“Making Apocalypse Now, Coppola famously shot over two hundred and thirty hours of film, unheard of at the time,” says Will Boast.
Which is why you write write write. Load your page up with words (some of which you will never use). You will cut them out later. You just need to write.
Apocalypse Now is almost two and a half hours, which means Coppola shot more than 100 hours of film for every hour he used.
Following this formula, if your novel is going to be 50,000 words, you will have to write 5,000,000 words. Or let's say you're aiming for a final draft of 80,000 words. Are you ready to write 8,000,000?
Maybe you need to be.
What if, like a filmmaker, you wrote one scene a dozen times? Or twenty-five times?
Do you think the scene would be better for the repetition? (That's a rhetorical question, silly. Of course it would.)
Ironically, this ends up taking the pressure off. Any half-rate actor can get it right once in twenty-five takes. Say goodbye to perfectionism. Writing a scene twenty-five times means you don't have to get it perfect the first time. Or the second time. Or the third time. No matter how bad you are (and we are all bad on the first draft), you'll get a couple good passages that you can stitch together in the editing room.
PRACTICE
Write a scene.
A soldier is on a boat going up a river. What happens? What does he think about?
Write the scene for five minutes. Then write it again. Then write it again.
Three takes. Post your three takes in the comments. Which is your favorite?
I’m not sure this worked for me. LOL. I got so anxious trying to beat the clock while at the same time trying to improve and/or totally change directions in the story. Plus, I realized I know very little about war and the armed forces, so it threw me for a curve as I tried to take on the character and vocabulary of a soldier. But here’s my unedited three drafts:
The soldier blankly steered the PT 9 upriver, ever so often flipping through the four bloody dog tags in his left hand. His mind was a blur. The gunfire had caught them off guard. He heard the popping sound come from the left bank and then suddenly felt the heat of gunfire blow past his left ear. He had instinctively gone into survival mode as he crumpled on to
The battle worn soldier steered his PT 9 up the Rhine, looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. Occasionally he would pick up one of the bloody dog tacks from the seat next to him and start to cry. He had lost all four of his men in the attack. The gunfire had taken them by surprise. He had heard the popping sound coming from the left back when suddenly he felt the heat from a bullet whizzing by his left ear. That’s when his instincts kicked in and he fell to his knees
The soldier was going into shock. He blankly looked up the river as he tried to maintain control of his faculties and steer him out of enemy territory. On the dashboard of his Elco PT9 were the bloody dog tags of three of his men. That was all that was left of them. His boat had come under surprise attack and so while he had sought to steer the boat to safety, his three comrades had picked up their weapons and started shooting. But it was too late, all three of them were hit by the incoming grenade that landed at their feet
Hey there. Well done. It’s an interesting experiment isn’t it. I think you did pretty well, considering the challenge.
Watch out for telling / summarizing too much. This, for example:
“That was all that was left of them. His boat had come under surprise attack and so while he had sought to steer the boat to safety, his three comrades had picked up their weapons and started shooting. But it was too late, all three of them were hit by the incoming grenade that landed at their feet…”
In these, you were at your best when you’re “showing,” like here:
“On the dashboard of his Elco PT9 were the bloody dog tags of three of his men. ”
And here:
“The battle worn soldier steered his PT 9 up the Rhine, looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. Occasionally he would pick up one of the bloody dog tacks from the seat next to him…”
And your best line of all:
“every so often flipping through the four bloody dog tags in his left hand.”
I love your specificity there (four dog tags, left hand). It’s good.
