The Realm of Revision

I'm a perfectionist. At least, when it comes to my creative endeavors. Point in case, I've been working on Savior for six years now, trying to make it as perfect as possible. Of course, each successive draft is "perfect" until I go back and reread to make edits. Then it feels like I've written nothing but dribble. Any other writers/artists out there who feel like this, go ahead and raise your hands. Yeah, I thought so. It's a common problem among us creative types, I think. We never give ourselves enough credit.

What we should be looking at when we go over the most recent draft or the final painting is how far we've come. Yes, we will always see something we can improve; but just think about how much this draft improved over the last. Eventually, there will come a piece we are proud to call our own. I sincerely hope I'm almost there with this book. As I said, I've been plugging away at this story for six years--since I was a sophomore in high school, yikes!--through four versions, and it's still not completely where I want it. This from the girl who never wrote a rough draft for a school paper in her life.

Anyway, what I wanted to get at with this first "real" post is both a reminder to myself and to other perfectionist types out there: perfection changes; there will always be something we could tweak; get it to where you're happy and set it aside for a while. As an example of this "celebrating how far I've come" mindset, I'm going to let you, whatever readers I have, read a bit of one of my oldest and most beloved stories. Four times. No, it's not Savior. It's something that came about before that, between middle and high school, when I was just starting to dabble in creative writing. At the moment, I'm calling it Wizard's Bane, but that's not final. What I'm going to share with you now is the way the opening to this story has changed with each successive draft, from the very first to the one I started a few days ago. Why am I doing this? In an attempt to persuade any other artists reading this that you can improve with practice and that you shouldn't give in just because one draft isn't what you wanted it to be.

So, without further ado, the beginnings of Wizard's Bane:

2004: 
Tomorrow was Naylen’s coming of age. At Noon, he would be fifteen, the time of change and discovery. Naylen was not sure if he was frightened or excited by the impending period of exile. Exactly one hour after the coming of age ceremony, he would be kicked out of Omicron until he found his true identity, name, destiny and all. All of the sorcerers in Omicron had gone through the exile though no one revealed their true name to anyone except the elf-priests so the burial rites could be preformed properly after death. Naylen swore not to give out his name to anyone, that way he could not be controlled by him or her. Naylen got up off his bunk in the boys’ dormitory of the sorcerer school. He headed down to the large oak door that led down to the village.

“Alani,” Naylen called to his warden, the school was so small every student had their own warden, “Alani, I’m going out. I’ll be back by supper, don’t worry.”

As he headed out the door, a heavyset man came jogging up to him. “Naylen, where are you going? You should be resting.” The man stopped and tried to catch his breath.

Naylen laughed nervously. “I…I haven’t gathered my supplies yet. But I swear that I’ll rest when I get back. All right Alani?”

Alani nodded. He was still huffing very hard.

“Good. Bye.” Naylen left the older sorcerer standing in front of the school. Following the well-worn path out of the small wood and into the market, Naylen soaked in all the sights of the village, including the monstrosity that the wizards called a school. When he finally arrived at the market on the other side of town, he proceeded to buy supplies for the journey tomorrow. First he bought a sturdy pack followed by a strong bow, good arrows, dried meat and fruit and finally a small knife. After gathering these few supplies, Naylen hurried back to the school, supper was almost ready.

2006: 

The young sorcerer tread silently through the corridors, wringing his hands. He came of age tomorrow and he still hadn’t gathered any supplies for the quest that would follow the ceremony. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the gardens that flowed down from the school to the village. The soothing gargle of a fountain calmed his nerves but they quickly returned as his eyes were drawn to the foreboding stone fortress that served as a school for the wizards. He would have to find a way past all that dark magic.

The wizards were well renown for their evil ways. Rumor among the students at Semper Terra, the sorcerer’s school, was that the wizards could drain magick with only a look. Of course the staff was eager to put down these rumors and encourage good will toward their fellow magick users. Most of the students found it hard to think of the wizards as something like themselves: wizards were born of human parents while sorcerers had no such luck.

