If It Isn't Working, Try Playing

People start out writing for different reasons, but in my experience, many people are just experimenting at first. They want to see if they can do it; they've always liked books; they have an idea. So they write. They’re just playing.

But every writer starts to grow up at some point. This is a business. We’re professionals. We can't afford to play. Does it have a hook? Is it marketable? Is it mainstream? Will it sell? The professional writer needs to consider such things.

I wonder though, if in our effort to transform into professional, publishable authors, we get a few things backwards. If playing is perhaps just as essential as being marketable.

Let me back up for a moment, here, and try to define "playing." Because anyone can say, "Oh yes, I play. Look! I'll put an adverb in. I REALLY like to play. See? Gosh, that was fun. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go edit it out."

That's not what I mean by playing. I don't mean indulging oneself every so often. I'm talking that absolutely ridiculous plot you’ve had floating around in your head for ages—you know, the one with the octopus apocalypse? The one nobody but you would enjoy? Writing it would be a complete waste, and of course you’ll never bother. But it’s just fun to think about.

Have you ever had one of those ideas? I did. It surfaced about three years ago, when I revolutionized my writing process to reduce self-induced pressure. I decided to simplify. Take a break. In the past, I always pressured myself to start the next project, but this time, I vowed to wait and let things play out naturally.

A month passed.

A second month passed.

I got a little antsy. Still, no serious ideas came to me. I toyed but none stuck. True to my vow, I let them go and continued waiting.

A third month passed.

I couldn’t bear not writing anymore. I was bored, and I was hungry, and I wanted story. I opened a word doc. In sheer desperation I wrote the beginning to one of my favorite daydreams--a mysterious flying girl who falls to earth.

It wasn’t high premise. It wasn’t serious at all. But it was fun. I was happy as a kid mucking around in a mud puddle. Like the Dread Pirate Roberts to Westley in Princess Bride, I finished each writing session thinking, “Made good progress today. Thoroughly enjoyed it. Might kill it in the morning.”

I never did kill it, though. The more I wrote, the better it got, and I finally had to admit MIRRORPASS was a real novel. And now it turns out MIRRORPASS is one of the most serious novels I’ve ever written. Of course I managed to conveniently forget I could ever be that unprofessional. Until now.

With this new year, I find myself faced with the dilemma once again: choose a serious project, or a fun project?

Was MIRRORPASS a one-time fluke, I wonder, or did I stumble upon something crucial, something true?

Here’s how I see it.

Playing frees you from all expectations.

When you’re “just playing,” you don’t expect the idea to go anywhere. Nobody ever needs to see it but you. It sets you free to explore. And though we often forget this, exploring is the whole point of a first draft.

It’s just for fun—which is why it IS fun.

Be honest. Sometimes, writing a novel because you want to get published sucks the actual fun out of writing. Writing is fun again when you write with the purpose of enjoying yourself. This is the story you'd tell yourself late at night, the story you want to read curled up by a fireplace when it snows outside. It doesn't matter if it's a Harry Potter ripoff or not, as long as you enjoy it.

Playing is full of possibility.

Some things, like evil scientists, are so clichéd that you just don’t write about them. But I happen to love evil scientists. MIRROPASS was like my fantasy novel, and I could do whatever I wanted with it, so I included evil scientists. And government chases. And crazy escapes. And special abilities. I felt free to do that because I knew this was my novel to have fun with.

A powerful end result.

The combination of these elements--the privacy, the freedom, the indulgence in possibility, the purity of writing what you enjoy and enjoying what you write--combine to create something explosive. Suddenly, this idea is serious. It is high concept. It is marketable.

How did that happen? If you look closely, “playing” is recommended by more than one rule of writing.

• Write what you know
• Write what you’re passionate about
• Write crappy first drafts
• If you don’t enjoy the story, readers won’t, either
• Turn off the internal editor
• BIC. (Don’t over-think it.)

I hear these rules all the time, and I’m sure you do, too. But I think we lose sight of what’s really being said here; that we need to stop worrying about being serious writers, and we need to just play. Enjoy ourselves. Just play.

