When I was very young, I looked forward to the Christmas special Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Back then, I was most interested in Rudolph and Hermey the Elf, lovable characters rejected by the Establishment because they didn’t fit an expected mold. I’ve grown up. The part of the show that sticks with me the most these days is the Island of Misfit Toys, that leper colony for playthings where “mistakes” and unwanted toys were sent to languish due to their imperfections.
I have a manuscript box like that. Stashed in a dark part of the basement, it’s filled with stories that, through no fault of their own, just … well … stink. Yeah, I wrote them. At one time, I even thought they were good.
Fortunately, we all get a chance to evolve.
Looking at my earlier drafts (as if I’d ever let you), it’s clear my writing has been character-driven from the start — especially if you consider character sufficiently developed when he/she can be summed up in a word or two, as in “the sassy one”; “the troubled one”; “the one who surprises even herself.” (My earlier work is more accessible if you like stereotypes.)
You always knew exactly how my characters were feeling, because the adverbs attached to the dialogue tags told you. Readers were subjected to a lot of stuff like “she said questioningly,” and “he said evocatively.” If it still wasn’t obvious enough, there were many different ways to “say” things. Characters purred, chirped, and grunted. It was a regular zoo in each chapter. And, to make sure there was no doubt whatsoever, sometimes the dialogue tags were double-barreled, a fun reading experience for everyone: “she whimpered miserably,” “he snarled angrily,” “she commented pertly.” Dialogue tags, meant to be unobtrusive, were prominent enough to become their very own characters.
Plots were linear. Sure, there were stories to tell, but they lacked depth. Sometimes there was no hook, no compelling reason for anyone to want to turn the page to discover what happened next. Basically, I was writing for myself. Self-indulgent? You bet! Awful? Right again. And, yet, those stories have a special place in my heart. Those characters and I were friends.
There are some manuscripts a writer puts away knowing that they’ll be back. The plot, although in need of editing, is compelling enough to revisit. The characters have something to say. When the time is right, that manuscript will be revisited and edited into something sharp and readable.
The manuscripts in the box downstairs are not those stories. There’s a reason they live deep in the basement, out of sight.
If I remember my Rudoph correctly, the inhabitants of the Island of Misfit Toys are eventually picked up by Santa and delivered to children who will appreciate them. While nothing quite as heartwarming happens on the Island of Misfit Manuscripts, those early drafts do serve a purpose. Every once in a while, almost by mistake, I wrote a description or phrase back then that was actually good. There was effective use of imagery. There was a character who didn’t inspire cringing and/or eye-rolls. Like old cars that have outlasted their use, these old manuscripts can be mined for “parts” to use in newer stories.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling frustrated with my current manuscript, I re-read one of my oldies-but-baddies. It never fails to make me feel better.
(This post was originally published on Sept. 15, 2015.)
🙂
I always say “no writing is wasted” because it’s all practice. I accidentally rewrote an early manuscript, which had been about two opposite-personality estranged sisters who reluctantly join forces in order to help one of them with a deeply personal, desperate problem…and it became my 2012 novel Keepsake.
I say “accidentally” because it wasn’t until Keepsake was written and I was in preparations for its launch that I realized I’d brought that old story back to life.
I’ve been using ‘the Island of Misfit Toys’ for decades as a metaphor for (I’ll risk a little melodrama here) us unprofessional, institutionally useless academics who the academy told to get lost ages ago, in nicely anaesthetised management-speak. It’s a kind of cheerful image now: who needs all that underpaid non-union elf-labour? But the image of the cast-off, misprised reject who turns out to be the secret sauce everyone needed (‘Rudolf, with your nose so bright . . .’) lies at the heart of nine tenths of the world’s cycles of story and myth. Hope for us all!
Kristina, it sounds like this story really wanted to be written! I like when that happens — it was meant to be.
Robert, I feel you. All of us “misfits” want to prove that we can shine.
In case you’ve been wondering all these years, I did a little search into what’s actually wrong with the doll on the Island of Misfit Toys. Because, seriously, she appears to be a perfectly cute doll. It seems nobody really knows. The consensus (backed by one of the show’s producers) is that the doll is psychologically damaged in some way (huh??), possibly due to rejection by Sue, her owner. Rudolph is darker than we thought …
I HAVE been wondering all these decades! Was it her lack of a nose and eyebrows? Sue? Ah! ‘A scooter for Jimmy, a dolly for Sue’. That IS dark, if her only fault was not to be wanted. Sniff . . . St Augustine, Martin Luther and John Calvin (voiced by Burl Ives on a VERY bad day, of course) would all call that ‘predestination’. That’s the way the cookie crumbles, kid. God’s omniscience knows best . . . and clearly that dolly was one of the reprobate, foredoomed since the dawn of time.
Yup. Definitely dark.
Ooof. Quite an interpretation. I thought maybe Sue just wanted a doll with a different hair color …
And THAT’s why serious theology should ALWAYS be performed as stand-up comedy . . .