The Last Sentence–For Now: Thoughts on Finishing the Rough Draft of a Novel

On Easter Sunday I did something I’d been fantasizing about for a long time:  I wrote the last paragraph, the last sentence, the last period of my novel.  As it happened, the day was warm and sunny, and I wrote this long awaited conclusion (long awaited by me, that is) with a pencil, sitting at an outdoor table drinking coffee.  It was about as idyllic a literary moment as one could wish for. 

Then I got up, went to my non-idyllic laptop, typed the conclusion into the huge Word file that contains my novel, and I thought, “Okay, 610 pages to revise, chop, edit.  But not today.” 

This has been a long project.   The novel is set in Hungary in 1951 and is tentatively titled Voice.  I have been writing this novel for about three-and-a-half years, although if I include research in the calculation, five years might state it more accurately.  The preliminary chapter I wrote back in the beginning has long since been thrown out; I once read a quote from an author that said you basically have to sacrifice the first 100 pages to figure out what you’re doing, and that certainly was true in my case.   After dumping a lot in the electronic trash I came up with a beginning that sort of worked as a launch point, and I managed enough of an outline that I could at least aim at something as I wrote.  Along the way I continued to do more research.  Historical details and the needs of the story began reshaping my original vision:  I ended up changing the age of the male protagonist, Péter, and deepening his problems; and I threw more challenges to Katalin, the female lead, than I had first planned for her.  Subplots arose and in some cases ended up going into the trash like my original first chapter.  But this is all part of improving the work.  If I weren’t willing to make adjustments—sometimes big ones—I would be wasting my own time.

Rory and Connie in Peru

Connie and Rory Connally in Abancay, Peru (a far cry from the setting of the novel)

The finished manuscript is pretty ungainly.  The second half, not surprisingly, is a lot more focused than the first half, because by the time I had written 300 pages I was doing less wandering in the dark.  Now the daunting task of revision lies ahead of me.  Some of my writer friends, as well as a professional author, will be reviewing the manuscript for me and helping me refine it.  (My husband has already read the manuscript, and like a loyal husband, he loved it.)   I know that in some parts of the book the revisions will need to be pretty deep, and I don’t expect this work to go quickly.  But I’m very excited to have come to this point.  The diamond is still rough, but there is enough sparkle there to keep me hoping and honing.

The problem with having finished the rough draft is that I miss my characters.  I was so used to dealing with them on a daily basis, checking in with them and handing them more aggravations.  Well, there is always the revision stage.  Péter and Katalin, see you soon. 

 

 

Art and Service–Some Thoughts After a Sax Concert by Chet Baughman

Last Friday night my husband and I went to a concerto concert at the University of Puget Sound.  The group performing was the University’s Wind Ensemble, and the performance featured two talented music students, both saxophone soloists, who had won a competition.  One of the sax players was Chet Baughman, whom Rory and I know from church.  Chet played Ingolf Dahl’s Concerto for Alto Saxophone and Wind Orchestra.  The program notes said that because of the extremely high range of the sax part in places, very few performers could actually play the piece, and the composer revised it to make it more manageable.  When I read this, I assumed that Chet would be playing the revised version.  But no—he played the original.  I sat amazed as he executed this exciting and very difficult piece beautifully and expressively.  The incredibly high-soaring notes did not sound like anything I had ever heard from an alto sax, but neither did they sound strained.  I would guess that to play them so well must have required something like Olympic training.  I have to marvel at Chet’s commitment.

Chet is part of a musically gifted family, but not a wealthy one nor even a traditionally American one.  He grew up in France, the son of missionaries working with Muslims.  He is bilingual and in addition to studying music is also studying French literature.  He plans to go on to graduate school next year, studying music.  But faith and service are as much a part of Chet as music is.

Two days after his concerto performance, I saw him at church.  The guest speaker that morning was a man from International Justice Mission, an organization which seeks to stop human trafficking and help its victims.  After the service the man was handing out literature about this painful topic and about his organization.  Rory and I saw Chet next to the IJM information table, and we congratulated him on his sax performance.  When I asked him what was next for him, he said graduate school.  And after that?  That is less certain.  Gesturing with the International Justice Mission literature in his hands, he told me, “But I also want to do something like this.”

Some people seem to have a dual calling:  beautiful success in difficult artistic work, yet also a yearning for something that comes from a different and very deep place in the heart.  Chet’s two divergent passions make me think of a girl from my high school graduating class.  An extremely talented pianist, she studied music in college and won huge respect and admiration from the whole music department.  Then she married a pastor.  Her life took on a ministry focus, much less performance-oriented than the possibilities that could have opened up for her.  From what I heard, a number of musicians who knew her considered this choice to be a waste of her musical gift. 

I see it differently.  Ministry takes an enormous amount of love, faith and stamina, whether the work is here among a church congregation or in India among abused prostitutes.  In ministry there aren’t many rewards to the ego.  You don’t get standing ovations.  Often the price of success in dealing with broken people is . . . more broken people to deal with.  I believe the heart strength necessary for this kind of work is a gift as precious as great musical talent.  This kind of gifting shouldn’t be wasted, either.  When artists like my high school friend and like Chet have what it takes to commit to the work of ministry, I can only offer my gratitude and respect. 

And thanks, Chet, for a beautiful concert!