Because when you play, you don't care about crappy first drafts; you write what you think about most often, and what you enjoy, what you're passionate it about; you don't care about the internal editor, and you're not overthinking.

You're having fun.

Just playing.

Who's to say, where it will take you?


All right gang, pitch in. Do you ever write that unmarketable idea just for fun? WAS it fun? Did you end up trunking it, or taking it seriously by the end? And even if you did trunk it, do you think it was worth it?

What do you all think about playing?


Truly and always,
Creative A

Filter Words? Since When?

Let me take you back to the days when you were a new writer. Remember the first time someone told you that ly-adverbs were unacceptable? It was like being blindsided. First, came the confusion. How could ly-adverbs be bad? Your dialogue would fall flat without "laughingly," "softly," and "excitedly." Then came the denial. This critiquer didn't know what they were talking about. Your writing was fine, just fine.

Then came the nagging doubt. The internet research. The realization that, oh, ly-adverbs are bloodsucking prose-leeches that should be eradicated without mercy.

Remember?

I feel like that again today. One moment, I was skimming my way through Write About Now and Solvang Sherrie threw out the phrase "filter words," which struck me as unusual, so I Googled it.

The next moment, I'd discovered a whole new realm of pain.

See, filter words are bad. They're sneaky. They feel like including POV but in fact, they distance readers from the story. And I'm pretty sure that I'm guilty.

Susan Dennard at Let The Words Flow said,

Filters are words or phrases you tack onto the start of sentence that show the world as it is filtered through the main character’s eyes.

(with filter phrase) I see the moon rise overhead.

(without filter phrase) The moon rises overhead.

She has a ton of other great examples, including this list of filter words to watch out for:

Here’s a list of filter words for you to watch out for:

• to see
• to hear
• to think
• to touch
• to wonder
• to realize
• to watch
• to look
• to seem
• to feel (or feel like)
• can
• to decide
• to sound (or sound like)

You can read her full post here.

I've spent the last few days going through a fresh draft of Mirrorpass doing a continuity read+line edit, and one thing I started writing down were phrases or words I overused. So far on my list I have the overuse of "and" in descriptive passages. The use of "all at once." The use of "slowly" at the beginning of sentences. Now, I'm having nightmares of what my list would look like if I went through searching for filter words--eep!

My writer friends, this is the moment to take a deep breath.

To realize we're professionals and that we can handle this. We got over ly-adverbs and passive phrasing, after all. We can do this.

What I'm left with now is, A: Why haven't I ever heard of these before? And B: How bad of a problem is it? Is this an advanced fiction thing, that you learn about as you mature; is it a Writing 101 principle that I've missed this whole time?

My thought is it's an advanced fiction thing. Also, taking a closer look, "filter words" seem like a mix between passive writing, and telling versus showing. Removing the filter phrase brings us from the passive POV to an active description. We're not being told that the POV sees, or feels, or decides; we're shown the POV seeing, feeling, deciding.

This gives me a little hope. Maybe this is just a new term for the evil I've always known existed. Maybe, like a virus that has evolved around the vaccines in place, this form of passive telling is just another weakness that writers can subconsciously develop. If so, fixing it just means doing what I've always done--look for signal phrases. Cut ruthlessly. Learn to write with active prose. Learn to identify when filter words should stay, instead of go.

Here are two more helpful posts on the topic:

Are These Filter Words Weakening Your Fiction?

Why Editors Reject Manuscripts -- they actually talk about this under "passive voice," and within that section they call it "a filter."

So yes. I've been blindsided. Now that I've discovered the big secret of the universe, I want you guys to 'fess up. Did you know about filter words? Why didn't you tell me? What do you think about them, now that I've been so gracious as to ruin the day by informing you?

Truly and always,

-Creative A

Drive the Plot

Lots of people talk about their writing methods. New writers ask, “Where do you get your ideas? Do you outline, or write on the fly?” And one of the biggest questions asked is, “is your book character driven, or plot driven?”

