!
I also agree re the psychological freedom of knowing you can recover cut parts from previous drafts - a good small step in the right direction, if a bigger leap feels too daunting.
Personally, I avoid re-reading previous drafts looking for stuff to re-integrate into the story, though; I only look for moments I later think (or better, know) are missing when I read a subsequent draft. I'll literally use key words in the 'search' function to find the bit that's missing, not read through the previous draft in question, otherwise I risk being seduced into reintroducing bits because I like them, rather than because the story needs them.
My imperfect memory is actually helpful here - if I can't remember a particular moment, it's pretty certain the story doesn't need it.
For me, I recognise that the particular parts of the writing process I struggle with are related to personality and / or habits.
When my main issue was starting lots of pieces I never finishing, I realised that I was doing the same in other aspects of my life. At one time, I was part way through about thirty books at the same time, and part way through a similar number of TV series. Happily, when I addressed those things, it helped with finishing writing.
The current thing I'm working on is my 'hoarding' instinct / habit. I've never been at the level where intervention becomes necessary (which must be grim), but the number of objects that I keep because 'they might be useful' is positively silly. Ditto the amount of TV and films I record.
Likewise, I can take research to ridiculous levels, and often have 20+ webpages open in each of two search engines; and I keep vast amounts of thoughts, ideas, notes, drafts, etc, of the thing I'm writing (though I have at least reduced the number of things I'm working on to one or two at the most, the second one starting to blossom as I'm reaching the end of the first).
On some level I think this is related to a denial of mortality. I might watch all these things, or find these things useful, if I live forever.
Being a parent helps - my own mortality seems less of a big deal, and having 'stuff' less important.
The way you describe this process George makes me think it actually could be fun. Like, I can get a peek at that... It so resonates for me that we (I) have come to see editing as fixing something we (I) have royally screwed up vs. a necessary and valuable part of art making. It reminds me of when I first moved to the Bay Area from flat San Diego and it was a challenge to find a place to run without hills. And I could see this hill dread in myself and others in races when almost the whole field would slow in anticipation, way before even hitting the hill. One day I thought- what if you decided you liked hills? And running uphill actually became my favorite way to run and remains so to this day. Who knew? I wonder what if I, what if we, decided to like editing?
"What if you decided you liked hills?" Exactly!
I don't really understand NOT liking revising. To me, it's the fun part. Getting down a first draft is very hard for me. But once i have something to work with--let the fun begin!
It's funny, but I dread revising before I start doing it, procrastinate when i know I need to do it, but once I get into it, and it's working, I enjoy it.
Yes yes! like an actor without a script I say to my procrastinating self, "Give me something to work with!
Me, too, Mary! I love the fiddling around, the perfecting, the sculpting. I get completely into flow with that. Perhaps it's easier for me on a line-by-line level, though, rather than when it comes to plot and structure, which feels overwhelming and unwieldy to me. Intimidating. As you know, I'm working on this issue with my novel—plot and structure, how to finish—the exact same problems the questioner is facing. I keep being so intimidated to begin, like I'm convincing myself before I start that I can't do it, but I like this idea of convincing myself instead that I like revising plot and structure! Honestly, I haven't given it much of a try. I just keep avoiding it. I really could not only succeed, but enjoy it!
Hi Patti, here's a thought for you re: plot and structure–Have you tried completely forgetting about plot and focusing more on really knowing your characters? Here's the reasoning–characters dictate plot. How? It's what our characters do that shapes plot. Stories unfold based on what characters do, and if we go at them by forcing a plot on them, a reader can feel that forcing, if it doesn't feel authentic. Believable actions that match our characters is what will keep readers carrying on in the narrative dream. Otherwise, the cognitive dissonance will bump readers right out.
Bottom line, take the time to really know your characters. Off the page, like while you might be out walking, you can explore a character by asking them (in your head) things like who are you? what drives you to get out of bed in your world? who do you love? do you hate? any regrets? or are you all about full steam ahead and never look back?
