.

A blog for fiction writers and impending writers. An editor’s perspective.

• Next post • Previous post • Index

---

Exciting, But Simple.

I’m not sure if there’s a sage in the world who can teach the secrets of exciting writing. If they can’t, I certainly can’t either.

Those same sages likely can’t define the various elements that ultimately define a truly thrilling novel. By exciting, I’m not speaking about a constant, continual barrage of chills and spills, page after page after page. Your intent is not to provide an unyielding roller-coaster rush, nor an incessant, thunder-and-lightning sort of excitement—but rather the finesse to transport readers to another realm and/or reveal the depths of an entirely fictive being. If successful, readers will stay with you until the final word of the last page. Exciting novels can be told in a whisper, can be written without the stench of death or the horror of mass destruction; without a single tear drop or belly laugh or even a boffo, surprisingly twisted last page that defies the reader’s expectation. Exciting novels simply must be told in exciting ways.

My idea of fictive excitement? It’s a combination of developing a witty and engaging style, an active—not passive—voice (see Active Voice and Show, Don’t Tell), and the ability to tell a complete story. Excitement is in the eye of the beholder, after all. And, in my opinion, excitement is simply a writer’s ability to prompt readers to, without hesitation, turn to the next page. And if I knew the secret formula every time I sat down to write, I’d own the New York Times Best Seller List.

I do not.

I do happen to believe that writers, like ball players, concert cellists and chess masters, are born into this world fully equipped with the ability to succeed. Some will never have the chance or the perseverance to fully explore or hone our true talents. Others will spill blood, sweat and tears, but never catch that lucky break. (Sorry, yeah, it’s about luck, too.) Sometimes, good writers simply encounter bad timing. Or the wrong agent, or editor, or the wrong publisher. And don’t think I haven’t lost a sleepless night or two fretting about that last quandary. I have.

And sometimes, the most diligent of souls, the sweetest of people, simply aren’t creative or technically skilled enough. Almost, but not quite. The world is filled with manuscripts, piled high in milk crates crammed into back corners of countless closets. As my old granny used to say, “You can’t make a Ferrari out of a Studebaker.”

She’s right. But the biggest tragedy is never knowing. Never trying. The world may indeed be overladen with Studebakers pretending to be Ferraris, but I suspect the world also has its fair share of idling Ferraris, glumly assuming they’re Studebakers. These are the writers who’ll never allow themselves the chance to experience themselves flying balls out down that literary speedway of life. And that’s a shame.

As hopeful authors, most of us are capable of crafting and honing our mechanical abilities—we can read creative writing books, we can study language and craft and attend workshops—we’re able to eventually intuit a noun from a verb. Because a writer can learn the simple stuff. But you can’t learn what can’t be taught. You can’t learn writing excitement.

So when I talk about excitement, I’m talking about a writer’s ability to create an individual style, that unique blend of panache and enthusiasm and articulation. Style can’t be bought or taught or handed down, generation to generation. Nobody taught Picasso Cubism. Nobody taught Babe Ruth to hit homers. Nobody taught Einstein to think. They each had it in ’em, all along.

If you have it—and Tom Wolff would call it the right stuff—good for you. Aim for the center field bleachers. If you don’t have it, you’ll discover that soon enough and move on. Ninety-five percent of wannabe fiction writers move on, and often to even greater endeavors. Ain’t no shame in crossing off write a novel from your bucket list, before skiing the Alps or designing a home or discovering cold fusion.

So… do I have advice for those of you attempting to determine your own stylistic prowess? (Does a goose have paté?) I can offer a few suggestions to flint that spark, to perhaps ignite something inside that might never extinguish.

Suggestion #1. New to fiction writing? Overwhelmed by the concept of writing 300 or 400 pages end-to-end? Unsure of your own abilities or talent or stamina? Start with smaller bites. Write a short story. Write an idea. Write a slice of life—a simple scene, a simple page with no beginning or no end—with no other agenda than pure enjoyment. Write for yourself. Make yourself smile. If that works… write another page. If you find yourself pouring out your soul, or simply amusing yourself with your own creative genius, perhaps you’re onto something. But writing a novel is kinda like giving birth. Give it time. Give it room. If you start pushing too hard at three months you’ll only hurt yourself, and the kid’ll be thinking WTF, mom?