It’s a trick question. The politically correct answer is “character driven,” as explained by this quote here:

“Many of the best novels…are character-driven novels. Character-driven novels center on well-developed characters with whom the reader can connect and empathize. Plot-driven novels too often utilize flat characters because these undeveloped characters are the only ones that can easily be pushed around by a too-carefully outlined plot.”

He has a point, but I think it’s a flawed point. In fact, I think the whole character vs. plot thing is a big mistake. Characters do drive plot. But plot also prompts characters.

Yes, character-driven plots can often be shallow, filled with torrents of action and little emotional resonance or growth. Yup. Happens all the time. But so do books where characters wander around, meditating on their problems, philosophizing about their problems, struggling with their problems, and never actually solving their problems.

I’m going to say something disagreeable. I think you need both a character driven and plot driven story.

There is a natural cycle in the flow of plot that you can probably identify in other books. And guess what? You need both character and plot events to drive it.

Here’s how it works:

An event occurs. (Most books start because of some inciting incident, something that makes the story worth writing about. Stakes are established or raised here.)

A character recovers. (This is where the character processes the event and realizes they need to act. It’s is a short step, and by short I mean it can be a few paragraphs, a few sentences. Or a few chapters. Depending on the length, it often functions as downtime. Stories need downtime!)

A character reacts. (What is the character going to do now that X event has happened to them, and their stakes have been raised? Make the chosen reaction cost something.)

An event occurs. (Back to the beginning of the cycle. After the inciting incident, an event often occurs as a direct result of the character’s reaction. Some events do occur without character prompting, like say, earthquakes, or a new antagonist making their move. However, many events occur because the character changed something in the story, forcing an event on other characters and making them react.)

You can repeat this cycle as much as you want. Sometimes, a few steps repeat themselves: maybe a few events occur, and then the character reacts. Maybe the character does a few things in succession before the antagonist strikes back.

But if too many things just happen to happen, we feel lost in the flow; it becomes meaningless action, and our character isn’t doing anything. Or worse, they do meaningless things that are clearly not honest reactions, but action for the sake of action.

And think of characters who never react, but always recover. Or characters whose actions seem arbitrary. What are they responding to, if they respond to nothing? Emotional revelations? How many revelations can a character have before they feel washed out?

We as readers need an explanation. We need a why, a how-come. That's the point of fiction.

"Books say: She did this because. Life says: She did this. Books are where things are explained to you" — Julian Barnes (Flaubert's Parrot)

We need plot events, because it raises the stakes, and forces characters out of their comfort zone. Without plot there is no ‘because’ to explain why our characters have acted the way they act.

And we need characters to react, or else they don’t tackle the conflicts facing them, never take risks, and as a result, never get resolution.

If you’re stuck somewhere in your plot, take a step back and look at what’s happening. Is your character reacting? Is there an event for them to react to? Is this event a randomly chosen rock you threw at the character in the hopes of forcing some plot out of them, or is it an event that challenges their quest toward the main story goal?

If you’re missing a lot of pieces in this cycle, you might be leaning too heavily on either plot or character to drive the story. Try adding the missing piece and see what happens.

Truly and always,

-Creative A

My Quiet Little Novel

Recently, agent Rachelle Gardner blogged about the break-in novel. Jody Hedlund then picked up the ball and started talking about break-in novels versus the traditional break-out novel. Rachelle very aptly pointed out that for many authors, a break-out novel can be preemptive – in this tough market, what the savvy author needs is a break-in. And what’s a break-in? Pretty much the same thing as a break-out, except a break-in novel is one that takes into consideration the current writing market. A break-in goes with current tastes, but also establishes itself as original and fresh. As quoted from her blog:

Some writers have several completed books, and wonder which one to start submitting first. It's easy: the one that has the best chance of breaking you in. The one that presents the fewest obstacles to publication. The one in which your writing shines the brightest. The one in which the genre and subject matter are closest to what seems to be selling right now.

It’s a very informative post. Jody Hedlund’s continued discussion of the topic was great to read as well.

