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It’s scary how the domino effect can work in stories. We know how to make it work in our favor, plotting one catastrophe that causes another catastrophe, which then causes another and so on. But what about when it doesn’t work in our favor?
One little goof can set off a grueling writing disaster. It happens even when you tiptoe through your work.
We all have those exhilarating moments when words flow as easily as cuss words at a football game. Our brains are in high gear, the plot is unfolding on its own, and vivid little details so perfect that they hurt come without effort. All previous slumps are forgotten. Writing is glorious!
Yes! After all those years of uncertainty, there’s no doubt that this is what we were meant to do. Our true calling. How else would such beautifully accurate settings, such deeply felt insights, and such true-to-character dialogue come on a whim?
And now we want to flex our muscles and write an entire rough draft without stopping. This challenge works for some, but not for all of us. Whether it’s the love for our own voices (Fess up—you know that it sometimes is.) or the need to catch our breath, something will niggle at us to backtrack through our work. Something will push us into a quick read just to see how it flows.
And so the fun begins.
I’d love to get a full draft roughed out before I let my inner editor do her thing. I’m just not made that way. Sometimes, I need to read from beginning to wherever I last stopped to get everything fresh in my brain again.
This happened recently after a trip out of state. We had a great time. Coming home with a wealth of family stories in my head and with miles and miles of inspiring scenery surrounding me, I was anxious to hit the keyboard. Of course, I then felt compelled to skim my existing work and get the voice down again, maybe fix a typo or two. So much for tackling the first draft without getting sidetracked editing.
Here’s what happened:
During the ride home, I had gazed upon recently harvested cornfields and that incessant niggling started up. I ignored it and visualized the brushwork in painting a picture of the pale, dusty stubs left from once luscious green stalks. The writer in me took over.
I mentally described what I saw on this late October day, and then it hit me. It was the same time of year as the setting in my novel, which I started quite awhile back. I distinctly remembered writing something about the main character inhaling the scent of cornfields.
My brain froze right there. I was 90% sure I hadn’t assigned a color to the cornstalks, nor had I described them as short stubs leftover from a hearty crop. So what season did I attach to my late October setting? I simply said the scent of cornstalks. No color, no size.
I gave my work-in-progress a quick read. Sure enough—I’d messed up.
With the word cornstalk, the reader may automatically visualize tall stalks, not the stubs they should be. The story is set in late October, so some savvy readers will see the stalks that pale, dried-out shade they get late in the season, as I had probably hoped. Yet some folks unfamiliar with farming communities may presume the cornstalks to be the lushly green they’d read about, and tall. After all, I gave them no reason not to. They’ll imagine the fresh summer scent of healthy crops, not the fall odor of field dust and dried stubs.
These are small details. It won’t kill the plot regardless of the color of the stalks, but the problem can grow. I’m not done with the full draft. The height of the stalks may matter a lot in a future chapter. No one can hide in a recently harvested field, but surely they can get lost in a tall maze of stalks. If my stalks are pictured green in one chapter and chalky in another, the inconsistency will raise havoc with the story’s timeline.
My stalks need to match the area and date in my setting. Is corn in Minnesota harvested at the same time as corn in other states? Will the reader know either way?
Another problem comes with the scent. Readers will get confused smelling thick, green stalks that the very next story-day have somehow turned into dried stubs and field dust with a very different smell. And dust, seriously? It had been raining for three days in this story. How could any dust fly? Eventually, these small inconsistencies will derail the reader and cause a deep mistrust in the author. The reader is likely to slam the book shut. I would. I read for enjoyment and relaxation, not to get all bent out of shape wading through inconsistent details that create a foggy sense of story.
That’s why first drafts are rough drafts. I’m so glad I paused my attempt to plow through the entire story before I started nitpicking. If I hadn’t noticed these glaring blunders when I did, I might’ve let the domino effect kick in, only to get to my finish line and realize that my presumably tall, leafy stalks don’t work with my season and story locale, and they don’t smell right. I’d have a mess.
My rough draft proves that though not all inconsistencies are big issues, any inconsistency can matter in a big way.
If you’re running straight through to the end zone with your rough draft, consider a quick peek now and then along the way. You may have consistently swapped specifics fitting different settings and then followed those errors in some chapters, but not in others. You might even confuse yourself.
Happy writing!
