In Soviet Russia, Story Revise You
At a certain point when revising stories, I find they begin to work in ways it never occurred to me to attempt. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of this recognition that a story is coherent and complex and mysterious enough to breathe on its own and no longer needs—or has room for—my impetus or desires. It’s ready to send out—not done; nothing is ever done. But complete.
I’ve been revising three long-ish stories over the last few weeks, all of which resolutely refused to cohere as I’d originally envisioned. The one that’s given me the most trouble began in first person plural, with a too-clever title that I tried to make the plot adhere to… stupid, stupid, stupid. Three title changes later, minus one character, with time-changes, dips into close and far perspective and an extended journey in one character’s less than honest imagination, I think it may be something.
It’s good to have a map, but you don’t want to end up where you’re headed.