Remember to take your pad and pen, or have your note-taking app open. Talking to your characters is what will make them become real to you. This is what will lead your readers to feel their realness, to become invested in their story. You can even ask one character questions about another character. Try it, you'll be surprised at how your plot will seem to automatically come alive.
As for structure, this is the realm of the magic of creating your story. Structure is what evolves from discovering your themes, seeing your varying character arcs and how they play against one another. Think of structure like you would if you were standing in a darkroom before a developing tray. Your film, or print, is in the soup. You can't see the image yet, but if you stay with it, your image will turn up. Then it will be up to you to carefully bring that image to the right level of density. The lights and shadows will need to balance just so. So it is with our stories.
Trust that what your first draft does is sow the seeds for a structure that you may not necessarily see straightaway. But stay with it, observe the emergence of light and shadow, of the up tempo and release of tension moments. For every writer, there is a unique internal structure which we reiterate time after time, with variations on a theme. Coming to know our own unique song is so crazy good. And getting to know it will really help bring clarity to the task of refining the draft. You'll know when you've done it, because you'll feel like you're flying. Pure joy.
I understand the avoidance. Revising plot/stucture is a job that needs so much focus, so much concentration--it can be exhausting just to think of it. Easier to avoid! The problem with avoiding is that it's always there, in the back of your head. Better to dive in already!
Always there, not done. All kinds of "Nothing ventured, nothing gained" clichés come to mind.
I can't tell from the question: Have you actually finished a first draft of your book yet? Or are you two thirds of the way in and now you don't know how to tie things up? It seems like maybe it's the second--that you haven't finished a draft. My piece of advice--take or leave--is force yourself to finish it whatever way you can. Loose ends be damned, just get to the end. You really can't know what needs fixing until you know how your story ends. Write, write, write, see where you're going with all of it. When you finish, you'll be able to look back on what led you to the ending, and you'll see what needs to go and what can stay. I know there are those who write without knowing anything about where they are going and others who write with an outline in mind. But at some point, these two converge. You have to know where you're going. You have to know the ending. If you can't do that in a spontaneous way, then by all means come up with a plan. But finish you must. Then decide if that's the ending you want or not. Right now, there's a reason you're flailing and I think it's because you don't know where you're headed. Pick a destination, even if it doesn't match up with what's already on the page. Finish. And then revise.
I am reading Rick Rubin's book (listening actually, which is lovely and meditative) and he mentions this same concept - finish it. Do not try to perfect segments but rather let the whole rough shape or shapes unfold. Then see what you want to do with them. He quoted John Lennon as saying, "when you sit down to write a song, don't get up until you've written the whole thing"
i read that Rubin book, but maybe I'll also listen to it one of these days. i ended up copying out so much of what he said. And yes, the finishing part of writing is just so basic and important. I wrote with a friend for years. We'd meet in the library to write together.
After two years of meeting up, i'd completed a novel, while she was still working on the first third of the novel-in-progress she'd been working on when we started meeting. Eight years later, i asked her what had become of that novel. Still working on it, she said.
I know I used to suffer from this endless loop polishing of the beginning, never getting to the end . . . A habit that must, must, MUST be broken!
When I was truly honest with myself, I recognised that this wasn't a quest for quality, but avoidance of finishing. I had to consciously decide it was better to finish and potentially fail, than to protect the 'dream' that I might have succeeded, if only I'd finished.
Yes, I think that's exactly it--avoidance!
I read the question this way too. It really depends on whether you like revising as you go or revising once you've got a full draft. George mentions somewhere that when he is in doubt he revises the first part so that it can tell him which way to go next. I find that approach often helps me too.
I think it's helpful to remember that George--for the most part--writes short stories and not novels. Honing early parts of short stories to see where they lead makes sense to me. The whole time you are reworking those early parts, your subconscious (and conscious) brain is working overtime. Thoughts, images, ideas come and go and all of it starts to bind, all of it begins to lead where the story wants to go. But working over the first two thirds of a novel when you haven't gotten to the end yet isn't a strategy that works for me. (Others may love that strategy!) There's too much to hold in your head. With a novel, you can be reworking those beginning parts forever! So it seems one possible idea is to just keep going, even if it ends up being the wrong direction entirely. Everyone's different; what works for one won't work for another. And what works for one project may not work for the next one. But I love all of these ideas for the questioner to ponder.
