It was a story I knew very well as I had lived with it for at least
a year. There had already been an earlier attempt to tell it in under 500 words
but, for once, I realised that would never work.
Then a competition came along that seemed ideal. With a
maximum 1,500 wordcount I felt I had enough room to play. I was wrong.
Of course, I left it until the cut-off day for entries, and
didn’t start writing until the afternoon – a deadline isn’t a deadline until
you can see the whites of its eyes, come on. I finally had the house to myself,
so at around 2 o’clock I cleared some space on the kitchen table, sat myself down
and put writing implement to pulped tree product (anything to avoid a cliché).
I always start with pen and paper. Even this blog entry was
once an inky smudge in a wrinkled notebook. It helps to order my thoughts, and
I find it easier to put a line through text that is not working than to
highlight and delete. Eventually I will move to the computer, though the typed
text rarely matches every written word. I read and re-read and edit as I go,
which may explain decisions coming up very soon.
By 5 o’clock I had made good progress, reaching the
mid-point of my tale, which is the first time I check my word count: 2,500
words. Of a 1,500-word story.
I had 3 options: push on with the rest of the story, go back
and make drastic cuts now (at least half of the text - probably two-thirds -
would have to go), or accept the story needs even more space so abandon the
competition plan and tell it anyway, however long it gets, putting in all the
colour, texture jokes and atmosphere I had originally planned.
If you’ve been paying attention (or if you’ve read the story),
you’ll know which choice I made. I hacked. I chiselled. I shaped. There’s room
for texture and colour in a novel, but care must be taken with a short story.
Also, I felt more comfortable sculpting the story at this
point, rather than trying to shape a 5,000-word monster late in the evening.
There is pacing to consider, and the shape of the plotting. It’s one thing to
know the story. Quite another to write the thing.
By 7 o’clock I was still halfway through, but now I had less
than 800 words. I could proceed, mindful of that word limit and the 23:00
deadline.
I kept a list of placeholders – character names and such –
and by 10 o’clock I was googling Russian family names and late 18th
century technologies/discoveries.
Then I went through the whole text again and again,
smoothing transitions, moving sentences around and pacing the action. I even
had room to put back some of the colour I had previously removed.
I read the whole story aloud to ensure it would sound natural
to the reader. It was pretty much finished. Except.
All that was left to do was pay the entry fee, double-check
the formatting and email it before the cut-off. I had five minutes.
Finish line crossed. Deadline met. Achievement unlocked.
Happy. Except.
Except what?
Except I hated the ending! A little voice was nagging at me:
this really was not how I wanted it to end. At least three paragraphs would
have to be scrapped and re-written – but I didn’t have time.
In the end it was well received and won its prize. I got the
editor comments and made the necessary adjustments including the changes to the
ending, taking out those three paragraphs I found so offensive.
So, the story you read now (should you wish to, or if you
have) is not the story as judged.
And after all that, there was no room for the backstory
explaining why these events (and others) had to happen, nor the inspiration for
my dear Count Nikolai’s mad expedition. Perhaps I should have taken that third
option and told the whole story. But then, perhaps that story would never have
been written.
The Moon a Balloon is all there is to say on the matter, and
you’ll find it in the anthology Synthesis, from Fantastic Books.
Except…
