Writing Tip: The Real Work of Writing—Editing

For years I hated editing, but I’ve come to enjoy it. I love playing with words and the rhythm they make. I make a game of seeing how many words I can delete without negatively impacting the story. So even though editing is not nearly as fun as creating new prose, it’s still enjoyable.

My process for editing starts by putting the manuscript down for at least a month, usually two to three months, while I work on something else. When editing, I want the story fresh, as if I’m reading it for the first time. It takes time to get that story out of my head.

Next, I read each page, slowly and carefully, three times before going on to the next page. I look for words/sentences/paragraphs to cut, different ways to say the same thing, places I’ve repeated myself (I seem to do that a lot), cut out most words ending in ‘ly’,  turn passive verbs to active, and insure I have a good mix of sentence structures and that the prose flows effortlessly. Why read each page three times, you ask? Because it’s amazing how many things stick out on the second and third pass that I gloss over on the first one.

When I finish a scene, I examine the scene as a whole. I actually have a checklist I follow for each scene:

1. What are the emotions the reader should feel? (which is different from what the characters are feeling)

2. Whose scene is it, and what do they want from it?

3. What can you show that is now in dialog?

4. How can you punch up the dialog, give it more attitude!

4. What can you show that is now told?

5. What can you cut, is it all needed? What purpose does it serve?

6. Cut the melodrama, telling internal dialog, metaphors. Just tell the story in plain English.

7. Most importantly: Where is the conflict leading to emotional growth in each scene?

Following this method, I strive to edit six pages per day. The next day, I start out by reading those six pages once more before moving on to the next six pages. When I finish a chapter (usually about 10-15 pages) I have my computer read it back to me. It’s amazing how many errors I catch by having the computer read it aloud. I keep having the computer read it out loud until I can make it through without making any changes (normally 3 to 4 times.)

So for each editing pass, I read each page a minimum of six times, sometimes as many as ten times. Then the process begins again. I put the manuscript away for a month or two, and repeat. I normally make three to four editing passes. 

Dreamspinner Press recently re-released my novel, The Lonely War, and its getting a fist full of five star reviews. Here is one of those reviews from the Joyfully Jay website.

Review: The Lonely War by Alan Chin

Rating: 5 stars
Buy Link: Amazon | All Romance | Amazon UK
Length: Novel

Andrew Waters is a man caught between multiple worlds. He is a pacifist who must go to war. He is an American, but his half Chinese heritage condemns him to the role of outcast amongst the crew of the USS Pilgrim. Andrew challenges almost every standard convention, leaving himself a target for abuse and disdain. He is offered some measure of protection from Lt. Nathan Mitchell, his superior and the object of Andrew’s affection, but he struggles to find his place amongst the other men. Though his shipmates initially reject him, Andrew’s skills as a cook quickly win them over and his bravery saves many of them following the destruction of their ship. Those who survive end up as prisoners of war and here Andrew learns to live in the moment, knowing it may be all he has and even when doing so means sacrificing himself for the man he loves. As the war rages on, Andrew must find a way to save his soul, maintain his faith and to survive in spite of impossible odds.

The Lonely War is the beautifully written story of one man’s journey through hell and towards happiness. The recipient of multiple awards and now in its third edition from DSP Publications, I think it would be safe to sayThe Lonely War is something of a modern classic. Alan Chin expertly captures Andrew’s struggle to endure pain and preserve his sanity in the midst of a living nightmare. Though I hesitate to call this a romance, there is no doubt that love, in all its forms, shines through as the predominate theme. Andrew’s love for those around him, of Buddhism, and ultimately of life itself, all coalesce into an elegant story of loss, sacrifice, and acceptance. The novel moved along smoothly, never dragged, and often became so captivating that I had trouble setting it aside. The author’s voice is powerful and poetic without dominating or destroying the natural rhythm of the plot. The historical aspects are well meshed amongst the rest of the narrative and act as a natural extension of the book. But it is Andrew and a strong cadre of secondary characters that make The Lonely War a truly incredible read.

