Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages. Geoffrey Chaucer said that about 600 years ago as part of the prologue to the Canterbury Tales, the first writing we would recognize as English. I believe it. What would life be worth if it weren’t a pilgrimage? Every day. I hope you will join my pilgrimage. I’m writing a book … well, several. Writing is pilgrimage, and I’ll need sustenance along the way. I hope you will follow along, comment, help lead me. C’mon, it will be an adventure …
I got a great birthday card, the front of which said:
Dear people of the World,
I don’t mean to sound slutty,
But please use me whenever you want.
A great card on several levels. The “use me” is so much more economical than most of the explicit things one could think of, and therefore allows for (salacious) imagination, reminding me to be careful in writing to give the reader license to create her own vision of what I describe.
Which leads to the f-word (really?). I’m just thinking of the so-called dysphemism treadmill, in which a vulgar word becomes more and more acceptable. Pamela Hobbs, quoted in Wikipedia, notes that usage of the f-word falls into two categories: non-users and users. Non-users define the word in its proud Anglo-Saxon context and therefore consider it obscene and rarely use it. Users, on the other hand, have dissociated the word from sex and make frequent use as an intensifier, noun, adjective, adverb or verb. For them, as Hobbs says, fuck “no more evokes images of sexual intercourse than a ten-year-old’s ‘My mom’ll kill me if she finds out’ evokes images of murder.”
As a writer hoping to interest both users and non-users, my take is very, very abstemious use of the f-word (see, at my core, I’m a non-user, except when irritated). My rationale is that users usually employ fuck in ways that add no value to the sentence (although sometimes to the meter). None of that is useful in storytelling unless establishing a character’s unique voice.
So most of the time, I’ll go fuck-less. Grammar, on the other hand, I shall use and use and gratefully use.
I recently applied to a contest that asked, as part of the upload, what the genre of my novel is. I answered dutifully, Thriller.
Yes, I know that the judges have to have some way to classify submissions, and I have just read a bit about plot, timing of events, when backstory is best introduced, and so on.
Problem is, I am reading Redemption, a fine story of New Orleans by Frederick Turner. I have studied New Orleans music and give presentations about it. Turner creates 1913 New Orleans – Storyville in particular – with such skill that you swear you’re there in that so steam, seamy, funky place right along with his protagonist Fast-Mail Muldoon. When you read his descriptions, highly articulated, precise, and unafraid to use a full vocabulary, you think “Literary Fiction.” Turner doesn’t mind taking a healthy paragraph to describe the quality of the mud on the banks of the Mississippi or a chapter to let Fast-Mail Muldoon ponder lost love. But if Turner were to submit to my contest, Redemption’s genre would be Historical Fiction/Suspense.
Just a reminder for me that fiction writing is story-telling. Storytelling is about language; thus all fiction ought to be “literary,” and the whole point of telling a story is having a compelling plot.
Perhaps a banal observation, but I’m relatively new to the business side of writing. It’s easy to get lost in trade arcana.
There are two approaches to writing fiction. A Pantser writes from the seat of the pants. The writer lets the characters pull the story along. An Outliner (maybe we should say ‘Engineer’) lays out the story … the plot line … then begins writing. So far, I’ve been a Pantser.
My third novel has a complicated plot, and my pants are hanging around my ankles as I crow-hop through the plot.
Pantsers speak proudly but often vaguely of letting the story write itself, but I’m beginning to understand that it just might be a good idea to have a notion of what’s going to happen. After all, Aristotle, the first author of a book (well, treatise) on how to write, tells us right up front: the plot is the most important element of the story.
“Aristotle identifies six aspects, or “parts,” of tragedy: PLOT (mythos), CHARACTER (ēthos), LANGUAGE (lexis), THOUGHT (dianoia), SPECTACLE (opsis), and MUSICAL composition (melopoiia). The most important aspect of tragedy, to which all the others are subordinated, is the plot.” (Aristotle’s Theory of Tragedy, Margarlit Finkelberg.)
My friend Karl is the plot whisperer in my writing groups. He suggested Story Engineering, by Larry Brooks, which makes a book-length project out of suggesting that the structure of modern fiction is always the same.
Brooks has continued the tradition of adding complexity to structure advice. We have moved from Aristotle’s beginning-middle-end structure through the Middle Ages playwrights (five is the correct number of acts) to Freytag’s Pyramid (exposition—rising action—climax—falling action—denouement) to Brooks, who suggests nine steps.
|2||A hooking moment (in first 20 pages)|
|3||A Setup inciting incident (can be the first plot point)|
|4||First plot point (20-25% through story)|
|5||First Pinch Point (3/8)|
|7||Second Pinch Point (5/8) middle of part 3|
|8||Second plot point (75%)|
Brooks promises a much shorter development cycle if I am mindful of the steps. I could use the help.
I read a submission guideline the other day that sliced novelists into ‘beginner’ and ‘experienced’ using the following cleaver: “you may consider your work for the experienced category if it has been critiqued by people other than friends and family.”
I get it. Your wife’s going to tell you it’s great. Family harmony vs. weak characterization … harmony wins, right?
Well, that’s all well and good as a general case. However, my wife Beverly is not a general case. She is an educator of many facets … kids, science outreach, young (we’re talking preschool through elementary), old (adult to ancient). And, in all those facets, writing has been her central organizing idea. Here’s a reminder from her current writing course that rang a bell with me (hehehe):
Over the past couple of months, I’ve attended three conferences (one by Internet) that featured pitches or queries. Friends asked for a summary. The summary grew longer than a blog post, so I made it into a page, here.