Suggestion #2. Chances are, if you’re a writer, you’re also a reader. As a reader, what excites you? When I write, I keep a favorite novel on my desk and, most mornings before I begin working, I pick a random page and begin to read. Sometimes I read a few paragraphs, sometimes a few pages. I read until I’m filled with awe and appreciation and amazement that, yeah, that’s great stuff. And I can do it too.

By reading snippets, I’m not suggestion that you emulate a writer’s style or content—my attempt isn’t to plagiarize substance or verbiage—I’m simply trying to jump start my own creative juices by absorbing another writer’s creative juices. It’s the literary equivalent of a Vulcan Mind-Meld.

Suggestion #3. Concentrate on dialogue. If not on quantity, then on quality. The eyes may be the portal to the soul (as the poets like to say), but in fiction, dialogue is the portal to a character’s soul. (See Dialogue.) I personally believe dialogue to be the single most important asset to a unique voice. Try writing a few pages of dialogue; two people simply talking to each other. No other modifiers (i.e.; he said sweetly, or she chuckled insanely.) Simply two voices. Don’t think about it—just begin a dialogue. You might be amazed at how spontaneous (again, as in don’t think about it) you’ll find a situation (no matter how irrelevant) developing. For instance (and with zero contemplation) here’s my brain’s random output:

Random, unrehearsed, out-of-nowhere stuff.

Why dialogue, you ask? Why spit out words without deliberation or expectation? Because you’re removing all mental parameters and preconceived notions about your writing. Fictional dialogue (like IRL dialogue) can be as ethereal, as eccentric, as quirky as your brain is willing to stretch. You’re disrupting the organizational structure of a few trillion synapses by crayoning outside the lines.

Will this sort of nonsensical (or at least unprepared) dialogue translate into a story? Maybe. Probably not. But do realize that you’re channeling your inner self here. You’re allowing yourself, if only for a moment, unfettered creative freedom—and mental exercises such as this may lead to a little personal insight about your own creative abilities. Creativity begets creativity after all.

Again, refer to Rule #3: Write to please yourself. If you find yourself writing for the various expectations of a vast and often fickle audience audience, you’ll eventually lose yourself in the crowd. Even if you’re successful, sooner or later you’ll maybe even sell your soul. So read a ton, learn the craft, study the mechanics of writing—and then write whatever makes you happy.

.

---

• Next post • Previous post • Index
.

.

by

.

A blog for fiction writers and impending writers. An editor’s perspective.

• Next post • Previous post • Index

---

Simple, But Exciting
(Introducing a novel’s three essential components.)

If I could distill the fundamentals of potentially great storytelling, my advice would be this: Keep it simple, but exciting…exciting, but simple.

While such advice may seem paradoxical (“Paint it black, but paint it white.”) you’ll find a marvelous co-dependency at play in writing a novel that: 1) moves the story forward with clear, comprehensible language, without confusing or unnecessary intrusions, and; 2) imparts a breathlessness, a passion, a cerebral metamorphosis that transforms the reader’s reality into a fictional realm of your choosing.

One manages such duality by keeping: 1) the fundamentals simple, and; 2) your voice exciting.

Simple: The mechanics and structure of your writing, the clarity of your language. (Specifically, syntax, semantics and grammar*.) Note that simple doesn’t mean uninteresting or brief—nothing synopsized, summarized or truncated—but rather articulate and concise.

Exciting: The unique personality of your style and voice, the ebb and flow of your journey (that is, the structure of your plot), your joie de vivre. Your subtle—but oh-so-witty—nuance. Your tantalizing dialogue. (See Exciting, but Simple. Also see Dialogue.)

