Writing Backwards: How to Remove What Shouldn't Be There
During my writing of The Plunge, a complex mystery with two points of view and a host of characters both good and evil, I experienced what I can only now call Sybilitis--you know, as in Sybil, the multiple-personality poster girl. My fertile brain manufactured so many strong personalities that I couldn't control their escape to my (I don't believe I'm going to write this)...creative uterus. I'd be writing a scene and--bam!--another character was born. Worse, I'd be writing a scene with a clear idea where it was going and--zip!--I'd have a whole new vein attached to the bloodline to my story. It was fun and exciting not knowing what was going to happen next. My fingers were, like, disconnected from my will. And once I found myself charging head-long down an unchartered and foggy road, I was having so much fun that I didn't stop and remind myself, "Hey, numbskull, do you realize what's going to happen if you drive for hours and end up in a cul-de-sac?" And I didn't seem to mind. The problem, of course, was that when I finally reached that little turn-around, I knew my ego wouldn't let me turn around. By gum, I was going to demolish whatever was in my way--storywise--and continue to lay a new road until it connected with a cross street I recognized.
It was an adventure. But one where the road ended with me lost in a deep, dark jungle. (Talk about switching metaphors!) When I began to reach the climax of the book, I realized that I didn't understand all the plot twists and character relationships. I had changed the Number One Bad Guy five times. And I hadn't eliminated the other Baby Bad Guys. Instead, I had created other bad things for them to do and kept them umbilically tied to the Mother Bad Guy. I had grafted capillaries to the veins, creating a tangle of plots to plot and sub-plots to sub-plot, to where I was about to birth quintuplets. Now my hips may be big enough, but my ground-level threshold for pain makes me significantly unwilling.
But I couldn't figure out how to hack through with a mental machete and remove what shouldn't be there. Mainly, because I wanted it all to be there. I wanted the quintuplets. They grew inside of me and now they wanted out. But I had to find a way to sacrifice some of my babies or I'd die in labor. (Is this metaphor getting creepy, or what?) This is why it took me seven years to write this book. Because I just couldn't figure out how it all ended.
One day after the book had long passed its time for delivery (imagine five little old men with long beards in a womb grumbling, "After you!" "No, after you!" "No, after you!" "I insist! After you!"), I decided to take the time to figure it all out. I sat down and drew one of those geometric, dot-and-line relationship graphs. When I was done with it, I sat there looking at the piece of paper and realized that it looked like something made by a three-year-old when told to draw daddy a picture of a spider web in a hurricane.
So the book sat for another year. Or two. I forget. It was a long time, though.
But at times clarity in solving a problem comes like thunder. It cracks unexpected before the downpour. (Aren't these just lovely similes and metaphors? I just can't get over myself today, can I?) I don't know where I got the idea, but I think I tried it right away (I don't remember, frankly). If I started at the end of the book--where I'd left off--and worked backwards, I'd eliminate the continuity. Without continuity, I might see the plot lines and relationships out of context. Sort of like filtering the sediment from the water to purify it. (I was going to add another parenthetical thought, but suddenly I realized I haven't written so much parenthetical text like this since my lobotomy. I need to just say what I'm going to say!)
Working backwards in the story, just flipping through pages and making a quick note, I began to understand where all my characters fit in and what elements of plot were absolutely necessary to the story. But most importantly, I figured out what shouldn't be there. Since I wasn't really following a story, I saw each piece of the puzzle. I began to understand how one character was related to another and how I could change their relationship to fit the story or change a scene to fit the relationship. One chapter at a time, going backwards. It wasn't easy, but it was effective. And I think it worked. I ended up with a complex story with well-defined parts all funneling the action to a clear ending.
Writing backwards to remove what shouldn't be there is a technique I hope I never have to use again. But if I find myself dazed and confused by my own story, I have a method that works for me. It's good to know that there's a way to reverse the consequences of a literary one-night stand. Or a seven-year stand. (Lovely metaphor.)
Posted by Tom Eubanks at 8/23/2010 8:31 AM 
Categories: The Plunge, On Writing
Tags: Working It Ends Justify Essay
Categories: The Plunge, On Writing
Tags: Working It Ends Justify Essay
Wow have I been there; the chart and everything. Writing right into that cul de sac. What a learning process.
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Cul-de-sac is French for "Where they hell am I?"
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