Style - Steven R. Southard (Poseidon's Scribe)

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Dear Ray Bradbury

I just had to write to thank you, thank you, for the great times, the pleasures of reading your work. There’s no sense letting a little thing like your death in 2012 prevent me from expressing my gratitude, is there?

Sorry, I haven’t read all your books and stories. I’ve read less of your canon than I have of Jules Verne’s, Isaac Asimov’s, or Robert Heinlein’s. But, oh, the few of your books I digested left lifelong mental imprints: Something Wicked This Way Comes, Fahrenheit 451, Dandelion Wine, The Illustrated Man, Now and Forever, and The Martian Chronicles. In high school, I read your short story, “The Flying Machine,” and my recollections of it inspired my story, “The Sea-Wagon of Yantai,” written decades later.

At one point, you declared you wrote fantasy, not science fiction. In my view you blended the two. You made science sound like fantasy.

Moreover, your flowing style of writing contrasted with that of the hard-science fiction writers. Their stories conveyed a love of machines, of science. Yours proclaimed a love of word imagery, of the magic of English, of poetic prose.

The authors of hard science fiction told me tales of technical detail. You sang me stories of marvel and wonder.

I guess I’m trying to say that I write more like those other guys, but wish I could write like you.

On occasion, you related a particular memory from when you were about twelve. At a carnival, one of the performers known as Mr. Electrico touched an electrical sword to your nose which made your hair stand out. You claimed he told you, “Live forever!”

In a very real sense, Mr. Bradbury, you will. Thanks again.

Poseidon’s Scribe

December 22, 2013Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Dear Dr. Asimov

You may have some difficulty reading this, since you’ve been dead for over 21 years, but I hope somehow this tribute finds its way to you nonetheless. I just wanted to say thanks, however belatedly, for your books and the way they influenced me.

I started reading science fiction in the early 1970s, and by then you were a giant in the field. I read dozens of your short stories, and some of your novels including Foundation, Fantastic Voyage, The Gods Themselves, The End of Eternity, The Naked Sun, and others. Later I read some of your nonfiction books and essays and some of your non-SF fiction, including The Union Club Mysteries and Azazel.

In fact, I read more stories written by you than by any other author. (Of course, there are more stories written by you than any other SF author!)

In the late 1980s or very early 1990s I had the opportunity to attend one of your speeches—a great thrill for me since I was then thinking of becoming a writer. You had traveled (by train, of course, since you never flew) to my area to speak in a lecture hall.

Alone on stage, you began speaking in your thick Brooklyn accent. “I’ve done a number of these things already, so to save time, I’ll ask the questions you would ask, and then answer them. First question: Dr. Asimov, how did you come to write so many books? Well, I type ninety words a minute and before I knew it, I’d written five hundred books. If someone wants a 5000 word short story, I type 5000 words and stop; with any luck, I’m at the end of a sentence.”

You gave advice to budding writers like me that day also. “My first draft is my final draft. I don’t believe in rubbing words together until they sparkle in the sunlight. As my good friend, the late Bob Heinlein said, ‘They didn’t want it good; they wanted it Wednesday.’”

It was a great hour-long lecture, and you kept the audience laughing the whole time. But that was just one hour. Your impact on my life goes much deeper.

Your SF stories are based on sound science, and your characters confront bedeviling problems that spring from unalterable facts. The science is a central part of each story. I’ve strived for that in my stories as well.

Moreover, your tales are celebrations of science. I don’t recall any stories where science leads humanity irrevocably astray. Even your dystopian works end with hope for the future. That’s true of my writing, too.

Others have spoken of your clear, uncluttered style of writing, and you’ve acknowledged that yourself. My critique group tells me my style is similar at times.

Looking back over the list of my published short stories, I think I can see your influence in each one, to some extent. Alas, I don’t type ninety words a minute, and I labor over several drafts, so I will never equal the quantity of your output. But it’s my dream to write a story someday that approaches the quality of your fiction.