Even those writers who attempt to climb (metaphorically speaking) the Mount Everest of epic adventures or those who navigate the Pan’s Labyrinth of complicated plots, the basic mechanics of fiction remain fundamentally simple: Write in clear, precise sentences. (That’s Rule #7, by the way.) Communicate to your reader in intelligent thoughts, carefully constructed, while providing a constant, continual procession of relevant information. Don’t stuff various, complicated ideas into a single sentence. Give yourself permission to expand complex ideas into multiple sentences or paragraphs.

Think of writing a novel as being similar to a long trek through the Sahara. As a reader, I’m following the trail you’ve intentionally set out on page one. I must be able to follow (e.g.; comprehend) each footstep you take along the way. A misplaced thought or a convoluted sentence will give me pause. What did you mean? A muddled page and I may be stymied. A misplaced or badly written chapter and now I’m lost in the arid wastelands. Where am I? Which way did you go? Lose readers midway through that proverbial desert and they’re likely gone for good.

My advice? Don’t get deviously clever or snarkingly cute with readers. Don’t withhold necessary information or keep secrets—intending a sleight of hand later in the story. Yes, your characters can be mysterious, but no, your prose shouldn’t be. Do not write under the influence of an advanced thesaurus. Do not assume readers will meticulously ponder your words attempting to comprehend your subliminal brilliance, your existential aura, your interpretive, Nureyev-like rond de jambe. Sure, your plot can be multi-layered, but not your innuendo. Maintain a precise, lucid writing style. Once again—for emphasis!—write in clear, precise sentences.

Three Simple, Necessary Components

We’ll utilize three necessary components to successfully navigate a story—and we’ll continually weave these elements throughout our novel, like the spiraling filaments in a thread. New writers and first drafts (from experiened writers) often concentrate on building a plot. It makes sense — you want to know where you’re going and how to get there. But don’t neglect scene-setting and character-development, aspects of a novel that are no less important than the plot. (Personally, I think character-development may be more important. Just one guy’s opinion.)

And so, in no particular order, or of no particular importance:

• Scene-Setting. As a reader, I want to be grounded early in each new chapter or scene. Give me a glimpse of where I am, and who I’m with and, if appropriate, when. (After dark? Before lunch? Late autumn? 1947?) Depending upon one’s writing style, setting a scene can be elaborate enough to fill several pages (a la George R.R. Martin), or as sparse as a few suggestive words. For instance:

I’d spent half the night searching in vain for Patrick McMartin. I walked into Charlie’s ramshackle Bar & Billiards a little before noon. The place smelled like old cigarettes and older sweat. You know, the kind of establishment where patrons paid in dimes and quarters, where cockroaches and winos came to die.

Meaning that we’re not obliged to fill pages and pages with unnecessary minutia. As my old granny used to say, “You don’t need to eat the whole pig if all you want is a slice of bacon.” So it’s okay to impart juuuuust enough information to ground readers in a scene, to establish the where and when, perhaps the how or why—and to reveal any pertinent changes that might have transpired between the previous scene and this one. If the current location, time, characters present (…etc.) are similar/identical to the previous scene, then additional scene-setting may be minimal or unnecessary. Your job is simply to be sure that readers remain grounded in the reality of each particular moment. (For more details, see Scene-Setting.)

• Character Development. Give readers enough initial information to  identify (or at least tease) the relevant strengths and weaknesses of every major character. Not all at once, of course, but after giving readers an initial visual (or emotional) rendition, continue to reveal additional quirks and idiosyncrasies, little bits of nuance here and there throughout the novel. Creating memorable characters often relies on highlighting subtleties—physical, emotional, psychological, unusual—all at an appropriately opportune time.

Just remember (and this is important enough to become a new rule) why people read fiction. Thus, Rule #13: Readers don’t read to find out What Happens. They read to find out What Happens to Whom. So don’t skimp on the whom part. Proper character development is essential.

• Plot Development. Reveal essential information that continually builds or strengthens your plot. Keep pushing the plot forward, either aggressively or subliminally, but constantly toward an inevitable conclusion of your design.