But I’d like to add a little word of caution. When I read those posts, I got all excited. They make me think, “Yeah, she’s right. I need to break in. I need to pump this little WIP of mine up!”

I got so excited that I barely caught myself making a big, big mistake.

Yes. I said it. Listen close, I’ll say it again – MISTAKE.

For a lot of people, in the first couple drafts, your novel is still learning who it is. It’s a little child trying to swing a baseball bat, sing it’s first songs, ride a bike without training wheels. It’s not ready to bike a 10k race. It’s not ready to start up opera. It needs time to breathe and grow and fumble around on it’s own. If you don’t give it that time, and put too much weight on it’s baby literary shoulders, it’s going to loose the innocence that makes it so unique.

That’s what began happening to me. In March, I started a new novel entitled Mirrorpass. She has a great little personality. A bit quiet, very different, and maybe just the right amount of special. We’re teetering at the 30K mark. For me, that’s no great accomplishment—Mirrorpass is coming slow, and I have to admit I get impatient sometimes. Hitting the 30K mark was like reaching her first birthday. Suddenly I’d gotten somewhere. Mirrorpass wasn’t an idea anymore, she was a novel. It was the first time I’d thought of her like that.

And of course, this is when the break in/out posts appeared.

I sat reading the posts, and getting all excited, and of course I started planning – well, maybe Mirrorpass is special, but she’s too slow. I need more action. And that issue with the ending HAS to get resolved. Boy, what will I do with the middle? I wasn’t even thinking about the middle yet. What will I write? Why haven’t I plotted this out yet? Okay, that’s it, time to get out the drawing board and –

And I caught myself.  I stopped right in the act of yanking the training wheels out from under my poor little first-draft novel, who hadn’t even decided what she wanted to be yet. I took a step back, and looked around. What was I doing? Who cared if I didn’t know what would happen in the middle, yet? Once I got there, I’d know, because that’s the way this story worked. Mirrorpass is not loud or shocking or impatient. She’s a quiet, daydreamy little story unfolding as natural as could be.

In an instant, I’d tried to force her. I was already acting like she was in the fifth draft, and I was trying to impress an agent with her mad skillz. The scary part was, I could feel the process crumbling. As I started picking at her faults and preparing to overhaul her, little Mirrorpass lost all her charm and sweetness, turning stale inside my head.

It was like, whoah. I never knew I did that. I never realized what happened. Freaky. 

Does Mirrorpass have faults? Yes. Will I probably add more action someday and make her a little less quirky, a little more streamlined? Almost certainly. Someday, but not right now. She’s not ready. She’s not even written yet.

I tend to take the industry too seriously. I hear people talking about break-out novels and break-in novels and the importance of writing for the market and the importance of doing it all, now! And I think they mean it. I jump up and do it right now. What I should do is say, “that’s good advice, I’ll remember it when I cross that particular bridge.”

I have to make myself take a step back. I have to remind myself that there’s a timing and a place for everything. A first draft is not meant to be perfected. It is meant to be explored.

I know the process is different for some people – my good friend Chandler Craig seems to do very well keeping the professional aspects in mind, and didn’t get an agent until she got serious about being a novelist. So I am definitely not the rule. But I know there’s a large group of writers out there who obsess over the rules, the shoulds and shouldn’ts, and well…maybe we shouldn’t.

My point is that it helps to keep your perspective. Since Shatterbox, I’ve been getting better at this, but I still have to remind myself of the whole first-draft thing. A first draft can suck as much as it needs. It can take as much time as it needs. It shouldn’t be overanalyzed, tested against the market, put against a deadline, or pressured in any way. A first draft is exempt.

It’s you and the story.

Me, and my quiet little novel. 

Truly and always,

-Creative A

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If you liked this post, you also might want to read -

Book Review: Writing the Breakout Novel

Rewriting - an anecdote

A New Take on Writing for the Market

Writing for the market is a concept I’ve avoided until now, partly because I believe it’s a useless argument. Writing for the audience, or market, is very very hard. You have to spot a trend before it gets popular. Then you have to write a novel. You had to edit it, submit it, get accepted by an agent, and then get bought by a publisher. All before the trendwave crests and begins it’s descent.