That idea of holding a story in your head really resonates with me.
I'm lucky enough to be part of a very supportive writing group, who were the first to point out to me the great length I'd talk for if they asked me what the play I was working on was about. This was (in my case) clear evidence that I hadn't really nailed the story yet.
There's a writer I know and admire who told me about a play he was writing that he knew was good, but somehow couldn't get a real handle on, until a trusted Dramaturg told him 'You seem to be writing about a story of men living without the women who used to be important in their lives'. A real lightbulb moment for him, partly in light of which the play became a great success.
Beware of fool's gold, though! If someone comes up with a convincing-sounding summary of your story at a time you're floundering, the desire to grasp it may overcome your own instincts as a writer!
I often find that, if I don't know how to progress, I need to change something I've already written. It's one of several writer's blocks I've encountered - in my experience, if you can identify precisely what sort of writer's block you're encountering, finding a remedy that works becomes much more likely.
Also, a very Happy Chanukah to all who celebrate!
Happy Chanukah to you!
Thank you, Patti!
Thanks, Mary. I needed to hear exactly this.
What if every Story Club from now on had to end with fresh photos of the dog? Imagine that.
This totally gets my vote, Sea!
the best!
woof woof !
Dear Questioner. This situation you are in sounds exactly like the same situation that virtually every novelist finds themselves in. That is, you have not done anything wrong. This is normal. That you've enjoyed the writing shows me that you've probably done a lot of things right.
I often tell people writing a novel is like putting a wedding dress on a cat.
Finish the draft. Let things dangle. Leave loose ends untied, and tie up things you have no loose ends for. That's okay, it's only a draft. Just write the bits that intuitively feel good to write and ignore the ones you aren't interested in, but try to plunge in bravely on the ones you're a little afraid of. Let it be messy.
Then congratulate yourself, because finishing the draft is a big deal. Take a rest. Do other things.
Take some time to re-read your novel without trying to fix it. Just try to understand what it's really about. What really interests you. Take some time to think about the novel you set out to write and how it's evolved and changed.
Use that as your filter for what stays and what goes. What needs rewriting and what doesn't, what calls for new scenes, new characters, etc. Be brave, and don't worry about how much work it takes. It takes what it takes. Then revise.
You'll get once fancy lace sleeve over the cats paw and meanwhile they'll pull their head out of the neck and try to run off. This is fine. Let it be messy. Have faith it will eventually get less messy. This too, is normal.
At times, you may want to get a friend who gives good feedback involved, but generally not in an early draft. Up to you though.
Repeat until done.
I love the analogy of trying to get a wedding dress on a cat. I still make the mistake of polishing my prose too soon. I need to keep pushing forward on my long projects (memoir; novel). As you say, let it be messy.
Sonal–"...writing a novel is like putting a wedding dress on a cat." This is definitely among the most memorable similes for writing a novel. Ever!
I laughed out loud. And I did content editing for a few years in my youth. So I think that I'm somewhat qualified to say that you nailed it. Brill !
And I'll add that I find one of the most effective ways to keep that cat in arm's reach is to actually read to your cat. Yes, read your drafts out loud. If you find your tongue is tying over sentences that don't cut it as they are, the cat will know. If the cat has sprung out of your narrative dream, so will your eventual readers. Read out loud, often, repeat, read it all out loud.
And quickly mark those hiccups in the draft, even as you press on–got to press on! To reach with the hand that isn't holding the pen. Reach quick, catch that cat by the nape! Keep in mind that you're ever after that final image at the end of your novel. The chase is on until the last line is drafted, until the last lingering image is laid.
Why the rush? With every great story, isn't wanting to know what's going to happen a universal drive? Of course! So that first pass in the rewrite is really like the unveiling of a mystery. Writer beholds that mountain of seat-of-the-pants–your gattling gun spray of words, white knuckling, your herds of darlings, and other hair-raising and sometimes nauseating delights. Also remember that in every great story there are themes, like horses, that carry the reader from start to finish.