In fact sorcerers were rare among the world, coming into being only when lightning strikes marble. Every student at Semper Terra had his or her own warden for crying out loud. Wizards despised them; magi were neutral in these disputes, sometimes siding with the wizards and other times with the sorcerers, depending on which mage one spoke to and what was happening with the humans at that point in time. Both sorcerers and magi tried to live among humans without qualms once they were out of school. Of course it didn’t always work…especially when a wizard showed up. That’s really when everything went wrong.

Naylen sat on the edge of the fountain, his mind wandering through his lifetime of lessons. Of course it wasn’t really all that long…he was still very young by sorcerer’s standards. Unwillingly his mind strayed back to wizards and the problems he might encounter trying to sneak past them. 

2009: 

The stone halls of Asharusk filled with the tolling of the bells, summoning students to the first classes of the day.

Naylen Liemdel waited in a shallow alcove, leaning on his broom as he watched the students hurry past. He was a servant in this school for wizards and easily ignored by those who attended lessons. He easily blended into the crowd; with his dusty blond hair and green eyes, he wasn’t exceedingly handsome or horrendously ugly. Just a normal, gawky servant boy. How he wished he had magick and could attend the classes here.

But he was stuck sweeping up the little fragments of magick and spells that got away.

The hall emptied and he stepped out of his alcove, turning his attention to the dust and dirt that the young wizards had dragged in. He hummed to himself as he worked, the bristles of the besom grating against the stone in a hypnotic rhythm.

When he was halfway down the corridor from his hiding spot, a great cheer burst through one of the closed doors.

Naylen jumped at the sound, his grip tightening on the handle of his broom. He hesitated, staring at the place where the sound had emanated. With a hard swallow, he crept toward the door and stood on tiptoe to peek through the tiny window in the wood.

Through the warped glass, he saw a large brown dog sitting on the professor’s desk. The class had erupted into chaos, the students throwing paper balls and harmless spells at each other. Several of the older girls were huddled around a solidly built boy named Tomo Orlan, who had his booted feet propped up on his desk and was idly examining his fingernails.

20011: 

His lungs burned. Leaves, twigs, brush, and thorns snagged his clothing, slapped against his face, and tore at his flesh. Blood trickled down his forehead. He struggled for breath. He stumbled, his foot in a tiny hole. His ankle wrenched and he bit back a desperate scream as he fell. No. No, no, no! He couldn’t stop running! He had to keep going!

Naylen forced himself to his feet, pained tears rolling down his cheeks as he staggered on. If he stopped, the wizards would catch up, and that meant certain death. Even with a sprained ankle, he had to keep going. He had to. A branch snapped back after he brushed it aside, smacking into his eye. He yelped this time, despite his better judgment, and pressed the heel of his palm to his eyeball in an attempt to ease the stinging pain. And still he stumbled forward, limping and crying. The only other choice wasn’t even really an option. At least, it wasn’t one he wanted to consider.

“Stop! Oi! Sorcerer!” That same, rough voice from Asharusk shouted through the forest, making Naylen’s heart leap. A moment later, the violent crashing of foliage shattered the relative silence among the trees.

Naylen kept running, though he was blind with pain and tears. All he knew was that he had to get away. Why he was running, though, was a mystery. He had woken in the middle of the night to his mentor hurriedly explaining some sort of ancient prophecy, shoving a pack at him and telling him to run. Not five minutes after that, a trio of wizards had broken into the school and started shouting, both with their voices and their spells. It hadn’t taken much more persuading to get Naylen out of bed and racing for the woods on the outskirts of town.

***

See how the opening changes over time? It's still the beginning of what will be the same story, give or take a few details or changes to the characters, but the writing is different. As we learn, our style and voice changes, our idea of perfection enters a state of flux, and some of us are driven to dredge up old stories or ideas to renew them with our new knowledge. I encourage you, any and all of you who read this, to try this at some point. Pull up a piece, written or otherwise, and redo it, then compare the old with the new. Which do you like better? Why? What did you learn from this? For me, rewriting this story gives me new insight into the characters each time, new plot twists and ideas, and a new understanding of why this isn't anywhere near ready for publication yet. And, I promise, that's not just the perfectionist in me coming out to play. 


Oljiru kovy.