Andrew is both a complex man and a very simple one and it is this juxtaposition that makes him seem so real. Having grown up in a Buddhist boarding school, he believes strongly in pacifism and embracing the nature of the world around him. When war comes, he understands that he must join the U.S. Navy but he is determined to remain peaceful and accepts the role of cook as way to serve without violating his religious beliefs. This brings him no end of bullying and belittlement, but through it all he remains strong and true to his spiritual path. Andrew’s strength makes him remarkable. He is far from perfect and breaks the same as other men, but he possesses the ability to rebuild himself and embrace the world anew no matter the challenge. His devotion to his friends, his lovers, and his faith, and the actions that result from this devotion, give the reader insight into what it means to live and to make the most of what is offered. The Lonely War is a wonderful example of how great books and amazing characters can leave a profound lasting impression long after they are read.

Most of the characters in this novel are well drawn and given a living essence of their own, but aside from Andrew, the most important are those men who serve as his lovers. They are all, in their own way, good men, but most ultimately fail Andrew and it is hard to unravel how I felt about each of them. First there is Clifford, a stuttering, pale boy who went to school with Andrew. Their love is not sexual, but instead a deep platonic affection. When they meet during the war, Clifford has embraced his true nature and while his friend initially struggles with this, Andrew’s ultimate acceptance is a shining example of his love and intrinsic respect for all life. Lt. Nathan Mitchell quickly responds to Andrew’s brilliant mind and the two have an easy camaraderie. He understands that Andrew is a matchless individual, but his duty to the Navy and to the woman he left at home prevents him from fully embracing all he and Andrew might have together. Hikaru Tottori is the commander of the prison camp where Andrew and his fellow sailors spend two and a half years. He is the “enemy,” but through Andrew’s eyes we see he is a man trapped by honor and tradition. He is married, but his wife fully approves of his relationship with Andrew and it is painfully obvious that were it not for the war, these three might find a way to make a real life together. Lastly there is Kenji, an adjunct of Tottori’s and the man who helps Andrew following the end of the war. We don’t know much about him save that he is smitten with Andrew and devoted to his commander. Kenji is the only one who sacrifices for Andrew and offers him a life beyond that which he has known. All of these men play their parts and as readers we know they and Andrew are better for having known one another, but each experiences and shares the kind of pain that becomes transformative and life altering.

Andrew is morally and spiritually beautiful and the kind of character that comes along only rarely in books. He dwells amongst the chaos and blood of a world war, but never ceases to believe that all life is important and has purpose. The author does not give him a traditionally happy ending, but Andrew is far from ordinary and instead he is given an opportunity at real happiness, which is the most any of us, real or fictional, can hope to find. While The Lonely War is not always an easy read, it is most definitely worth your time and I highly recommend it.

Walking at Sunrise

For the last three years, Herman and I have started our day at 6am with a sunrise walk. We have four different routes around town that we alternate, but they are all about three miles long. It gets us out of the house when it’s still cool, gives us plenty of exercise, and allows us an hour alone to plan out the day with no distractions. I also like greeting people we pass and cheerfully wishing them a good morning.

But for the last few months, every since Herman and I returned from out South American trip, he and I have not been walking because he developed a problem with his foot while on vacation and the doctors told him: “No long walks, no tennis.” In an effort to be supportive, I gave up walking too.

I knew that I loved those morning walks, but I didn’t realize until we stopped just how much my mental health needed them. Since we stopped, I’ve been depressed and moody, just going through the motions. We have a lot going on in our lives just now, and I assumed it was simply pressure from juggling a full plate. But this morning I told Herman, “To hell with it. I’m walking. You can stay here or tag alone, but I’m outta here.”

He joined me, and although he complained of pain in his foot, he walked the entire three-mile course. It was during our walk that I felt my shoulders relax, my mood elevate, and myself getting back in touch with this wonder place we live. The sunrise was lovely, and we greeted people (all the old regulars) along the way who said they missed seeing us. I’m riding a high, still, from the walk.

Who would have thought that something so simple as getting out at the crack of dawn and walking the streets as the rest of the town is walking up could be so therapeutic. I feel like I’ve just woken up from a two-month long coma.