And nestled right at the beginning, there are the desires-thus, the story takes off. You can think of those expressed desires as the "hook". It's what the reader will identify straightaway, in a "Yes, this will be good, I've always wanted ... x, y, z. Gotta buy this book before I board the plane." sort of way.
Even when writing about, say... Satan–for sure, Satan must have a myriad of desires. It may be a novel that only a horror genre lover can love, but the fascination for this kind of reading is still fired from the same starting gun–what do your characters want? How misguided, brilliant, uncomfortable, illusive, etc, etc ... are these wants? And what will your characters do about getting satisfied? Will it be self-sabotage, or will your mad scientist come up with the ultimate mind-control elixir, a remedy for a severe Trump hangover, or perhaps a little murder will stir the soul of your dastardly darling.
Now the story horses are out of the gate. Make sure your gleaming diamond bits of draft are laid out along the track. Keep the ones that serve your themes. There could be a few that don't, just cut and paste them into a separate "Maybe Later" file. As you refine during your actual rewriting, you might re-read from this file occasionally. And you might be surprised to find that something in your Maybe Later makes absolute sense somewhere in your novel, after all. Or not. But better to keep those potentially hidden clues at hand, than to lament having zorched that diamond in a fit of slash and dash.
So much more to say about the great adventure of sculpting drafts into full-on delight, with all the highs and lows and newly gained perspectives that bring readers to wanting more. In a nutshell, commit to finding your end, no matter how awful that draft. First drafts hold the privilege of getting to be drek. And it's OK. Just go read it to the cat, no one else has to know. And know that your final scene/image will inform your beginning. So no use over polishing your beginning before you have that end.
Ahh...what a lovely wedding dress...Meeyowww !
Thank you! And thanks for adding and elaborating. I agree, read to the cat. And I love the images in "gattling gun spray of words...." Yes, very much so.
Great question. I often think when I’m chopping things out of my writing that those things are still there, they are still part of the piece but they are not seen. They are like the under painting the Renaissance painters used to do beneath the painting itself. They somehow need to be there but in an invisible way. There is a certain economy to creativity where nothing goes to waste. The problem area may function in a different way—getting something unstuck or opening a new channel—once it does that it gets cut, or exits the stage.
Really like this reply Regina. It resonates. I've had exactly the same idea for my own work, and those pieces I've written not used or removed, I often see as 'studies' or sketches that helped me construct the whole piece. Kind of makes me feel good, less alone as a writer (as we often feel) that someone also had this thought.
Thanks Denis! I just spent an inordinate amount of trying to go back and edit my post. I failed to figure out how to do it. But the meaning is the same—I just wanted to tighten up the delivery. I try to use everything in some way. Like Elizabeth Bishop advises on what to do with a negative, and absence a loss—“Write it!” The part that we jettison does have a function~ even if we don’t love it.
One Art
BY ELIZABETH BISHOP
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art” from The Complete Poems 1926-1979. Copyright © 1979, 1983 by Alice Helen Methfessel. Used by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC, http://us.macmillan.com/fsg. All rights reserved.
Caution: Users are warned that this work is protected under copyright laws and downloading is strictly prohibited. The right to reproduce or transfer the work via any medium must be secured with Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.
I love this poem. I used to discuss it every year with my high school students.
Regina, I love this analogy. I'm not a painter, but I know that many (most?) painters still use an under-painting upon which they create the final painting. And, Denis, yes, the "studies" and "sketches" a visual artist makes are absolutely tools or techniques that we writers also use. Your comments are lovely and useful. Thank you.
Thank you Nancy! "your comments are lovely and useful"
I love the word lovely : )
I, for about 15 years, had a career in the theatre - both as actor and director. One of the “rules” I came to, through experience, was that if a moment, a scene was not working it was worthless to spend time there. The problem always was occurring way before. So, George’s advice about going back into the first two thirds, no matter how much you hold writing those pages to your heart, is bang on. The problems you are experiencing in this final third, lie there.
I was once directing a play about a man estranged from his family, who was reminiscing about better times. He spoke of getting his young son the only present he could afford - a small pack of plastic cups with spaceships and superheroes on them. He was a brilliant actor, but something about this memory just wasn't convincing me.
