Stretching

Famous last words: “I’m going to write something stretchy.”

Good for you. Now, what do you mean by “something stretchy,” and exactly how are you going to do it?

My definition of “something stretchy” is something I’m not sure I know how to do, and that I’m afraid I won’t be able to pull off. By that definition, my first novel was definitely stretchy. Most of my short stories have felt stretchy, except for the few that just fell out onto the page. (I’m a novelist; it normally takes me 80,000 words to tell a story.) Writing in a strict tight-third person was a stretch the first time, but isn’t now. First person also wasn’t a stretch the first time, but it was the second time. Non-linear writing (flashbacks, flashforwards, various unusual structures) is hugely stretchy, but fascinates me. Multiple viewpoint was and is stretchy; I still haven’t got it down (mainly because I don’t do it very often). “Characterization” is permanently stretchy, because it can go down and down in many layers, and every time I get comfortable with one, there’s a deeper level to contend with (sort of like real people).

My point is that what is stretchy changes depending on who your are and where you are in your writing. For a complete novice, just writing an entire story, even a short one, can be as much stretching as they can manage, and never mind all that stuff about consistent viewpoint and the hero’s journey and handling flashbacks. As writers get more experience, they get better at, and more comfortable with, specific aspects of their craft. Those things start to become dependable—they can always be sure the characterization will work, even if they’re dubious about the plot (or vice versa). What counts as “stretchy” changes and becomes more specific—not just “getting the plot to hang together,” but “writing a major mid-book twist that gives the reader whiplash but is still believable;” not just “making the protagonist a well-rounded character” but “making that minor character who only appears in three scenes feel like a real character with an interesting background that doesn’t take over the story.”

Sometimes, “something stretchy” can mean doing something you haven’t done for a very long time. One of my writer friends, who got her start selling many short stories, recently got asked to write a new one for an anthology. She panicked, because she hadn’t written one in at least twenty-five years.

So there isn’t any one thing that is stretchy for all writers (except possibly simply writing something). It follows that there isn’t a specific recipe for going about writing stretchy things that will work in all cases for all writers.

There are, however, a few constants, and the first one is attitude. A stubborn determination to finish this thing, even if it turns out to be terrible, will get you a lot farther and teach you a lot more than you might think.

I personally find it helpful to think about exactly what I am doing—that is, what makes this thing stretchy for me, what I am hoping to learn from trying it, why I want to learn it, and why I’m afraid I won’t pull it off. Intuitive writers may find this kind of preemptive analysis detrimental instead of helpful; for them, “it feels tricky” may be all they need to know in this regard.

Either way, it is a good idea to hang on to the notion of stretchiness as one works, especially if one is writing a long piece. Otherwise, the writer may unconsciously revert to old, familiar habits without realizing it, which defeats the purpose.

Feedback is another thing that depends on the writer. Some writers get deeply discouraged if, mid-project, a trusted critic tells them “This isn’t working.” Others see the same information as useful input, letting them know they need to change their approach. Still others resist any and all “helpful” comments until they’re finished with at least a rough draft.

Sometimes, one simply doesn’t know how one will react. I’ve had it go different ways for different projects. On one project, the more people told me it wasn’t working, the more I fiddled with different approaches until I got it to work. On another, a rather offhand comment that it wasn’t to someone’s taste put me off writing the thing completely. Both were unexpected reactions that I just had to cope with.

Possibly the most important thing about writing something stretchy is remembering that the point of stretching is to improve one’s writing in some way. If the result is sellable, that’s a nice bonus, but salability wasn’t the primary goal of the project. (I know a couple of pros who write fanfiction for exactly this reason: it lets them try weird structures and viewpoints and techniques without that niggling voice complaining that whatever-it-is won’t be good enough to sell.)

The ultimate question for a stretchy project, therefore, is not whether the finished piece works; it’s whether the writer thinks they’ve learned something. “Something” can be a specific technique, like writing in first-person or getting in and out of flashbacks, but it can also be a general feeling of greater comfort with writing action scenes or some other previously-difficult part of writing. On occasion, the thing one learns is that writing X is doable, but not something one will ever be brilliant at. “It’s no fun, but I can do it if I absolutely have to” is also worth knowing, even if it might be a little disappointing.

This is particularly difficult to believe and accept when the finished piece doesn’t work, which is why it is worth reminding oneself of it regularly. It is also a good idea not to do too many highly stretchy projects in a row, for what ought to be obvious reasons (burnout does not happen only to overworked corporate flunkies).

Speaking of which, next week will be our regularly scheduled Open Mic.