Time isn’t your only problem. There’s the soulnessness of trendsurfing (if I can call it that.) You would need to be inspired to write the particular kind of story, right as it starts to get popular. The chances of that are nill. Most trendsurfers don’t have the luxury of inspiration. And if you’re not inspired, the story is bound to drag. This is one unavoidable rule of writing. A story may have all the potential in the world, but if you aren’t passionate about it, no one else will be either.

Trendsurfing has it’s benefits. If you decided to write vampire books a few months before the Stephanie-Meyer/paranormal craze hit, you would have made it huge. You could have written a series of paranormals. You could have launched your career. Hit the right trend, at the right time, and you could be set for years. Trendsurfing is like riding the stock market, I think, except harder, because analyzing the economy is much different than trying to analyze personal taste and mood.

Now lets swing to the other side of the pendulum: writing for self.

Writing for yourself is widely encouraged. If you write what inspires you, the story is infused with passion. Such honesty connects with readers. A story that you love has a drive behind it, a kind of unstoppable force that compels people to read. Editors love this in a novel: honesty, passionate rendering, drive.

But it does have it’s downs. Following your heart may mean writing something no one will read, no matter how passionate it is. Sometimes a story can get too real. Too edgy. The topic may be more than a mainstream audience can handle. No audience, no market. No market, no contract.  

The whole debate is actually similar to the literary vs genre issue. When you start saying that –

writing for the market = commercial = bad, and

writing for self = art = good,

 –  it’s not about craft anymore. It’s about your ego. And this is the point where I usually take a deep breathe, turn around, and walk the other way. These kinds of debates aren’t worth it.

But today I read P&W’s newest interview with the four upcoming literary agents, and I have to say, it threw me off some. One part of the interview goes like this:

ZUCKERBROT: I have an officemate who has this wonderful nonfiction writer who…picked some subject matter that was so obscure. The agent said, "Who is the audience for this?" The writer explained that he or she was really passionate about it. The agent said, "But who's supposed to read this? You may be passionate about it—"


BARER: But you do want people to buy the book.


ZUCKERBROT: Right. It's not that you have to write for your audience. But you have to keep your audience in mind.” (from page 2 of the interview)

That really struck a chord with me. All this time I’ve been slaving under the belief that I should write what I love, just write it, and worry about marketability later. So I have. In particular, this came into play with my latest novel, Shatterbox. It’s been a strange premise from the beginning. In the back of my mind, I worried about who would want to read it. Who was my audience?

But I always knew Shatterbox had potential – maybe even lots of potential – which was enough of an excuse for me to avoid thinking about my audience. I told myself I could worry about it later. Unsympathetic protagonist? Worry about it later. Was I the only person in the world who liked this story? Worry about it later.

I wasn’t just writing my story, anymore. I was ignoring my audience altogether.

This is where we have to be careful. Often, we swing from one side of the pendulum to the other. There’s a middle ground. Write what you love, but keep your audience in mind. Watch the market, but make sure you retain your passion.

My question for you guys is, what if you can't find that middle ground? Should you stick with your story, or move on? 

 

- Creative A

Writing Every Day

This is one rule I can never make up my mind about. It’s pounded into our heads from the moment we become writers, from the moment we even think about becoming writers. Dear goodness, wouldn’t want to break the rule! Wouldn’t want to fail! Can’t be a real writer unless I do everything that the experts say!

I’m exaggerating of course, but that’s how it starts to feel. Like we aren’t allowed to do things any other way.

But I’ll be objective: On one hand, discipline is important. A writer has to learn how to keep writing, without inspiration, in spite of rejection, and through self-doubt. Otherwise the story would never get written. But trying to write every day – 365 each year for 20, 45, 60 years? – is insanity. You’d fail eventually. It would be impossible to survive that long free from burnout.  