I asked him to close his eyes, actually visualise the scene, and describe it to me, which he did (even though it wasn't described in the play, though it was in the play's 'past'). He even described the boy in a way that was completely convincing.
When it came to the cups, I asked him 'Do all the cups have spaceships and superheroes on them, or do some have spaceships, the others superheroes?' It was the one thing he hadn't visualised, and doing so freed him up entirely.
Hi Stephen. I'm wondering if you ever read/used the book Backwards & Forwards. It posits that in order for an actor to understand the motivation of a line/action, you've got to work backwards. I read it a long time ago but you've motivated me to pull it from my shelf and take another look. Thanks!
Hi Mary! No, I haven’t read Backwards & Forwards; but sounds in line with what I came to (mostly as a director, oddly). I was just reminded of this when reading G’s comments. Again, oddly, one can really see this in play in popular genre writing, like murder mysteries, sci fi, spy thrillers. Stephen King is a good example of how he, visibly, earns” his endings. It’s more obtuse often in “higher end lit” - but there and fun to dig out, especially when the last third surprises or leaves things seemingly unresolved.
If the book is for children, could you possibly find some children? I'm talking about visiting a school once a week and reading the story aloud. a chapter at a time. A certain kind of teacher might consider this valuable enrichment. Or perhaps a library book club would let you come and read. Talking to young people about your book--asking for their ideas--is beyond rubies.
If you're reading aloud to them, and they grow restive, you'll notice yourself starting to rush toward the next "good part"--and all at once, you'll know where the good parts are. When they're bored or confused, you'll be able to tell. If they're polite young people, they'll be quiet, but it's a blanked-out kind of quiet, not the quiet of concentration. When they story's working, they'll demand to know what's going to happen next. If you refuse to tell them, they'll groan in frustration.
I always begin by asking young people to be kind to me, because I'm enormously thin-skinned where my writing is concerned. And they always are kind--but they are also incapable of dissembling. Try to find some young people. They'll help you.
This is priceless Laura. The honesty of young people. We spend our/their lives teaching them to hide it, but when they are young they are truthful.
Welcome, Guin! (as in Ursula Le Guin?) Great name for a handsome guy! Oh dear, about the septic system, George. I hope you hired someone & have relinquished the need for hands-on! As for the questioner's concerns, "working with this sort problem IS writing" is such a terrific & necessary reminder, so thanks, George: writing is problem-solving. I also wonder, though, and as you say from such a distance as we in SC are this may be off the mark, but could it be that the questioner already has, right there, everything necessary? Is it possible that the seat-of-the-pants flow stopped because nothing else from that part of the brain was required? That now it's a matter of re-ordering what's been put down on the page? That the actual answers are right there, if you look? As I've said in previous posts, I'm a big believer in stepping away from a project, letting the back of the brain do it's work, which it will do like it or not, and then when coming back to the work with fresh eyes seeing everything next that must be done. As I say, I could be waaaay off base here, but I do wonder if the stoppage isn't an indication that no more is required, that only re-ordering/revising is necessary. Good luck, questioner---and it was a great question.
I was going to say “Guin and bear it,” but . . . Please don’t hurt me!
The photo of Guin makes me smile. Can you go back and read what you’ve written and find the best parts? Is there a process similar to walking a dog that you can open up to? Think: what’s interesting? What’s fun? What requires attention? What requires a lot of attention? (You know what dogs do. They sniff.) And because it’s imaginary Guin, she/he doesn’t have to you-know-what. But: Look! A squirrel! In other words, don’t lift your leg on your book. It’s not perfect, but it’s precious.
I’m just being silly here. But I think you might want to take a closer look at what you already have, and that will lead you to see what you need to do to next.
Just took my buddy Analogy for a walk. And couldn’t find our way home.
Hahahaha! Mary, you cracked me up.
