Monthly Archives: March 2021

What’s in a Title?

Last week I wrote about the opening lines in a story. But before you read the opening, you read the title. Do you struggle to come up with appropriate, catchy titles for your stories? Read on…

Some writers have no problem with titles. In fact, there are authors who think up a clever title, and write a story to suit it.

On the other hand, some start with a ‘working title,’ intending to come up with a real title later. When that time arrives, they get stuck, unable to create a suitable title. Writing the 5000-word story was no problem, but coming up with just 1-10 words is maddening.

Author Stephen Pressfield offers some great advice in this blogpost. He says to let the theme of your story suggest the title, and he gives some great examples.

In her post on titles, author Lynne Lumsden Green goes a bit further. She says a title should (1) be memorable, (2) encompass the theme of the story, and (3) not give too much away.

I agree, though I don’t think you should agonize over your title. I’d spend more time on the story’s opening and closing lines. Even so, I often brainstorm about 20-30 titles before hitting on the right one.

Be aware, when choosing your title, even words like ‘the’ can be important. That word denotes one particular thing. To take an example from my stories, “Moonset” (from the Re-Terrify anthology) evokes a periodic event that happens daily. “The Moonset” suggests one particular setting of the moon. The one-word version was more appropriate for my story.

Here are some explanations for the titles of my stories:

“Broken Flute Cave” is also the setting of the story, a cavern so-named because a modern discoverer found what looked like broken flutes inside. My story is the origin story, or pourquoi story of the last Native American flute player to occupy that cave.

“Reconnaissance Mission” (in the Not Far From Roswell anthology) has a double meaning in this story. The tale follows Army Sergeant Major Edgar Allan Poe as he participates in a recon mission to Nuevo México. There he finds his is not the only team conducting such a mission.

“The Unparalleled Attempt to Rescue One Hans Pfaall” (in the Quoth the Raven anthology) is a sequel to Edgar Allan Poe’s story “The Unparalleled Adventure of One Hans Pfaall.” I could hardly have titled it any other way.  

“Instability” (in the Dark Luminous Wings anthology) is another title with double meanings. A medieval monk builds wings and tries to fly, but can’t control his flight. Moreover, some of the other monks question his sanity.

“Time’s Deformèd Hand” is a phrase from the Shakespeare play “The Comedy of Errors.” My story—in the clockpunk genre—has many references to time, clocks, and calendars, and errors associated with time measurement. The grave accent mark (`) means to pronounce that usually-silent ‘e’ as you would in ‘ranted.’

“Last Vessel of Atlantis” (combined in one volume with “Rallying Cry”) evokes the wonder of that legendary lost continent. The word ‘vessel’ has two meanings in the story—a ship and a container of liquids. In fact, the first published version of that story was titled “The Vessel.”

“The Six Hundred Dollar Man” references the 1970s TV show “The Six Million Dollar Man” but mine is a steampunk version taking place in the American Wild West.

The next time you’re stressing about how to title a story, you’ll remember the profound and timeless advice of the one who titles himself—

Poseidon’s Scribe

March 28, 2021Permalink

7 Ways to Start Your Science Fiction Short Story

Oh, those choosy readers! So pressed for time, so easily distracted. If you don’t begin your SF short story in an imaginative, attention-grabbing way, they won’t read further. Let’s find out how to hook them.

Author Charlie Jane Anders wrote a great post citing seven killer openings for SF short stories, with classic examples for each one. I highly recommend her post.

Here, in brief, is my take on her list, with examples from my stories:

1. Set the Scene. Put us ‘there’ right away. Immerse us in the strangeness of your setting. Most SF stories begin this way. Use when setting is important, but get to the plot’s action soon after.

Personal Example, from “The Sea-Wagon of Yantai:”

2. Introduce Conflict. Hit us with the problem first. What is your character dealing with? Fill in other details later. Good way to hook readers, but a bit chancy if your bomb’s a dud, or if the rest of the story doesn’t live up to its start.

Personal Example, from “A Tale More True:”

3. Mystify. Intrigue and confuse us. Cast us in without knowing our bearings yet. A risky way to start, but when it works, it works well.

Personal Example, from “The Cats of Nerio-3:”

4. Gather ‘Round, Children. Have a talkative narrator speak to the reader in third person, often addressing the reader as ‘you.’ Often used in humor stories, but you need to keep that narration intriguing, and sustain it.

Personal (though approximate) Example, from “Reconnaissance Mission:”

5. There I was. Have the talkative narrator, the main character, self-identifying as “I,” speak to the reader in first person. Often these stories start in a reflective, essay-like tone. Helps readers identify with the main character right away, but you need to get to the plot action and the scene-setting soon after.

No Personal Examples

6. Start With a Quote. This can be a quote from another document, or (more often) a character speaking. Good way to introduce a character’s personality right away, but if done wrong, this beginning can come off as juvenile.

Personal Example, from “The Unparalleled Attempt to Rescue One Hans Pfaall:”

7. Open With a Puzzle. Combine 2. and 3. above to introduce a conflict while also mystifying. This is the most difficult of the seven methods. Great when it works, but awful when it doesn’t.

Personal Example, from “Moonset:”

You should work hard on the opening lines of your short stories. Try several, or all, of the examples above until you hit on one you feel is right. Attempt, in a sentence or two, to (1) grab the reader, (2) introduce the main character, (3) present or suggest the conflict, (4) set the mood or tone of the story, and (5) perhaps give a hint of the ending for circular closure.