I’m not sure this worked for me. LOL. I got so anxious trying to beat the clock while at the same time trying to improve and/or totally change directions in the story. Plus, I realized I know very little about war and the armed forces, so it threw me for a curve as I tried to take on the character and vocabulary of a soldier. But here’s my unedited three drafts:
The soldier blankly steered the PT 9 upriver, ever so often flipping through the four bloody dog tags in his left hand. His mind was a blur. The gunfire had caught them off guard. He heard the popping sound come from the left bank and then suddenly felt the heat of gunfire blow past his left ear. He had instinctively gone into survival mode as he crumpled on to
The battle worn soldier steered his PT 9 up the Rhine, looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. Occasionally he would pick up one of the bloody dog tacks from the seat next to him and start to cry. He had lost all four of his men in the attack. The gunfire had taken them by surprise. He had heard the popping sound coming from the left back when suddenly he felt the heat from a bullet whizzing by his left ear. That’s when his instincts kicked in and he fell to his knees
The soldier was going into shock. He blankly looked up the river as he tried to maintain control of his faculties and steer him out of enemy territory. On the dashboard of his Elco PT9 were the bloody dog tags of three of his men. That was all that was left of them. His boat had come under surprise attack and so while he had sought to steer the boat to safety, his three comrades had picked up their weapons and started shooting. But it was too late, all three of them were hit by the incoming grenade that landed at their feet
Hey there. Well done. It’s an interesting experiment isn’t it. I think you did pretty well, considering the challenge.
Watch out for telling / summarizing too much. This, for example:
“That was all that was left of them. His boat had come under surprise attack and so while he had sought to steer the boat to safety, his three comrades had picked up their weapons and started shooting. But it was too late, all three of them were hit by the incoming grenade that landed at their feet…”
In these, you were at your best when you’re “showing,” like here:
“On the dashboard of his Elco PT9 were the bloody dog tags of three of his men. ”
And here:
“The battle worn soldier steered his PT 9 up the Rhine, looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. Occasionally he would pick up one of the bloody dog tacks from the seat next to him…”
And your best line of all:
“every so often flipping through the four bloody dog tags in his left hand.”
I love your specificity there (four dog tags, left hand). It’s good.
#1
He knew he wouldn’t be coming back, like some wounded migrating bird battling its way to a winter home in South America. He didn’t know why he felt that way, at least not at first. He’d been in the military for seven years and this sure as hell wasn’t his first covert op up some godforsaken river in a country only historians could find on a map. His fellow soldiers didn’t seem to catch the same vibe. They played cards, smoked and drank whiskey, or sat with their legs over the edge of the boat with that numb, dumb soldier stare. He envied them. Maybe they’d return, like the swallows of San Juan, but down there, in that black abyss the boat rode upon, something rose up and whispered in his ear that he wouldn’t be coming back.
#2
He tried playing cards with the other soldiers, a bunch of guys he’d spent seven years with doing low odds, low glory covert ops like this, whatever “this” turned out to be. The boat labored against the current just as he struggled to get a good breath. He’d fucked up this time, had stepped in the quicksand of love, and every soldier will tell you the simple truth–you’re in the shit when you give yourself something to lose. The river was black. Dead fish with aghast eyes floated by. And yet, he could smell the melon shampoo in her hair and taste the salt from the margaritas and in the sweat on her chest. The others watched up river, but not him. He moved to the stern and took in where they’d come from, because a voice on the wind told him he wouldn’t get to see it again.
Slow, this is wonderful. I can’t find any flaws with it, except maybe this sentimental not-quite cliche, “the quicksand of love.” I loved your simile, “like some wounded migrating bird battling its way to a winter home in South America.” Great images, “The river was black. Dead fish with aghast eyes floated by. ” And the overall comparison between him and the other soldiers is brilliant (and true to Copolla’s work, too). Thank you for writing this. It was a pleasure to read.
Thanks for commenting, Joe. I appreciate it.
A few thoughts on #2…
-The first sentence draws me in immediately. If you had more time to write, it’d be good to make another reference or two about his attempt to play cards (as the prose continues.)
-I agree with Joe about the “quicksand” of love…makes it a little weaker.
– Beautiful detail about the dead fish / melon shampoo / salt / etcetera
Keep up the good work! I’m interested.
Thanks, Hope, glad you liked it. Apologies for the freshman comp “love” reference…I had five minutes to write and let it stand, but yeah, it’s lame.
It’s lame but that’s the nature of the discipline (and of first drafts in general). You have to write the lame stuff to get to the good bits.
#1
He knew he wouldn’t be coming back, like some wounded migrating bird battling its way to a winter home in South America. He didn’t know why he felt that way, at least not at first. He’d been in the military for seven years and this sure as hell wasn’t his first covert op up some godforsaken river in a country only historians could find on a map. His fellow soldiers didn’t seem to catch the same vibe. They played cards, smoked and drank whiskey, or sat with their legs over the edge of the boat with that numb, dumb soldier stare. He envied them. Maybe they’d return, like the swallows of San Juan, but down there, in that black abyss the boat rode upon, something rose up and whispered in his ear that he wouldn’t be coming back.