Note that, in each scene you write, you’ll combine elements of scene-setting, plot development and character development. Include nothing else. Seriously. If you find yourself writing material that doesn’t 1) further the plot, 2) further develop a character or, 3) ground the reader in time and place, those scenes probably don’t belong in your novel. (And if those scenes somehow feel intrinsically important to the story, look closely—they’re likely touching upon one of the above ingredients.)

These three key elements, by the way, comprise Rule #5: Continually scene set, character build or move the plot forward. In novel writing, nothing else matters.

Okay, so here’s a brief hypothetical:

…….….……
In the above paragraphs we find a piecemeal semblance of scene-setting and character development, although not much plot. Yet by the end of the passage, we infer a battle’s brewing (basic plot development) and, if properly scene-set, we suspect our character to be a soldier of some bygone era. Campfires. Horses. Bugles. Even by the discreet choice of names—Barnaby—the writer implies a subliminal clue. No, we don’t know which war…but we assume we’ll be told fairly soon and, if the writing moves us, we’re willing to wait. Nor do we have a clear physical description of Barnaby (our protagonist we presume, although still uncertain)—and yet we’ve glimpsed the lost fear in his soul. Another important character trait.

By juxtaposing well-considered snippets of information, each sentence becomes an integral piece of an enormous puzzle, yet none of the overall picture which will be revealed in haste. The writer utilizes only those pieces that properly fit, and has already begun interlacing individual filaments (of plot, character and grounding) that will eventually weave into a narrative tale. We may not know key elements of the character until far into the novel. We’re learning about this man piece by piece. We may not learn about the writer’s true intent in telling his story—perhaps not the war itself, but rather a young man’s journey to find himself, through various aspects of fate. The writer’s only begun to build a mystery of voice, of plotting, and yet each sentence is precise and methodical, like so many footprints in the sand, one after another after another in meticulous formation toward an inevitable conclusion.

One last note: When is simple too simple? When simple becomes passive. So keep your simple sentences active. (See Active Voice.) For instance:

Passive: John was sleeping. (Simple? Yes. Exciting? No.)

Active: John’s snoring reverberated through the house with the fury of an approaching thunderstorm. (Better.)

Remember: Simple, but exciting.
.

---

*Syntax: The intentional arrangement of words and phrases to create well-formed (that is articulate and easily comprehensible) sentences.

Semantics: The specific meaning of a word, phrase or passage, as well as the relationship of various words to form a specific meaning, mood or intention (such as in the case of sarcasm or incoherence).

Grammar: An comprehensive term that defines the set of linguistic logic and rules of how a language is structured. For instance, in English: The big red house…. In French: La grande maison rouge… would directly translate as The big house red….

.

---

• Next post • Previous post • Index

.

by

A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

• Next post • See Index

---

Good Writing, Bad Advice.

My name (once again) is Dave Workman. I’m a content (developmental) editor IRL. I’m also an author. Over the years, I’ve accumulated a bit of knowledge that may help new writers beginning a long and often arduous (although hopefully rewarding) journey. Might I impart any significant pearls of wisdom on this page? I offer no assurances. Nobody in this business—in any business—can guarantee success. Finding a publisher is sometimes more luck (sadly) than skill. Good timing rather than dedication. Sometimes it’s who you know. Sometimes it’s who your daddy knows. Success is a subjective son-of-a-bitch with a chip on one shoulder and a crazed twinkle in its eye.

But knowing how to write well can’t hurt. And knowing a few basic rules along the way can definitely ease the process. Success may be elusive, but for an unprepared or apathetic writer, success is probably little more than a fuzzy daydream.

Do you know the Numero Uno, Most Common, Most Discouraging, and the Tragic Probable Outcome of all novel-length endeavors? It’s not finishing the book. Losing interest or losing your way, losing your nerve or losing your religion. It’s fear of success or fear of failure or fear of wrestling all those words into place, from “Once upon a time…” to “…They lived happily ever after.” If you can overcome the multitude of hurdles you’ll face and finish a manuscript (even a first draft!) you’re already closer to success than most.

 Finish the book. That’s Rule #1.

