Oh well, so much for smooth going. Having read Act IV now, my first draft feels a lot more like first draft. The preceding acts went so well that I had higher expectations going into the final. But those first three had an advantage the fourth did not: look at the dates, I got down and wrote them fast. My work on the ending stretched out intermittent, over several months, and it shows in every respect.
This is the one I really have to rewrite.
To be fair, I read it sometime last week, and have dawdled writing back. So my sense of just what in particular is wrong about Act IV is just as blunted as the work itself. I should heed the lesson. Write fast, and rewrite fast, too. Not something I’m used to doing, especially day in day out, but something this scale of work demands.
Can’t you tell I’m a first timer?
As I complained while writing it, the ending’s biggest problem is the order of events. I had much to say about Madala, the story’s original focus and instigator, which I wasn’t getting around to, until I broke continuity and had her lying on her childhood bed with Alexander. There’s still much to be done with Katerina. My doubts, so present when writing, are all the worse for having read what dissatisfaction I have done. No, I’ve much to do to make the ending work. This will take some effort yet.
The part that bothers me most is how hard I found my qualms to round up into expressible thoughts. This is so much more the experience I feared from the start! Such a strange thing to consider, creativity, when some vital part of it’s not working. Complex results. Informative ones, I do suspect, if only I could understand their instinctive shortfall.
Anyway, what I plan to do is have a second read, making notes along the way. I started off jotting a few down this time, but soon abandoned it as I wanted to read like a reader, and have a clear mind for the flow. But writing is another beast, and so to it I will return, in stages.
I took a fair few notes while writing in the first place, and bear in mind this whole site is made of much the more of quite the same. Notes do not a work make, however. Although, I’ll grant, they give the kind illusion of progress and enhanced understanding that I seek, while girding for the onslaught of second draft.
Shall I share my notes as I go? Why ever not! That’s what’s coming next, and a few things growing in my mind since the reading’s end, if they care to bloom as anything I can convey. I wouldn’t bother if not for archetypes. Some big thoughts seem to be at work, stirred by the strange event of reading my own book.
A taste of the future. Aye. The deed I’ve so long meant done.