#2
He tried playing cards with the other soldiers, a bunch of guys he’d spent seven years with doing low odds, low glory covert ops like this, whatever “this” turned out to be. The boat labored against the current just as he struggled to get a good breath. He’d fucked up this time, had stepped in the quicksand of love, and every soldier will tell you the simple truth–you’re in the shit when you give yourself something to lose. The river was black. Dead fish with aghast eyes floated by. And yet, he could smell the melon shampoo in her hair and taste the salt from the margaritas and in the sweat on her chest. The others watched up river, but not him. He moved to the stern and took in where they’d come from, because a voice on the wind told him he wouldn’t get to see it again.
Slow, this is wonderful. I can’t find any flaws with it, except maybe this sentimental not-quite cliche, “the quicksand of love.” I loved your simile, “like some wounded migrating bird battling its way to a winter home in South America.” Great images, “The river was black. Dead fish with aghast eyes floated by. ” And the overall comparison between him and the other soldiers is brilliant (and true to Copolla’s work, too). Thank you for writing this. It was a pleasure to read.
Thanks for commenting, Joe. I appreciate it.
A few thoughts on #2…
-The first sentence draws me in immediately. If you had more time to write, it’d be good to make another reference or two about his attempt to play cards (as the prose continues.)
-I agree with Joe about the “quicksand” of love…makes it a little weaker.
– Beautiful detail about the dead fish / melon shampoo / salt / etcetera
Keep up the good work! I’m interested.
Thanks, Hope, glad you liked it. Apologies for the freshman comp “love” reference…I had five minutes to write and let it stand, but yeah, it’s lame.
It’s lame but that’s the nature of the discipline (and of first drafts in general). You have to write the lame stuff to get to the good bits.
Take 1
The faces still haunted him. Their unit was ordered to sweep through a village a find enemy combatants. No one told them what to do if the villagers refused to comply. Is this what I signed up for? Were those people civilians or soldiers? The sergeant said to keep quiet. The brass wouldn’t want any press finding out how the raid went down. This isn’t honor; that much he knew.
Take 2
They couldn’t get away fast enough. The village still burned behind them. A charred monument to hardened hearts and trigger-happy fingers. It was supposed to be a simple mission. Find munitions stockpiles and take care of them. But gunfire erupted and then chaos.
Back up the river the village lay quiet. The soldier retreated to camp, chased by ghosts and demons of his own making.
Take 3
“Look son; we did what we had to.” The sergeant said. But he didn’t hear them. He still heard the screams of mothers. He saw the frightened faces of children. The boat glided down the river. Dropping his head, he saw their reflection. For a moment, he thought he saw an old wooden boat, driven an ancient man. Straight to hell he, he said to himself. We’re going straight to hell.
I love number three, Ryan. Love it. The other two are pretty good, but number three is fascinating to me. I like how you start in the middle of the scene, and with dialogue. And this was haunting, “For a moment, he thought he saw an old wooden boat, driven an ancient man.” It’s just so good, dude. Well done.
Take 1
The faces still haunted him. Their unit was ordered to sweep through a village a find enemy combatants. No one told them what to do if the villagers refused to comply. Is this what I signed up for? Were those people civilians or soldiers? The sergeant said to keep quiet. The brass wouldn’t want any press finding out how the raid went down. This isn’t honor; that much he knew.
Take 2
They couldn’t get away fast enough. The village still burned behind them. A charred monument to hardened hearts and trigger-happy fingers. It was supposed to be a simple mission. Find munitions stockpiles and take care of them. But gunfire erupted and then chaos.
Back up the river the village lay quiet. The soldier retreated to camp, chased by ghosts and demons of his own making.
Take 3
“Look son; we did what we had to.” The sergeant said. But he didn’t hear them. He still heard the screams of mothers. He saw the frightened faces of children. The boat glided down the river. Dropping his head, he saw their reflection. For a moment, he thought he saw an old wooden boat, driven an ancient man. Straight to hell he, he said to himself. We’re going straight to hell.