I’m reading Stephen Koch’s The Modern Library Writer’s Workshop (horrible name, fantabulous book.) In it he quotes Gabriel Marquez:

“One night at college a friend lent me a book of short stories by Franz Kafka…The first line (of The Metamorphosis) reads, ‘As Gregor Samsa awoke that morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect…’ When I read that line I thought to myself that I didn’t know anyone was allowed to write things like that. If I had known, I would have started writing a long time ago.”  

We are writers. We are allowed to do anything. As long as it works, as long as it resonates with readers, as long as it allows us to do what we want/need/love to do – we are allowed.

I’ve learned as a writer that sometimes, I’m supposed to be writing, and other times, I’m not. It’s that simple and that difficult. I may want to write, but need to recharge; I may have the block; I may be procrastinating. Or maybe I’m otherwise occupied –consumed with life, work, family, or emotional crisis. It would be possible to write in those times. But that would mean ignoring my other responsibilities, which I already do enough of, thank you-much.

I think most writers know all this stuff. One way or another, they realize there may be times when writing isn’t an option – but there’s still the drive. You still have The Rule.

Which makes me wonder why it’s so important to follow the rules anyway. Maybe it creates a kind of security? There are no guarantees in writing, no sure-fire way of making it. But we want the guarantees anyway. We need to know we can do this. So we look for rules that, if followed, promise to bring us success.

And in failing to follow the rules, we have an excuse for why we aren’t a Rich&Renowned Author yet. Of course we aren’t rich and renowned. We broke the rules!  Again, that’s a hyperbole, but you get the point. We (or maybe it’s just me) start looking for permission to do things. If I have permission, I feel, I will have success.

Stephen Koch made me wonder if writing every day is really about establishing a habit, so that when you need the discipline, it’s there. You don’t need to write every day if you already have the judgment and discipline to do without.

 

-Creative A

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Neglecting Your Antagonist: Secret Sin #6

A few weeks ago, I speculated about what makes a novel memorable. Strong themes. A suspenseful plot. Deep, cunning characters. These are all the biggies that most people think of. Nobody thinks of strong antagonists – did you? But they’re powerful. Come to think of it, lots of people like a strong antagonist.

Would the Jedi be so exciting if they battled womp rats instead of the Sith? No way. You fear for the Jedi because Sith are stronger, threatening, seductive. How about the new Batman movie? I heard more chatter about the Joker than I did Batman. People are attracted to these films because of the villains that inhabit them. But pick ten books at random, and tell me how many compelling antagonists you find. A handful, at the best?

It’s said that the average antagonist – those classic evil bad guys – are flat. Following this accusation comes a miracle-cure: “he’ll be compelling if you make him believe, in his own twisted way, that he’s doing the right thing.” Or, “If you make a villain conflicted, we’ll relate to him more than if he’s evil just for the sake of being evil.”

These methods help, for sure. But they’re just that – methods. I’ve seen flat villains who believed they were doing the right thing, just as I’ve seen the classic villain turn out to be compelling, well-rounded, and credible. So. If it’s not the type of antagonist you create, then what is it? In a word: characterization.

The neglected antagonist.

Antagonists are underdeveloped. Since villains are created with a purpose in mind – to hinder, threaten, or thwart the hero – it’s easy to assume that filling this purpose is all they need to do. A protagonist is developed over the course of a whole novel. Scene-by-scene, moment after moment, they grow and share, fail and succeed. How much time do you spend characterizing your antagonist? A few scenes each novel? A prologue? A character worksheet?

Antagonists don’t get the same kind of attention that protagonists get, but they’re just as important. Without going overboard, I would say that your antagonist and your protagonist are the two main characters. Your good guy is only as good as the bad he has to fight, yeah?

A compelling antagonist gets us involved. Either we care about him, and feel conflicted, or his unpredictability keeps us tense, insecure. We don’t know what to think about this person. Is he really bad? Or, what’s he really planning to do?