I sincerely hope Herman can continue to join me without his foot getting worse, but if he can’t join me, I’ll go it alone. I know now my mental well-being depends on it.

A Survey on Aging

I recently took part in a survey about aging, and I thought I would share both the questions and my answers, in the hope that I might get other people thinking about their own lives.

1.     When is a person old?  And why did you choose your answer? Try not to think about this question too long. Just reply with what comes to mind.

I think a person is old when they spend more time looking back at a life already spent, rather than staying in the present and keeping one eye on the horizon. I believe working toward important dreams keeps the mind young, and hopefully the body will follow.

2.     What has surprised you about growing older?

How much fun it is. I’ve seen so many bitter old people, always complaining about this or that. At age sixty-two, I’m having the time of my life. I’ve stopped worrying about things that don’t matter. I’m doing all the things I’ve always wanted to do, world travel, enjoying friends, writing the stories I really want to write.

My greatest joy is sharing my time with my husband, which brings me to the other surprise. When you have found that special someone to share your life with, love keeps growing deeper and deeper with each new day. Love flowers into a more beautiful thing between older couples. When sex is no longer a driving force, one looks past that wrinkled body and more fully appreciates your partner’s soul.

3.     If you knew then what you know now, what would you do differently?

I would treat everyone with kindness and respect, never raising my voice in anger, even to those people who were against me, even those who did everything possible to belittle and harm me. I would not spend one second on hard feelings toward anyone.

The other thing I would have done is taken better care of my teeth at a young age.

4.     Do you have a favorite quote or expression about aging?

Wisdom from my 96-yr-old aunt: If you want to be seen – stand up. If you want to be heard – speak up. If you want to be loved – shut up!

Also

There is a calmness to a life lived in gratitude, a quiet joy. ~ Ralph H. Blum

5.     How do you see the future?

As a Buddhist, I pretty much stay in the present and not look toward the horizon. I don’t know what life will bring, and I’m not sure I care. Whatever comes, I will try to face it with compassion and dignity.

What else would you like to share? Here’s your chance to share your thoughts, experiences, opinions. Vent, expound, explain. Be humorous or serious or be a little of each. Need some ideas? Here are some possibilities. Choose one or more of the suggested topics or talk about your own experiences on any topic related to growing older. If you have a humorous or inspiring story, share that instead. The choice is yours.

·       finances, second careers, retirement

I retired from corporate America in 1999 at the age of 45 years old. That was far and above one of the best decisions of my life. At that point, I stopped doing what was necessary to make a living, and I started living.  I embarked on a second career in writing fiction—short stories, novels, screenplays. That has led to a satisfying, creative, wonderful life where I spending my time a slave only to my own creativity. And for my money (or lack of it), that is the only gratifying way of living.

There were times, of course, when I wondered how the bills would get paid, but somehow they always did. There was never a time, however, when I even considered going back to a nine-to-five, working for someone else. Hopefully my luck with hold out and that will never, never, never happen again.

Writing Tip: Craft Means The Ability To Convey Emotions

Fiction, whether books or movies, trades in human emotions, which means delivering carefully packaged emotional experiences. Books and movies are emotion generators.

When was the last time you saw a movie or book ad that said, “well-structured, great plot points, fresh dialogue?” No. What you see it, “Grabs from the first page to last, funny, gritty, intense, haunting, gripping, hugely satisfying.” The focus is all about emotions, because that’s what the reader/audience craves. Emotion is what sells; it’s what keeps readers coming back for more.

Alfred Hitchcock, the master of suspense and audience manipulation, once said, “We’re not making a movie; we’re making an organ, like in a church. We press this chord and the audience laughs. We press that chord, and they gasp. We press these notes and they chuckle.

Aspiring writers are constantly told to hone their craft. But what does that mean? Craft is the ability to make things happen on the page. Specifically, it’s the technical ability to control language to create an intentional emotion or image in the reader’s mind, hold his attention, and deliver a rewarding experience. Craft is about the ability to connect with your reader.