I love number three, Ryan. Love it. The other two are pretty good, but number three is fascinating to me. I like how you start in the middle of the scene, and with dialogue. And this was haunting, “For a moment, he thought he saw an old wooden boat, driven an ancient man.” It’s just so good, dude. Well done.
My first attempt at descriptive writing…
What he is about to endure, nobody is certain. The silence around him is deafening.
Surrounded by jungle, there are no sounds except the low hum of the boat’s motor, the soldier next to him chewing his gum, and leaves rustling as birds take flight, frightened by the approach of the vessel.
A random concoction of thoughts passes through his mind, moving from the past and into the future. Thoughts of childhood friends, his favorite restaurants back home and what his family might be doing in that exact moment.
He can still picture the anxious goodbyes, embracing his parents as he left for his tour of duty. He pictures what his friends might be doing back home and whether or not he’ll live to see them again.
Will there be a woman in his future? He pictures what she might be like but can’t seem to make out her face. He knows one thing, she’s beautiful. And their children…would they have a boy or a girl? He prefers a girl. Something to balance the macho world he finds himself now immersed in.
For a moment it’s as if he was in another place altogether, but the blast from a nearby mortar round quickly jolts his thoughts back to the present. They are getting closer to the battlefield. There would be no turning back. To live to see these moments in the future he’d have to survive this moment now.
And so his thoughts quickly revert to training. His grip tightens on the handle of his rifle, his jaw clenches tighter as he pictures the enemy, and his focus is laser-like on the task at hand.
The boat glides to a stop at an abandoned dock and the soldiers begin to disembark. He say’s a short prayer as he steps onto the foreign soil with so much riding on this moment…
I didnt exactly follow the rules here so…sorry for that haha
Dude, great start. A little foreshadowing mixed in with string-taut description.
I like how you use present tense, and bounce from the present to memory and back again, a great storytelling technique, in my opinion.
I think this is a bit too little to say about something so significant: “but the blast from a nearby mortar round quickly jolts his thoughts back to the present.” I would like to see that more since it’s the first point you reveal what’s actually going on here.
Still, I think the way you frame the beginning of the battle is brilliant.
Thanks for the feedback Joe. I love this site. Immensely practical. Thanks for it.
My first attempt at descriptive writing…
What he is about to endure, nobody is certain. The silence around him is deafening.
Surrounded by jungle, there are no sounds except the low hum of the boat’s motor, the soldier next to him chewing his gum, and leaves rustling as birds take flight, frightened by the approach of the vessel.
A random concoction of thoughts passes through his mind, moving from the past and into the future. Thoughts of childhood friends, his favorite restaurants back home and what his family might be doing in that exact moment.
He can still picture the anxious goodbyes, embracing his parents as he left for his tour of duty. He pictures what his friends might be doing back home and whether or not he’ll live to see them again.
Will there be a woman in his future? He pictures what she might be like but can’t seem to make out her face. He knows one thing, she’s beautiful. And their children…would they have a boy or a girl? He prefers a girl. Something to balance the macho world he finds himself now immersed in.
For a moment it’s as if he was in another place altogether, but the blast from a nearby mortar round quickly jolts his thoughts back to the present. They are getting closer to the battlefield. There would be no turning back. To live to see these moments in the future he’d have to survive this moment now.
And so his thoughts quickly revert to training. His grip tightens on the handle of his rifle, his jaw clenches tighter as he pictures the enemy, and his focus is laser-like on the task at hand.
The boat glides to a stop at an abandoned dock and the soldiers begin to disembark. He say’s a short prayer as he steps onto the foreign soil with so much riding on this moment…
I didnt exactly follow the rules here so…sorry for that haha
Dude, great start. A little foreshadowing mixed in with string-taut description.
I like how you use present tense, and bounce from the present to memory and back again, a great storytelling technique, in my opinion.
I think this is a bit too little to say about something so significant: “but the blast from a nearby mortar round quickly jolts his thoughts back to the present.” I would like to see that more since it’s the first point you reveal what’s actually going on here.
Still, I think the way you frame the beginning of the battle is brilliant.
Thanks for the feedback Joe. I love this site. Immensely practical. Thanks for it.