The summary covers some of what I learned. The experience proved that the nexus of art and business is anything but clear, but it helped me understand that querying and pitching are much less about writing quality and much more about business. The agent’s operative question, at least at first, is not, “Is this person a fine writer?” or “Is this story/character/plot captivating?” It is, “Will this book sell?” Nothing at all wrong with that, but it helps me write a better query. As one presenter said, a good query letter induces the agent to ask for some/all of the manuscript (where that fine writing resides); the query/pitch is a business proposition.
I just finished going to a pitch conference at The Loft (Minneapolis). As is usual with these events, there were education sessions, often involving panels of agents. In one, the agents discussed how many queries they get. One of the participants allowed as how she gets 4,000 or so annually. Asked how many projects she took on last year, she said, “Seven.”
I put these data out to make people (well, me) feel better about querying and getting no response. The agent in question averred that she reads all the queries. If she gives each one five minutes, she spends 40% of a normal year reading queries.
Technology is disrupting so many modes of communication, and this is surely one. Gone are the days when a query letter needed to be printed out, folded, slipped into an envelope with a SASE (does anyone even recognize that term anymore?). Then, if the agent responded, 9×12 envelope, lots of paper, lots of postage. But now, the barriers to communication have dropped so low that agents are flooded.
Which brings up Rogers’ Rule Nine: The amount of relevant information in the world has been growing at a fairly regular rate, while
total information has been growing exponentially. On the savannah, one additional piece of data probably meant the likelihood of eating and not being eaten increased measurably. There were explosions of relevant information in China and Greece, but still pretty linear. Gutenberg, the damn German, bent the curve, then Mad Ave, then the computer. Now, we spend significant life overhead finding the good stuff.
Back in the day, I would have queried a dozen agents (perhaps sequentially). Now I can query twenty, fifty or one hundred. And every other query writer out there is doing the same thing.
Guess I’d better get to it.
I went to a shiva yesterday for a friend’s mother. It was in the evening. A bit uncertain about dress, I wore a conservative suit and a tie. When I arrived, I realized most of the people were more casually dressed. A bit embarrassed, I mentioned to a friend that I felt overdressed. He said, “Don’t worry about it. You’re never overdressed in a suit.”
And yes, this does relate to writing. Modern punctuation trends seem to be minimalist to the point that one is occasionally confused (as in “Let’s eat Grandma.”). My tepid response to this trend has been to drop the series comma before ‘and.’ The editor says No … stick with the Oxford comma (red, white, and blue). The publisher can always take it out. But one is never overdressed in the Oxford comma.
My critique groups often lean on me for using bigger words than necessary. Particularly people who read and adore Hemingway. My weak defense is accuracy: I want the reader to get an exact picture. The response is, “in well-written work, sixty percent of the reader’s vision is what the author wrote; forty percent is drawn from the reader’s own experience.” Now with several years and more than several rewrites under my belt, I understand.
So who had the twisted sense of humor to give an exact definition of ‘fear of long words’ as hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia?
Ahh, the pitch conference. Three minutes to explain your darling child of a novel to a polite but dubious agent. Three minutes for her to ask probing questions that tear it apart.
I enjoyed most of the Writers Digest pitch conference in St. Paul, Minnesota last Saturday. The classes were more reminders of ideas we writers should always have in our heads than anything new. Mystery writer Kristi Belcamino reminded us to “get in late and leave early” so that you give the reader the essence of an action, rather than all the steps (hearing the knock, walking to the door, turning the knob). Set up a ticking clock. (To know that you have to catch a flight to Istanbul is just information. To know it’s an hour before takeoff and you’re still in the security line raises the stakes.) This is stuff most writers know, but I, for one, tend to bury important things in prose, then have to trim.
I had some hope of discovering how a self-published work of fiction finds readers. For all the good ideas, warnings, and suggestions, there was not much there.
Possibly the best takeaway for me was a session in which first pages of novels were read aloud to six agents, who then indicated when they would stop reading. One of the pages read was from a talented author in my Wednesday critique group. The agents had comments similar to those the critique group had when its members read that first page. Heartening to hear that the group is on point. Also very interesting to hear the agents’ take on what works and what doesn’t. Good writing is necessary, but not sufficient.
In any case, the experience kicked me into yet another rewrite.
A fine Minnesota writer, William Kent Krueger, plans his mystery novels out in detail, I’m told. He is well known for going to a diner each morning and writing. His stories are detailed and coherent, and his prose is clear and finely balanced. His Ordinary Grace won the 2014 Edgar for best novel. Clearly, he knows what he’s doing.
Kent Krueger was one of the founders of one of my Minneapolis critique groups, Crème de la Crime, although he has left the group under the pressure of success.
One of my several conceits when I began writing seriously several years ago was that writing is an organic process. We plant the seed of a character, and the character grows through the story. The story must have an arc, and main characters must grow through the arc. Ahem. Like many of the other conceits, that one is true but not sufficient to justify waiting for inspiration to carry me away on its gassy clouds.
I’m not a person who thrives on having a regular schedule. I feel guilty about that in a number of areas of my life, but I always have excuses: those immediate quotidian issues and tasks … groceries, dentist, car service, getting the books back to the library … seem to jump in front of writing.
I mention all of this because I am realizing how important regular writing is. The more complicated the story, the more important regularity becomes. In my third novel, of which I’ve drafted perhaps a third, the plot has, as they say in the bi’ness world, a lot of moving parts. If I were clever like Krueger, I’d be writing every day, which would keep the plot details in my head at all times and prevent the egregious plot mistakes I’m trying to backflush.
Too late for a true New Year’s resolution, but I hereby resolve to write on a more regular schedule.