Your job is to seduce the reader, to make them keep turning pages to see what happens next, to captivate them by drawing them into the world you’ve created. You want them to forget they're reading words on the page, and feel something. In order to do that, you have to find the most exciting and emotionally involving way to tell your story well.

Each page needs to be crafted to make the reader feel tension anxiety, laughter, anticipation, grief or terror, and to manage those visceral feelings into a satisfying experience by the last page.

For some readers, you have thirty pages to hook them. For many it’s ten pages. But the reality is that the first page, and the next, and the next must catch the reader’s attention and hold it. The way to do that is to manipulate the reader’s feelings on each page, which is quite different from manipulating your character’s feelings. Your character on the page may be laughing his ass off, yet you make choose to have the reader crying from anguish.

So on each and every page you write, it’s important to know what emotions your characters are feeling at that moment, but more important that you understand what emotions you are creating in the reader. Make them laugh, make them cry, make them sigh, but make the feel something.

Publishers buy and sell emotion. Therefore, if you want to become a successful novelist or screenwriter you must create emotional experiences in your work. 

Buddha's Bad Boys Excerpt - Are You Bad Enough To Read This?

I’m very pleased to announce that my new book, an anthology of six short works called BUDDHA’S BAD BOYS, is available everywhere fine books are sold. You can buy it now, in paperback or any eBook format, at

Bold Strokes Books http://tinyurl.com/pfe7dnl

Amazon http://tinyurl.com/mplxvc7

Some of these stories are purely fictional, while others are based on true events.

Blurb: There are many reason why Western men turn to Eastern religion—searching for inner truth, lost love, loneliness, fleeing the law, hopelessness, alcoholism. Some travel halfway around the world in an attempt to overcome their particular dissoluteness, only to realize that improving yourself is like polishing air. What they eventually discover, nevertheless, is one of the Buddha’s most significant lessons: enlightenment comes to those whose singular focus is on helping others less fortunate. 

Six stories, six troubled gay men trudging down the road to enlightenment. What they each find is that last thing in the world they expected.

The first story in this anthology is called Monk For A Month and is about two men, Reece and Doug, are almost done with the “Monk for a Month” program at the temple in Chiang Mai, where they have been living like Buddhist monks. But on the same night that Reece finds that Doug is having an affair with another Thai monk, there is a murder lose in the town. Reece sees the killer hiding in the temple and goes about trying to help him escape the police. In the process, a love affair begins.

Excerpt:

I sat at the bar sporting saffron robes and a shaved head, sipping a Singha beer and listening to the bartender, who was clearly agitated. I couldn’t tell whether the man was upset over the recent murders, or because the hard rain was hurting his business, or if he simply didn’t like serving alcohol to a monk, even a Caucasian one.

“His name Somchai,” the bartender said. He spoke English, but with the usual Thai singsong clip that I had come to adore. “He kill American expatriate named Warren. Tony Warren.”

I had seen a dead body only once, a gruesome spectacle. It took an effort to settle my nerves as the bartender glared at me, as if, also being an American, made me an accomplice. I had never learned the invaluable art of staying detached in the face of tragedy, of not identifying with the victim. I had no way to shield myself from the reality of how brutal humans can be to each other, what ruthless lengths they will go, and the pain they are capable of inflicting on each other.

Across the street, four soldiers trudged along in the rain.

“When did Somchai kill Warren?” I asked, my voice scarcely a whisper.

The bartender didn’t know exactly, sometime at the beginning of the afternoon that had now come to an end. At the same time that he killed Warren, Somchai had also slain Warren’s Thai girlfriend. Both victims had been found two hours earlier at the apartment belonging to Warren.

The barroom was already dark, due to the lateness of the hour and another power outage. Candles flickered on the bar and at each table; their yellow light mingled with the blueness of the dying day.

The shower stopped as suddenly as it had started, as it often does in Thailand.

“How old was she? The girlfriend I mean,” I asked.

“Very young. Nineteen.” Regret passed over the bartender’s face. “A real beauty.”

“I would like another Singha,” I said, “but I have no more money. Can I buy on credit?”