Now go out and grab your readers, using the methods of—

Poseidon’s Scribe

March 21, 2021Permalink

I Knew What I Meant

Have you ever started reading a story and not understood it? It’s frustrating, and you’re unlikely to finish reading. Who’s to blame for that? The story’s author? You? Let’s explore the problem.

Years ago, I took a course in technical communication. The instructor asked, “Who is responsible for effective communication, the writer or the reader?” The ‘class answer’ was “You are,” meaning you should strive for clear understanding whether you’re reading or writing.

The purpose of any writing, whether fiction, nonfiction, poetry, or the outside of a cereal box, is to convey an idea from one person’s mind to another person’s mind. The idea starts in the author’s mind and passes through several filters before reaching the resulting text. In every case, it’s an imperfect translation of idea to text.

Next, the reader reads the text and that information passes through the reader’s filters to create an idea in the reader’s mind. That process involves more translation errors, so the similarity of the writer’s idea to the reader’s understanding of that idea is, at best, approximate.

The purpose of fiction is to entertain. If the reader is not entertained, the reader can simply stop reading. There is no compelling need for the reader to finish the text and gain sufficient understanding, like there is, for example, in reading the instructions for defusing a bomb while the bomb is ticking.

Often, fellow authors in my critique group say they don’t understand something I’ve written. My reply is, “Why not? I knew what I meant.” That, of course, is never good enough.

The trouble is, as writers, when we look at our resulting words, our minds snap back to our original vision, not to the imperfectly translated one in the reader’s mind. So strong is this tendency that we find it difficult to conceive of any other way to interpret our words.

In this post, Glenn Leibowitz cites the book The Sense of Style: The Thinking Person’s Guide to Writing in the 21st Century by Steven Pinker. In it, Pinker defines the “Curse of Knowledge” as ‘the difficulty of imagining what it is like for someone else not to know something that you know.’

If we’re all cursed with this problem, how may we overcome it? First, you know it can be solved. You’ve read some fiction that really reached you, where the author transported you into the world of the book, where you truly got it. Therefore, take heart. Here are some techniques for lifting the curse:

  1. When writing your first draft, forget about the Curse of Knowledge. Concentrate on getting your story written with a consistent tone and emotion. Sacrifice readability for speed.
  2. In a later draft, review your descriptions of characters and settings and feelings. Now go to the extreme and add a lot of details. Over-describe things. Paint your mental pictures pixel by pixel.
  3. In a still later draft, hone those descriptions to the key details, the ones that really make the picture real.
  4. Incorporate similes and metaphors to relate story-world things to your reader’s real-world things.
  5. Be on the lookout for jargon, words a professional in a particular field might know, but most readers wouldn’t. If you must use such a term, include a brief definition the first time you use it.
  6. If possible, set your manuscript aside for a few weeks. Review it again when the words aren’t as fresh in your mind. This approximates a reader’s experience and you can fix any passages that aren’t clear.
  7. Get help from others. Have a Beta Reader review your manuscript. Join a Critique Group. Or pay an editor to read through your story.

Have I confused you? Sorry. This post was crystal clear in the mind of—

Poseidon’s Scribe

March 14, 2021Permalink

Write Fast, Write Slow

Should you write fast, slow, or a bit of both? Emulate a cheetah, a snail, or switch from one to the other?

I got to pondering this topic when I heard about the book Thinking, Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman. In the book, he discusses both of the ways thoughts form in our brains. He calls them System 1 and System 2.

In System 1, our thoughts are instant, emotional, and unconscious. This is what Malcolm Gladwell described in his book Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking. In System 2, our thoughts take time to form and are logical, rational, and less frequent.

Kahneman’s book is not primarily about writing, but others have extended his thoughts into that field. Author Joe Bunting claims that he (Bunting) too easily slips into System 2, so offers five tips to stay in System 1 and therefore crank out prose faster.

Author Anne Janzer renames System 1 as the Muse and System 2 as the Scribe. She advocates using each mode to maximum advantage, and being open to both systems. Wait…did she call the slow one Scribe? Poseidon’s Scribe will try not to take offense.

Just to be different, I’ll call the two systems Cheetah Mode and Snail Mode.

In Cheetah Mode, you’re trying to write in the flow. If you get stuck for a word or need to research something, just make a note to do that later and move on. Let nothing interrupt the cascade of words.

Cheetah Mode has the advantage of being prolific. You can really churn out stories fast. In that mode, too, you can more easily sustain an emotion and achieve consistent tone throughout a story.

However, the Cheetah makes mistakes—grammar goofs, cliches, stereotyped characters, plot problems, unexplained motivations, illogical events, unclear descriptions, etc.

Snail Mode has the advantage of careful attention to detail. It’s what writers call their internal editor. In this mode you can spot and correct your errors, ensure your story is researched and credible, add new insights that occur after careful thought, and render your story polished and readable.

But Snail Mode contains a trap—the perfectionism trap. There’s always more you can do to improve your story, and you can improve it all the way into an eternal spiral of incompletion.

When should you use each mode? I suggest, for your first draft, let the cheetah sprint. In all subsequent drafts, I’d bring out the snail and let it slowly roam through the text, especially the beginning and ending of the story.

As the snail wends its dawdling and deliberate way, keep the cheetah nearby. Let it tap the snail’s shell every now and then, asking, “You done yet? That story’s good enough to submit now. I’m ready to let loose with the next tale.” Any of Bunting’s techniques might work for this.

As Janzer suggests, you should be able to flit from cheetah to snail and back with ease, and be equally comfortable in either mode.

Not to be confused with Anne Janzer’s System 2 Scribe, I’m—

Poseidon’s Scribe

March 4, 2021Permalink