The following appeared in August in the Romance Writers of Australia August Newsletter under the THE WRITE CRAFT.

Layering – Why I Love It

By Beverley Eikli

Mention the word ‘layering’ and I get excited.

When I’m ready to start layering it means I’m getting somewhere. I’ve thrown down the rough and dirty draft, corrected at least three times the erroneous perception that I’m nearly finished…and now I have some solid, concrete direction as to what’s really gone wrong with my ‘wip’.

That is, of course, one of the dangers of being a ‘pantser’. (Someone who writes by the seat of her pants, for those not familiar with the term.) Having rewritten the second half of my latest manuscript Lady Farquhar’s Butterfly three times I wonder if a ‘plotter’ would have got to this point a lot earlier and with far less angst, than me.

I also wonder if having a deadline would have changed the process. My publisher, Robert Hale, has first right of refusal on my next two books. I can send my ‘wip’ in at my leisure. But without a deadline I realise how easily the luxury of time can be squandered.

Or how two young kids, a husband who is often away, a dog, part-time job and a household to run can easily make writing the lowest priority.

Nevertheless, with ten days of enforced bed rest due to a sprained back I am able to devote entire glorious days to layering. In just three days I have cut 25,000 words and added another 15,000 in a major overhaul of Lady Farquhar’s Butterfly.

It wasn’t an easy thing to do. In fact, I dug in my toes for at least a couple of days before accepting that my three critique partners were right. A major aspect of my plot didn’t work. The fact they had come to this conclusion, independently of one another, meant I had to take notice though, really, it was confirmation of a nasty little suspicion lurking at the back of my brain which I had not wanted to entertain. (Too much work! I’d already rewritten the entire second half, twice!)

It was only with distance I could see their point. I realised I was much too close to my intricate plot to notice the loose threads. I needed to revamp the credibility factor when it came to keeping my hero and heroine apart for the crucial middle and to do this I had to remove an entire elopement. It was pretty major stuff.

This is an example of layering at its most drastic; a whole plot layer removed. Nevertheless, by this stage I knew my characters far better than I did when I started the book so that my fingers were flying as I ripped bits apart and stitched them up again in quite a different way. And it was fun.

Layering, for me, performs a variety of functions. It is the final colour wash that transforms a prosaic tea party into a hotbed of scandal. It ups the ante with a snippet of information or revelation that feeds into the next scene, or plants the question the reader is desperate to have answered.

As a panster who loves a good plot, the grand conclusion of my book is something that develops as it goes along. I might only discover the truly wicked motivation of my villain ten pages from the end of my first draft. Therefore I will have to go back to the beginning and, with the benefit of hindsight, weave many clues and red herrings throughout the text to make the plot ultimately work.

This has to be done with a fine touch, obviously, giving me the opportunity to take a really close look at each scene and its function.

In Lady Sarah’s Redemption, my debut Regency Historical, my editor had suggested I eliminate an entire plot tangent and amalgamate two villains into one. (Notice a common theme? You’d think I’d have learned to keep it simpler by now!) Anyway, I balked at the work but did it because I knew he was right if the book was to have the necessary cohesion. However, lopping off an entire branch results in losing valuable shoots, so the process required layering other scenes with some of the necessary information disseminated in the now discarded scenes. Distance is required for this delicate work. I do not have the mental capacity to do it when I’m tired or have worked on the book for hours beforehand. (Which makes me really worry about how I will cope if deadlines become part of the equation.)

Once again, it gave me a different angle by which to enter the story, and further opportunities for strengthening what was there.

When I was a beginner writer I thought removing huge chunks of text meant I had wasted my time. I know better, now. Had I been a plotter I would have written reams of character studies before even starting my story. My ‘wasted’ words, I soon came to realise, were simply my way of discovering my characters and my story as I went along. They weren’t wasted at all.

We may strenuously resist making changes because it means extra work, or because removing beloved passages is as painful as pulling teeth, or because  sensitive artists don’t like being told something doesn’t work. But the more I write the more amazed I am at how seemingly major criticisms can often be so easily addressed. When one has three diligent and conscientious critique partners, one gets used to criticism. There were times, particularly in the early days of being part of a critique group, when I’ve thought: “Yes, I can see there’s a problem, but fixing it means rewriting the whole book!” To my surprise, I discovered that an apparently major crisis can be mitigated by the simple removal or addition of a couple of sentences to fix a plot hole or strengthen or alter motivation.

Finding the right place to do it is the hard part but that becomes easier with practise. And, as I said before, distance.

In the case of my elopement scene which didn’t work in Lady Farquhar’s Butterfly, I replaced it with a lovers’ tryst during several hours within the confines of the town, rather than over several days during a mad gallop to Gretna Green. (The elopement was, after all, not the focus of the plot but a means of tying the fundamental plot together.)

Discovering that there are as many writing methods as there are writers was something I learned only after I joined RWA, in 2000, years after I first started submitting manuscripts. I also learned – finally - that success comes from researching your market and that polished professional approaches are essential. A synopsis and cover letter, outlining the high concept in a couple of succinct sentences and addressed to a specific acquiring editor?

I didn’t know that’s how it was done.

I thought my fabulous story was the rough diamond a generic editor was looking for so he or she could polish it to a shine to suit their requirements. (I’d like to add here that I was very naïve, if not so very young, at the time.)

As the kind of student who started their essays on the day they were due I lamented the missed opportunities of turning my work into something really good. The discipline of time and, crucially, the skill of polishing and layering came to me relatively late. In fact, I would say only with my first published novel. It developed through the combination of obligations to critique partners (in the early days we submitted once a month but now it’s whenever any one of us needs it) together with needing to act on their advice — and proving it when I resubmitted.

In Lady Farquhar’s Butterfly I have, through multiple drafts, developed the motivations of my hero, heroine and villain and, after my third attempt, refined the plot so that it links beginning, middle and end in a compelling and satisfying way.

With the plot now dealt with I am now into the more nuanced process of layering. Right now it’s the emotional highs and lows. I am trying to identify areas where I can up the ante at every opportunity.

To do this I paraphrase each chapter into a couple of sentences. Once I’ve identified the function of the chapter I can look at ways to strengthen whatever it is that defines it. For example:  Olivia’s torment over her impossible secret; Max’s fury at what he mistakenly believes to be the truth; Mrs Hepworth’s revelation which overturns Max’s assumptions. In each case I can up the ante with regard to cause and effect.

These are all part of what I term layering. Others may call it something else.

Creating a novel is as much the discovery of what craft techniques work for you as it is producing the final product.

It’s hard work and for much of the process I find myself seriously wondering if it’s possible to turn this sow’s ear into a silk purse.

With layering and polishing, it always is.