The bartender’s look of regret turned to disgust. As he walked away, a customer two stools over ordered beers for me and himself, and also shots of cheap Thai whiskey.

The bartender prepared our drinks while the customer moved to the stool beside mine. He introduced himself as Ty Poe, and did not shake my hand, as it is considered disrespectful to touch a monk. Poe was courteous, offering the customary wai gesture of respect. He was somewhere in his forties, and had a smoking-induced cough. The polluted streets of Chiang Mai didn’t help his lungs any more than his chain-smoking, I thought. I gave him my name, Reece Jackson, and told him I was from America, San Francisco in fact.

“I overheard your talk about the murders.”

“Why haven’t they caught him yet?” I asked. “Chiang Mai’s a small town.”

“They have him trapped within the walls of the old city, but you should know how it is,” Poe grunted. “We’re talking about an American expatriate and his whore who got themselves killed by a homeless gay kid. I mean, there are limited resources available to the police department. The police force, as a rule, is not well trained. Officers have to buy their own uniforms, their own guns. They are poorly paid. Not much would be happening now except that this dead girl happens to be the daughter of an army major. The army is doing what they can but they do not know the town as well as Somchai.”

Poe was right, I thought. What could anyone reasonably expect of this situation? The unvarnished fact was that in this country, any given police station’s cases were ranked according to priority. And priority in Thailand had to do with wealth and status. Those on the low end of the spectrum were unlikely to receive much attention. And for a homeless gay kid with no family who happened to murder a bit of riff-raff, then it was probably the victim’s fault. Why bother figuring out all the sordid details?

I felt thankful that I came from a country where every death warranted respect, every victim merited justice, no matter how far down the social and economic ladder that victim might fall. At least I liked to believe that bit of hype.

The bartender placed the beers and shots before us. I lifted my shot in a toast to Poe and knocked my head back, taking the drink in one hot swallow. Poe stared at me in obvious surprise.

“I’ve never seen a monk do that,” Poe said.

“I’m not really a monk. My partner and I paid good money to enroll in the Monk-For-A-Month program here at Wat Phra Singh. He’s on some damned spiritual quest that I, frankly, don’t understand. Me, I’m just an IT geek along for the ride.”

“So you’re not alone,” Poe asked, exhaling a stream of smoke.

“Technically, no. But it often feels like I am.”

The bar stood only a few doors down from Tha Phae Square, which spread before one of the four main gates of the old city, and where two of the town’s chief avenues collided. The square was bordered by the city wall, built of ancient brick, and butted against by the city moat on the north and south sides.  The top of the wall was wide enough to walk on, and just then a flock of children scampered along the wet brick, heedless of the danger of slipping. Among them ran Archer, my adopted son, also sporting a shaved head and wearing the saffron robes. The children looked down on the tourists who gathered in the square, clutching their umbrellas in case the rains returned.

It must be between six and seven in the evening, I thought.

Another shower started and people in the square ran for cover.

Archer hopped down the wall steps and dashed across the road like a fleeing deer. He entered the bar and huddled against me, giving Poe a cautious glance. Archer was a handsome seven-year-old with a round face that gave way to a large jaw and a brilliant set of teeth. He had an impishness and good humor in his eyes, and was strong for so young a boy. But what I admired most about him was his gentle and trusting disposition. Unlike most boys, he was incapable of hurting anything. His only flaw was that he was fathered by two gay men, which made him an outcast back home, someone to be pitied, stared at, whispered about, laughed at, and occasionally beaten up by his peers.

Strokes of lightning lit the sky, coming so close together that they seemed like a ceaseless illumination. The thunder was continuous. The noise burst like metal fireworks, and then would immediately rise again; its modulations grew less and less defined as the shower let up, until there was only the sound of rain striking paving stones.

“This rain will last all night,” Poe said, lighting another cigarette from the butt of his previous one.

Moments later, the shower stopped. Poe left his stool and pointed at the leaden sky, patched with massive blotches of somber gray so low that it seemed to brush the rooftops. “Don’t let that fool you.”