Writing Attachment and Seperation

[42]

I do think it would vary for each author. However, I wonder if there are general categories that the writers might fall into.

For example: one category could be like MsFish--invest a lot and become very attached at the start, then become slowly less attached over time.
Another category could be where the author pushes to get started, becoming attached very slowly then become reluctant to separate, wanting to revise over-and-over again.

I suspect there would be other categories too. I just haven't done a lit. review or gathered any further data beyond this thread.

[stacer]

Well, the authors I speak of have at least a healthy detachment, or are able to detach enough to come back and look at their work with colder eyes, saying, "this needs more development," and "perhaps this scene should go," that sort of thing. I think, using your model, the idea of once-attached, once-detached is really too simple, because the authors I work with get enough time to detach, look at it with fresh eyes, attach long enough to want to work on the revision, but are also glad for it to be done--despite knowing it's not perfect, despite thinking of multiple ways to "fix" it later after it's out of their hands. There comes a point when it's done, no matter what tinkering they'd rather do.

Then there's Robin McKinley, who rewrites a perfectly good novel 20 years later.

[Spriggan]

I'm the type who the first time I write something is good enough, if I didn't want to say something the way I did I wouldn't have said it that way.  I useally don't even read what I've written since I'm satisfied it's good enough, this doesn't mean there aren't grammatical errors in what I do and I sometimes send things out to be edited, but I useally don't.

And yes, before anyone steps up to say something, I do get paid to write for another website ran by my employer and that money is in addition to what I get paid to work there.

So ya, outside of EUOL I think I'm the second highest paid author here...kind of scary if you ask me.

[stacer]

So ya, outside of EUOL I think I'm the second highest paid author here...kind of scary if you ask me.

Perhaps, but you might not know about my magazine freelancing (writing and photography). Though as a regular job I imagine it does pay better than an occasional freelance gig.

The problem I see with submitting a first draft as "if I didn't mean it that way, I wouldn't have written it" is the fluidity of language, and how hard it is sometimes to express what's in your mind to another person coming from a completely different perspective. Even if I know exactly what I'm saying, it doesn't mean I've expressed it well on paper in a way that will communicate what I mean to another person, or for that matter to a large number of readers.

Speaking of that magazine, it brings up a good example: I know what I mean when I say "armature" because that's what the guy I interviewed called whatever it was he was pointing to. But then the engineering editor looks at the context and says, "that's not an armature, that's a whatever-it-really-is," or "that's not the way that motor really works." I need to be willing to return to look at that article--which I usually am far from attached to, due to being nearly uninterested in the subject matter--with enough attachment to care about getting the details right in a way that my readers will understand.

It probably depends on the writer's knowledge of the subject matter, but I would say it's just as true when I write about family history (a subject I've studied and researched for 15 years now) in different ways.

[dreamking47]

A few years ago, I spent a glorious three-day weekend at the beginning of summer hiking around in the forest up north.  My last day there, some faint noises and an unexpected flash of color from off the side of the trail led me to a tiny fledgling, newborn and nearly blind.  It had apparently fallen from its nest, and was now dragging an injured wing.

A nature-lover since the school camping trips of my youth, I recognized the bird as a very rare -- indeed, endangered -- species.  I had seen the species in books on occasion, but in person only a few times at a distance.  As a fledgling it was unremarkable, brownish gray feathers with a few streaks of bright color that had attracted my notice.  I knew though what it could grow into, and I was seized then with a desire that it should grow, that this injured fledgling, rare and precious yet alone and forgotten, should have the chance at becoming full-grown.  I gently scooped up the fledgling in a nest of pine needles and returned to my car, holding it close against my chest.

My first step was directory assistance.  Placing a few calls with my mobile phone, however, I learned that none of the nearby animal shelters or hospitals would take this fledgling.  If it were an adult bird, fully-grown, maybe; if it were some other species, more popular, certainly; but an injured fledgling, however rare...I sensed they just didn't want the risk of it dying on their watch.  Well, "if you want something done right..." and all that.  I picked up a cage, some seeds and a water bottle on the way home, and welcomed the bird into my life.

