The house that Jack built
“And ye shall know him by the house he keeps”
This might seem duh to most learned and experienced writers, but I read about a writing exercise that I thought was quite useful.
Namely, descibing your character’s house. Read more
And yet another about the Hidden Story
Had this blog post open for a while, because I thought this writer put it well when he said,
The major players in your story must have… subterranean motivations, and ideally provide such curiosity-sparking mysteries for your readers. Perhaps you eventually reveal what makes those gears whir — in a revelatory flashback, for instance, or a final, crucial sliver of information presented in act three — or perhaps you don’t. What’s important is that you must know what makes them tick (and tic), and slyly weave these details into your narrative.
Don’t put it all on the page. Hold a few of those cards close, damned close, to your vest. And understand that if your entire knowledge of your characters is what your readers directly experience on the page, you may have written a Good story … but probably not a Great one.
Not always so easy.
I just started the first scene of the new draft – and really, it’s the prologue. I’d devised an entire back story for the Lovable Schmuck that will probably never make it to the pages – but writing the resulting voice for him? Harder than I thought. I thought I had it when I was drafting his character, but now that I’m actually making him interact with others, I’ve had to stop and think.
The trick, I reckon, is in the nugget dropping. Leaving a trail of clues along the way before the final Ah Hah at the end. And the hardest part of all: doing it elegantly. Avoiding an extra scene, when a sentence or two will suffice. Crafting the smallest moment that paints the thousand words, without detracting from the main story but adding to it.
Am I up to the challenge? I’m hoping so.
Drawing from personal experience
So we all know the adage that every life is a book waiting to be written. And some of us are mad enough to try. And we also know that it’s usually better to draw from personal experience than to try and wing it cold. Our characters are the most sympathetic when they are authentic. Which means knowing what the hell we’re talking about.
Which brings me to the next question: how close is too close? When do true events stop becoming fiction and start becoming autobiographic? Does it start with verbatim quotes and end with suspiciously similar-sounding names? (“I’ll call my protagonist… Memogen Goods. That will fool them.”) Can you be accused of unoriginality if you were to bring the most annoying character you know to your pages?
When does working the muse become abuse? Read more
Wading through the cross currents of constructive criticism
Been poking around Katrina’s blog, and her post about dealing with negative feedback, which reminded me of this great cartoon I received in an email newsletter years ago:
And while it doesn’t quite deal with book critics – or friends who critique your work – it does hit on some home truths: human beings aren’t naturals at dishing out constructive criticism. And we’re even less adept at taking it.
For my Now-Dead-Draft-Two, I had dished out the first 15 to 20 chapters to three people in my writing group, my dearest cousin, a friend from work, and a friend of a friend. And by far the least confusing advice I got were from the ones in the writing group, because they told me exactly
- which bits they liked
- which bits they thought needed work
- what techniques I could employ to fix said bits that needed work.
And immediately, that gave me a roadmap for improvement. Two out of three of them also smothered me with encouragement, which was just lovely and kind and timely. But they hardly know me, and yet they got straight to the point. And I walked away going, “Wow. I need to learn to critique like that.”
And then, there was the other kind of well-intentioned feedback that just left me confused as hell. And while I take full responsibility for junking Now-Dead-Draft-Two, I did it in part because I took EVERYONE’S suggestions on board and, well. Many cooks really can make a lousy clam chowder.
Know thyself, I conclude. I agree with Katrina – discernment is key. It’s not a free for all, and just because your critique partner doesn’t like how you haven’t painstakingly detailed your heroine’s every lump and bump, or what your hero smells like (“He smells like the man your man could smell like!”), doesn’t mean you have to do everything she says. Some feedback just stems from personal taste and opinion. And we can’t all like the same shoes. Because what’s the fun in that?
Introducing structure to my writing
I’ve entitled this draft “By the book”, only because that’s precisely what I’m trying to do with this version. With the last 2 magnum opi (heh) and the countless other small ones before those, I had grabbed the bull by its proverbial horns and simply started writing.
Only to find that it’s one thing to write an essay. It’s quite the other to write a book.
Structure. My draft lacked structure. My characters lacked structure. And in my arrogance and naivete, I had marched on and started writing without answering some pretty fundamental questions about who my characters are and where they wanted to go.
Which meant that on some days, my characters were manic or mellow, depending on how much caffeine I’d inhaled. Which meant, after a while, that they all started to meld together somehow at about the 60,000 mark and become a giant chorus of Ho Hum.
I’ve met writers who say that they write without an outline. They just sit in front of the computer and let their imaginations (and the voices in their heads) take over. I’ve found that I cannot do that. As much as I would love to be that talented, it’s beginning to dawn on me that I first need to understand a few more fundamentals about plot and character, before I let the words drip from my fingertips.
Enter Garry Disher.
I don’t know who he is, and I have no real idea of his writing credentials apart from what they printed inside the book cover. But I picked up his book, “Writing Fiction: An introduction to the craft” at the Lifeline bookfair this March for $2, and even though it was first published in 1983, I figured the principles aren’t too different.
Also,
- It’s thin, which is good because I’m impatient.
- It’s to the point, which is even better (see point one).
- It’s a start.
Because you know what they say about insanity… it’s doing the same thing over and over, and expecting a different outcome.
Here’s to trying something new.