1:
He wants to splash himself in the running waters below. He’s covered head to toe with dust, kicked up during the fight only half a mile away.
He doesn’t dare to look back: it’s enough for him to imagine the black cloud rising. The sign of what he had done, what he had left behind. Terry’s charred corpse, at the heart of a burning village.
He sets down his gun and brings his hands to the river. The water is cool, a balm after his trip too hell. He drinks it, for he is dying of thirst, and it washes the dust from his throat.
But there’s something in the water. He stares, and grimaces. Black sludge, a mess of blood and molten tar, have joined him on his journey.
2:
He settled down in the boat, careful to not upset its balance. It was a tiny, wooden, frail thing, brought to life by poor villagers for the occasional fishing trip. It wasn’t made for days like this.
His muscles ached so much he couldn’t row. He could only let himself get borne along my the mild current.
“GO!” Terry had screamed at him. He’d never heard Terry shout like that; Terry was always the cool and calm one, the man whom everybody relied on. Terry could take a good hold of the situation. There was never a battle Terry couldn’t handle. That’s why he said, “I’ll handle this, I can stall them. You can’t take the risk; go get backup! Go!”
But he’d stayed, and at what cost. One deafening bang and the unseen bomb had gone off, and the next thing he’d seen of Terry was his severed, burnt-black arm, still clutching a gun.
3:
There was fire at his behind, and water ahead, and the only thing to do was go, go, go.
His body screamed with the effort of pushing the little rickety boat into the river, and the jungle’s thick muddy soil and gnarly tree roots didn’t help. He was getting too tired to do this, he couldn’t do it. But there had to be a way he could escape this hell.
Even though his arms were exhausted, he paddled the best he could. He grabbed the shallow banks of the river and dragged his boat along. Once he spied a loose tree branch, he used it to propel himself forward.
The waters got darker, deeper. he’d reached the main body of the river, and there was no turning back against its powerful current.
The boat bobbed and she had to stiffen her feet on the ground. She held firmly at the edge as the rapid waters crashed against the helm of the of the aquatic transport.
“I take it as your first time, miss.” A man at the steering wheel said. “Going up the river I mean.”
She nodded and held the documents firm to her chest. The man gave him a toothless smile and winked at her.
A smile threatened to appear on her lips but she forced it down. Waves crashed again and she held the papers up firmly in the air.
“Careful with the paperwork miss,” the man said as he steered. “It might get caught by the wind, holding it high like that.”
She dropped them by her abdomen. She flattened her lips. “Sir, can I ask you a question?”
~~~
The Sun shone in her eyes and she shielded it with the documents she was holding.
“Careful miss,” a young man said as he continued steering. “That sh-stuff might get thrown out by the wind.”
She held it down by her chest and held it closer when the boat started bobbing and she felt the rapid waters crash under.
“Hey, uh, young man,” she said. “You sure this is safe?”
The young man looked behind at her and gave her a frown. “First time on a boat? It’s as safe as it can be?”
“Meaning?”
He smiled. His dimples appeared and his teeth was pretty clean and white. “Your safe as long as you with me.”
She laughed. “Nice one kid. You almost got me.”
“Hey,” he shrugged as he looked forward. “I try.”
“Grow up 10 more years kid,” she said. The boat bobbed and bobbed then she clenched the documents between her fist.
“Hey, uh, kid,” she said. “Can I ask you a question?”
~~~
“Don’t,” he said as he held firm on the steering wheel.
“Aw,” she said trying to reach as he blocked her from the wheel. “I wanna steer,” she said.
“Look, Lieutenant,” he said as he turned around and faced the rapid waters crashing through them. “I’m a fishermans kid. Your, uh, well you. I’m driving.”
She held the documents firm to her chest. “What happened to the ‘drivers’ anyway?”
He shrugged. Waves crashed and the boat bobbed. She relaxed in her place leaning on the wall of the cabin.
“The father went to say sorry to his wife or something,” he said. “The son, I don’t know, chasing off admirers, maybe?”
She laughed. “That kid was cute isn’t he?”
“A rival for my dear Lieutenant’s affection, dear god.” He said as he started chuckling.
“Hey,” she said. “Can I ask you a question?”