On the flip-side, a neglected antagonist is predictable. If we know what to think, we don’t need to get involved. It’s not any more compelling than the last evil dude we read about. So, ask yourself:

How do you feel about your antagonist? It will translate directly to how the reader feels. If your antagonist doesn’t surprise you, he won’t surprise us. If you don’t like him, we won’t like him. Whatever you want your readers to feel, you have to feel first – so develop it.

Is your antagonist sympathetic, surprising, conflicted, compelling? Sympathy happens when we relate to a character. We see a side of ourselves that we didn’t expect to see, a glimpse of humanity, of truth, of weakness. Surprise comes with unpredictability or by a reversal of what we expect.

Make your antagonist act in ways he doesn’t understand. Make him lost in denial. Give him issues he doesn’t want to confront – give him conflict. This happens when your antagonist wants two opposing things with an equal passion, and doesn’t know which to choose. If your antagonist has a purpose in your novel, give him an equally compelling reason why he doesn’t want to fulfill that purpose. Any of the above will make your villain compelling.

Think of key scenes in your antagonist’s side of the story, then write them. They’ll help you get inside your antagonists head and force you to think of him like a real human being, not just some force of evil. You don’t have to keep the scenes. However, do find a few places somewhere in your novel to develop your antagonist.

 

Every human being can relate to two things: the need to do good, and the urge to do evil. Everyone has tried to be good. Everyone has been bad. This is a huge part of what makes fictional characters so compelling. One character is good; we root for him. One is bad; we’re jealous. We want it both ways.

The fight between the protagonist and the antagonist is one we fight ourselves, in a minor way. The only real difference between your villain and your hero is that at the end, one tries to change, and one does not. Make readers feel this struggle. Make them experience it. If you do, they’ll continue to remember that struggle long after the book ends.

 

 – Creative A

Description and Emotion

“Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader – not the fact that it is raining, but the feel of being rained upon.” – E.L. Doctorow

I’ve learned some interesting things about description, lately. I know to show things using active verbs, selective adjectives, and strong, core nouns. I know to trust the reader – another way of saying “don’t over-describe something.” I know to write with all five senses. These are all common tricks of description. You probably know them yourself.

Today I want to try and take it a step deeper. I’ve noticed some interesting connections that I think we could all apply in our work. Most of it relates to the principles I’ve stated above, so it won’t be a huge revelation, but I think it may shade things differently for you.

Alright then, here it is.

 

Thing I learned, the first: Use sensory details – taste, touch, and smell.

We’ve all heard of writing with the five senses. This is a valuable method of getting a reader inside your character’s skin, like internal monologue gets them inside a character’s head. But some senses are more relevant than others. Taste, touch, and smell link directly to our memories. If you stimulate one of these senses in your fiction, it can personalize things for your reader.

Like pumpkin pie. Think long and hard for a moment about the smell of pumpkin pie. Imagine it bubbling away somewhere inside a stove. Imagine it thick on the air, tangy with cinnamon. Imagine taking a creamy bite.

What does it remind you of?

Thanksgiving, maybe. Cranberry sauce and stuffing. Sweet potatoes dribbled with brown sugar and real butter. This extends outward to Thanksgiving day itself: the hugs and back-clapping, family in woolen sweaters, a game of football out in the backyard, crisp falls days, winter, Christmas…

This is called association. I’m personally a bit too associative – I can tell you what yellow tastes like just by the way it makes me feel – so this example may be a little extreme. But the point is that some things bring up distinct images. Images have memories, and memories have a feel. Like I said above: if you can tap into these associations, you’ll involve a persons memories and emotions. This more than anything else lets them feel a scene.

 

Thing I learned, the second: Emotion is a key. Once someone emotionally feels a scene, they’re involved.

This may feel like stating the obvious, but you want a reader invested in your story. You do this by creating a sense of common humanity. Readers can empathize with a character without ever being in the same situation. As Lawrence Block said in Telling Lies for Fun and Profit, “If I was that kind of guy, that’s the kind of guy I’d be."