In this and subsequent posts, I’ll attempt to reveal what many publishers seek in terms of a desirable manuscript, although—bottom line?—it’s very likely a polished, professional and unique voice. Yes, voice. A publisher (or agent) is far more likely to accept an uncanny voice over a complex, complicated or convoluted plot structure. Lock two fully-developed characters in a closet, give them exceptional dialogue and quirky or witty personalities worth exploring, and a publisher will likely consider that manuscript over a done-to-death story about brain-sucking aliens attacking Las Vegas. (Although if your aliens have quirky, well-constructed personalities, a potential agent/publisher will take a close look as well.)

But let’s face it—only so many finite plot-lines exist in literature. They’ve all been covered ad nauseam. Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl. Boy is eaten by giant squid. (It’s been done.) But a unique voice is yours alone. Exclusive. Inimitable. Priceless. For a writer, creating a unique voice, creating memorable characters, is imperative. By infusing excitement, passion, eccentricity,  pathos, wit and charisma into your story’s various characters can be money in the proverbial bank.

Okay, enough preamble. Although I do have one significant bit of advice to share: Don’t listen to anybody (and certainly not to me) if the advice doesn’t resonate. Go with your gut. Go with your own instincts. By all means, listen selectively to proffered advice—accept feedback when it’s constructively given—although I suspect some 80-90% of what you hear won’t work for you. However, that remaining 10-20% may prove priceless. So do keep an open mind! (See Confronting Criticism.) Remember, success is as much about breaking rules as following them. If it feels right, crayon outside the lines. I think Gandhi said that. Maybe not.

To illustrate, here’s a true story. This one still gives me nightmares. I still wake up cringing.

The most single, most horrific, most god-awful perverse piece of advice I’ve ever encountered occurred during a week-long writers’ conference in Southern CA. (And while a writers’ conference can be a wonderful, magical, scintillating experience… again, be careful who you listen to.)

One evening, a panel of “editorial experts” bequeathed their brilliance to a capacity filled auditorium of eager, fledgling writers. An attendee stood and asked a panelist a question, and in doing so happened to mention that her nearly-completed novel filled some 360 pages. About 90,000 words.

Without a moment’s preamble—without a speck of empathy or a grain of intelligence—the so-called expert replied, “It’s too long. Cut twenty thousand words.”

This Expert of Knowing Everything While Knowing Nothing had no clue about the nature of the story or its genre, or of the writer’s level of craft, the tenor of the book. Simply “cut it.” The writer was, of course, crushed. And I have never forgotten my frustration over that absurdly idiotic remark.

Should anyone tell you to arbitrarily cut (or add) pages without otherwise knowing your story—it’s intent and purpose—smile politely and walk away. I’ve read too many manuscripts that feel truncated and unfinished… only to discover that the writer had been previously advised to “cut, cut, cut!” without further direction or counsel. In desperation, many writers blindly begin hacking all the style and nuance from an otherwise excellent story.

Think of a novel as a living, breathing person. As an editor, if I feel a story needs to lose a bit of weight, I’ll not advise a writer to remove its liver or stomach or left arm. The process is to shrewdly exercise your book—cautiously trimming adverbs, adjectives and excess verbiage like so many bloated fat-cells. Eliminate scenes or chapters that do nothing for the story but flatter your ego. Prune those sections carefully, little by little. Or feed it more Skittles, should the opposite be true.

I acknowledge that the above-referenced workshop occurred before the Age of e-publishing. Stricter rules applied once upon a time (although stupidity didn’t count back then, either). And I continue to hear agents and editors and the so-called “people in the know” advising writers to cut or add pages, to alter a manuscript in order to satisfy some personal itch or the guidelines of a publishing system that no longer exists.

The biggest problem today? Since the emergence of e-books and self-publishing (around 2008-ish), the industry remains in flux. No one’s certain of the new rules yet. But in this rapidly changing paradigm of 21st century novel writing, here’s my best advice: Trust yourself—and hone those basic skills of storytelling in the (somewhat paradoxically) simplest, yet most exciting voice you can muster.
.

---

.
• Next post • See Index

.

by