Thank you so much for this response, George. Do you ever find yourself stuck continually “picking out knots” or rewriting early chapters and then have a hard time moving onto that later big picture stuff? I usually write for theatre, so there are definitely “bird’s eye” moments in redrafting that are about big structural shifts and “worm’s eye” moments that are detail oriented. Or I also like to think of it as “gardener mode” vs. “architect mode.” With long form prose though it does feel different, and maybe the answer is just that rewriting a novel just takes a really long time - it is like decluttering a mansion Marie Kondo style. Picking up each word in a sentence and asking yourself “does this bring me joy?”
But do you ever have those big structural change moments? Do they emerge out of the granular rewriting? Is it a question of discipline? Thank you so much for your brilliant brain and for sharing thoughts about this with us.
Yes -these can come out the granular stuff - the granular work solidifies what the preceding sections are, or “are saying” - which might then produce a spontaneous larger (structural) realization. Like: “Oh, this thing that I’ve had here forever is not , after all, what’s needed.
Lookin forward to the next 3 years!
Me, too (but I feel compelled to point out that SC has been around for 2 years so far, not 3)!
Yikes! You're right. If George says it, I believe, even though I said to myself, Gee I missed a whole year!
What George said was correct--we ARE entering our third year. But we are at the very beginning of Year Three! The whole she-bang started December 2, 2021.
Heya Mary, gee and what a time we've had aye! (please send title of your book to takapo.mag@gmail.com )
What a lovely problem to have - a story so unruly and full of life that it's a bit hard to tame at the end!
I'm thinking of a "Georgian" tool that might help tie together loose strands and wrap everything up, perhaps without conflicting with your "seat-of-the-pants" nature: how about the 50/200 story?
I adore them as a puzzle. I've probably written a hundred of them. Wonders never cease with how the constraints guide the story to wrap itself up in unexpected, unforeseen ways; something about looking through the word list releases possibilities for different characters and aspects of the story to bump up against each other in fresh ways.
So, what if? Would 20 or 30 words be enough to represent some of the characters and main aspects of your world? The remaining words should be enough to lubricate the workings, and then I'm guessing it would be a fun brainstorming exercise to look through the word list and see what's possible. I'm a seat-of-the-pants person myself, and many types of planning just do not compute for me, but I could see myself gathering momentum with this rather than getting stuck or feeling boxed in.
I wouldn't expect a single resulting 50/200 story to solve everything, but it's a tool. Sentences or ideas from the 50/200 might become index cards of scenes you realize you do want to write. By looking over the word bank afterward, you'll see which words are left over and didn't get adequate playtime. You could do more than one 50/200 if it proves useful, using each as a sandbox for a different mix of aspects of your tale... I'm excited for you, and excited to read this when it's ready to share!
I love this. I love the 50/200 game, and I needed to be reminded to use it more often. Thanks
As with last week's questioner, I can relate. In my early twenties, I reached a point where editing was part of the fun. Somehow I've lost that. I can feel myself dread sitting down to edit. I'm avoiding it.
But I'm taking this opportunity to make a resolution for myself: I'm going to shift my thinking back to the "editing as play" mentality this year. Thanks for the inspiration!
Aye Andrew, same dread occurred with me until, mostly through this excellent masterclass that is Storyclub, I learnt that perfecting a sentence to the Eradication of Even the Slightest Twinge of Discontent is thrilling! and so much fun. Just one polished sentence a session, that'll do it. lapidary work indeed.
I have the same struggle, I just don’t like revising that much. It’s not the same as when you’re writing that first draft and have these moments where ‘POOF!’ all of a sudden this great idea comes rolling out of your brain, like a shiny coin.
This is such excellent advice! Thanks George. And doesn't that equally work for a piece, a chapter, a string of paragraphs that are just not working. That somewhere along the line we've taken a wrong turn, (a pivot sentence I call them) that while looking like a leafy path quickly turned into dense forest. It's then we have to take those very tough decisions. Unpicking the knot. That's what we call 'craft', right? 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration.
welcome Guin! What a beautiful dog, and a 'lab' to boot!