On a small scale, empathy is created when you bring a reader’s emotions into a scene. Take our pumpkin pie example. The average person could relate to that, and in the process, they would bring in their own emotions and memories to create a sense of family, tradition, and goodwill. So If I wrote:

“Someone was making pumpkin pie. Carla leaned back into the doorframe and soaked it up, all creamy and cinnamon. Her mind flit to Thanksgiving dinners around Aunt Jen’s big oak table, the way everyone laughed, dogs licking your legs and hands; how they were all so happy.”

The reader knows exactly how Carla feels. Not because I said “the memories made her happy,” but because the readers have experienced similar memories themselves. That is empathy right there. Metaphors are good at this because they target a reader’s memories. If I tell you “the house smelled like Thanksgiving,” I am allowing you to apply your own history to my story.

When you write, be aware of the emotional connotations your descriptions. What’s the difference between a sob, and a wail? Musk, and stench? Ice that splintered, and ice that sliced?

 

There’s a bit more I wanted to say, so check in next Wednesday for part 2: Description and Selection.

 

 – Creative A

 

Breaking the Rules - Secret Sin #4

Recently I posted my top-ten rules of writing. It got me thinking about how many of those I actually implement; how many I don’t; and why. If you read the post about my personal struggle with writing crap, you know I’m a rigid believer in the rules. Let me say this in the simplest way possible: rules are good things.

Usually.

Your writing will improve if you follow them.

Usually.

But not always. Why not always? Because structure kills creativity.

I was reading a post by Jessica Faust on the Bookends, LLC blog that echoed some personal sentiments of mine. To paraphrase, she said that authors like to impose rules on themselves, to find the “right way” to do things, and in reality the rules are no more than guidelines. Meaning we should use then within reason. It just isn’t healthy running around killing ourselves over one passive clause or three “ly” adverbs.

On the other end of the spectrum, some writers break the rules just because they were told not to. (You know who you are.) These acts of rebellion keep the person in a place where they can’t learn. They continue to write the same junk day after day, blindly, refusing criticism or advice. They never grow, and never become real writers.

There’s a balance. Finding this balance is the hardest thing a writer must learn. When is it okay to break a rule? Or to rephrase: when is it okay for you to break a rule?

Once upon a time, some writer discovered a gold nugget of wisdom, and condensed it into a simple phrase so other writers could benefit from it. What’s important is not the rule itself – it’s the principle behind it, the lesson that writer learned. 

Sometimes it feels like we’re being handed an ultimatum. “Do this, or you’ll never become a good writer.” Not so. The truth is, a rule is a bit of wisdom. Each writer must learn how it applies to their process – their book, their scene, their particular main character. And some things are common sense. “She walked to the door” doesn’t read nearly as good as: “Her flip-flops smacked against her heel as she jogged up the steps.”

As an example, let’s take a rule and dissect it.

The rule: Write every day.

The common interpretation: If you want to become a good writer, you need to write every day. Or set strong goals and make sure you reach them. Or get over your writer’s block because it’s just a weakness. No. Matter. What.  

Now look at this rule, subtract all/any absolutes, and try to find what’s really being said here.

The underlying principle: Being a writer requires that you challenge yourself, and that you have dedication to your craft.

Once you have the underlying principle of a rule, you can work at applying it to your writing.

The balance: With this example, the balance is to keep a writing schedule or list of goals – one that fits you and your needs. You can write every weekend and none during the week, or spend a few days playing around with notes and outlines before writing a single scene, or hack out 5,000 words in 24 hours, and do nothing for eight days.

The challenge here is weighing your effort against your results. If you work too hard, you have the challenge, but no forward motion. If you take it easy, you may have amounts of forward motion, but no challenge, and no growth. So your balance is somewhere in between – a schedule that requires effort but still fulfills your writing goals.

If you’ve been struggling with a certain rule, try looking at the underlying principle. What is it? Have you been applying it in your writing? How close can you follow the principle and still fulfill your writing goals? Loosen up a little. Get some wiggle room. And if things get sloppy, well, you can always tighten up.

 

-Creative A