Or at least, I tried to.  It was tough going at first, for both of us.  I did happen to know a specialist who was able to give me advice in stabilizing the injured wing with a gauze wrapping, but I worried constantly for the first week that I was causing the fledgling greater injury.  It proved a worrisomely finicky yet voracious eater, too: it soon had me digging in the dirt of my backyard morning and night for all manner of long worms and odd comma-shaped grubs.  In-between I had a job I loved that kept me busy, but a random word or comment could distract me with thoughts of the bird at any time.  The odd hours I kept during the summer seemed to influence it, as it often remained silent all day only to jerk me upright with its calls for attention just as I was beginning to drift off to sleep late at night.  Some few visitors to my house it welcomed with affection -- the quieter, more considerate sorts -- but most it treated with a cool disdain.  I actually had to remind myself not to treat those friends with any disdain of my own, just because they didn't understand my obsession.

Because oh, as it grew under my care, it became a stunning sight.  No longer a fledgling, it had burned through a progressively larger series of cages over the months as summer turned to fall.  When its new growth of feathers came in, and the browns and grays were replaced by a brilliantly vibrant pattern of red, white, orange and blue, it was like a living flame.  The gauze wrap was long since removed and while it might always favor one wing over the other ever so slightly, it seemed quite capable of flight when I let it out of its cage to exercise (invariably a messy proposition).  It was enormously satisfying to see it grow, but it also became clear (I thought) that it had no further need for me.

It was then that I placed another call, this time to the forest warden.  I explained that I had a bird to release back into the forest, and asked what that entailed.  The warden had a number of suggestions, training to ensure my houseguest was able to survive on its own once in the wild: I realized my self-appointed task was not yet complete.  That bittersweet work took the balance of the winter, knowing that our ways would soon be parting but understanding that I was doing my best to prepare it for the world outside my door.

And so it was that the following spring I returned to the forest.  And so it was that I released the bird that I had spent so much of my time nurturing.  It was my gift back to the forest that had given me such pleasure all my life; my gift back to fellow nature-lovers.  Most people will never see it, many will not recognize it for what it is.  But every now and then, I get a post card, or an e-mail, from someone who saw it during their own journey in the forest: "we recognized it because it favored one wing over the other" they say with a wink; "we saw it foraging for odd comma-shaped grubs"; or "we recognized it because we heard its call just as we were falling asleep in our camping bags."  The best note I ever got, though, was from someone who said they saw it nesting.  I had done my part to ensure that the species, so very rare, had a chance to live on.

MattD

[The Holy Saint, Grand High Poobah, Master of Monkeys, Ehlers]

So ya, outside of EUOL I think I'm the second highest paid author here...kind of scary if you ask me.

I am, technically, still a writer in my position. And I am paid more than EUOL last time I checked, I believe. Though I'm sure that will change and my position in intensely less glamorous.

[Aen Elderberry]

Anyhow, I have a hard time believing that ANYONE can put something like this together (painting/song/story) without  the result being some part of them.

(imho)

The more of we put into our artistic creations the better they are.  I think this can be unconscious.  You might not even be aware of how much of your writing is a reflection of yourself.   And sometimes doing it in a rush is better than being slow and thoughtful.  You can rush right past all those inhibitions and get the words on the page.

I hope that there are a lot of really cool things in my imagination.  When I write I try to open a conduit that moves those images to a written form.  The success of my writing, the opening of the conduit, depends on my skill as a writer not on what I have to say.  I'd like to be a skilled but the 'me' that is on  in the writing is the source, not my skill at putting it on paper.

My worst writing comes when I'm trying too hard to impress or trying to hard to be a great writer.  When my writing fails it's because the conduit gets fouled up with a bunch of junk.  But it's my lack of writing skill, not the source, that is flawed.

Looking at it this way makes it a little easier to handle criticism of my work.  I try to think of it as criticism of my writing skill, not criticism of 'me.'   In that way I do feel a bit detached from my work.  But I still get frustrated at not being able to express myself the way I'd like to.

Also, at his writing workshop Tracy Hickman said that it helps to hold up your manuscript and say "This is my book."  Then point to yourself, "This is me."  Make the distinction and then it's easier to listen to feedback on the manuscript because it's not criticism of you.  It seems like you want to be strongly attached while writing and editing but you need some distance when getting feedback.

McFish, do you ever do sequels?  (ie. a "roommate" that you've had a break from and now you're ready to spend some more time in the same world with the same characters?)