If you love dogs, too, then check out my goofy Labrador retriever's viral YouTube video. Filmed on our back deck in Royal Oaks, California (a few miles south of Watsonville), the video has brought joy to over 39 million people worldwide. May it bring joy to you, too -- or at least a brief respite from your writing : )
Search YouTube for "Dog's Dream Comes True" and look for the black lab with 300 tennis balls. Or click on this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLYMD6R6PvU
That video made my day : )
And George—thanks for showing us the lovely Guin!
Sometimes I think I couldn’t live in a world without dogs. And my favorite of all dog poems:
Golden Retrievals
BY MARK DOTY
Fetch? Balls and sticks capture my attention
seconds at a time. Catch? I don’t think so.
Bunny, tumbling leaf, a squirrel who’s—oh
joy—actually scared. Sniff the wind, then
I’m off again: muck, pond, ditch, residue
of any thrillingly dead thing. And you?
Either you’re sunk in the past, half our walk,
thinking of what you never can bring back,
or else you’re off in some fog concerning
—tomorrow, is that what you call it? My work:
to unsnare time’s warp (and woof!), retrieving,
my haze-headed friend, you. This shining bark,
a Zen master’s bronzy gong, calls you here,
entirely, now: bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow.
Mark Doty, “Golden Retrievals” from Sweet Machine: Poems. Copyright © 1998 by Mark Doty. Reprinted with the permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
And thanks for the poems.
Love it! We have a Neopolitan Mastiff who has, so far, six hedgehogs that she loves to honk. Throwing them one at a time down the hall makes everybody deliriously happy!
You're not alone! I'm on the ninth draft of a book which was radically different when I started working on it a year ago, and each time I go over it the parts of it that I like - which are close to the kind of writing I like to emulate - come through clearer and clearer, making it less like other things and more like myself.
The thing I've found most helpful is to treat each draft as a free-for-all where you can cut and hack as much as you like (you'll always have the last draft if you want to recover something). It's incredibly liberating and goes some way towards eliminating fear. But trust your instincts, if something is good your mind will pull you to it, even if you accidentally cut it you will want to put it back again.
I also find during revisions (this is something my writerly friends have told me as well) that you start to solve problems as you go. ie, the act of writing can itself produce potential solutions, and many times the solutions are already there in the text, they're just hidden under some ol' crap. You can combine similar characters, shuffle things around, change the flow of paragraphs or order of timelines, and then move everything back again if you don't like it. It's all there in your mind and on the page.
btw I'm really looking forward to reading your book! :)
That sense of liberation is great, if you can find it and hang on to it!
I also agree re the psychological freedom of knowing you can recover cut parts from previous drafts - a good small step in the right direction, if a bigger leap feels too daunting.
Personally, I avoid re-reading previous drafts looking for stuff to re-integrate into the story, though; I only look for moments I later think (or better, know) are missing when I read a subsequent draft. I'll literally use key words in the 'search' function to find the bit that's missing, not read through the previous draft in question, otherwise I risk being seduced into reintroducing bits because I like them, rather than because the story needs them.
My imperfect memory is actually helpful here - if I can't remember a particular moment, it's pretty certain the story doesn't need it.
For me, I recognise that the particular parts of the writing process I struggle with are related to personality and / or habits.
When my main issue was starting lots of pieces I never finishing, I realised that I was doing the same in other aspects of my life. At one time, I was part way through about thirty books at the same time, and part way through a similar number of TV series. Happily, when I addressed those things, it helped with finishing writing.
The current thing I'm working on is my 'hoarding' instinct / habit. I've never been at the level where intervention becomes necessary (which must be grim), but the number of objects that I keep because 'they might be useful' is positively silly. Ditto the amount of TV and films I record.
Likewise, I can take research to ridiculous levels, and often have 20+ webpages open in each of two search engines; and I keep vast amounts of thoughts, ideas, notes, drafts, etc, of the thing I'm writing (though I have at least reduced the number of things I'm working on to one or two at the most, the second one starting to blossom as I'm reaching the end of the first).
On some level I think this is related to a denial of mortality. I might watch all these things, or find these things useful, if I live forever.
Being a parent helps - my own mortality seems less of a big deal, and having 'stuff' less important.
'The Not Going To Be Well Ended Story?"