Here’s to you, Dr. Isaac Asimov! Thank you.

Steven R. Southard

aka

Poseidon’s Scribe

October 20, 2013Poseidon's ScribePermalink

15 Writing Virtues

Many people believe you aren’t just stuck with the way you are now, that you can better yourself by persistent act of will. I’m one of them, but let me just focus on self-help as it applies to the writing of fiction.

Benjamin Franklin was an early example of someone who developed a program of self-improvement. His method was to list thirteen virtues along with a brief description, then he would set about to focus on one virtue per week. Franklin actually kept a log of this, giving himself a black mark on days he fell short. Presumably, by focusing on one virtue at a time, it did not mean he was abandoning the others during that week.

Examples of his virtues include:

1. Temperance. Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation.

4. Resolution. Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve.

In the spirit of Benjamin Franklin’s list of virtues, I’ll offer some virtues of writing fiction. I’ve grouped them into ‘process’ virtues dealing with how you write, and ‘product’ virtues dealing with aspects of the manuscript itself.

The Poseidon’s Scribe 15 Virtues of Fiction Writing

Process Virtues

1. Productivity. Fill hours with writing, not researching or time-wasting activity.

2. Focus. Turn off your inner editor during the first draft.

3. Humility. Seek other trusted people to critique your work; be receptive.

4. Excellence. Only submit work you’re proud of.

5. Doggedness. Be persistent in submitting to markets; be unshaken by rejections.

Product Virtues.

6. Relevance. Ensure your work passes the ‘So What?’ test.

7. Appeal. Hook readers from the first paragraph.

8. Engagement. Put your characters in conflict with something or someone; make the story about conflict resolution.

9. Empathy. Create vivid, engaging characters.

10. Action. Weave logical, interesting plots with appropriate causes and effects.

11. Placement. Provide clear but unobtrusive descriptions of the story setting, without overshadowing character or plot.

12. Meaning. Ensure your story’s theme explores eternal human truths.

13. Style. Seek your own voice, then follow it.

14. Communication. Ensure your characters’ dialogue is appropriate and advances the plot. (Mentioned here, here, and here.)

15. Skill. Salt your tales with symbolism and appropriate metaphors.

Your list would likely be different. One way to go about it is to examine critiques of your fiction you receive from members of your critique group, from editors, etc. Are there repeated criticisms? Turn them around and express them as a positive affirmation or goal, not as a negative to avoid. Those goals represent things to work on, and would be on your own list of virtues.

George Carlin fans would likely point out to me that there’s no such thing as self-help. People who get their list of virtues from their critique group, or from this blog post, aren’t exactly engaged in self-help, since they got help from others. Moreover, if beginning writers truly helped themselves get better, then they didn’t need help. Witty gags aside, it can be a comfort to a struggling writer that there exist methods for improvement, but all I offer is a framework for starting; the writer must shoulder the burden of actually doing the work to improve her writing.

I’d love to hear if you’ve found my list useful, or if you’ve developed your own list, or even if you’ve embarked on a completely different method of improving your writing. Let me know in your comments to this blog entry. For now, back to improving his writing goes—

Poseidon’s Scribe

May 12, 2013Poseidon's ScribePermalink

To Do, Or Be Done To?

That is the question. Today I’ll cover one of my pet peeves—passive sentence construction, as contrasted with the active version.

Defining these types is easy. In active sentence construction (also called ‘active voice’) the subject of the sentence performs the action described by the verb. In passive construction, the subject is the recipient of the action.

For example, here are two sentences from a recent story of mine:

Doctor Rudolph Wellburn looked up from his workbench as Red dragged the trampled man through his door.

The man had been bound with ropes to three tree limbs lashed together.

In the first, the subject is the doctor, Wellburn, and the verb is looked. There’s another clause with its subject Red and verb dragged. Both are active, since the subject is performing the action. In the second sentence, which is passive, the subject man has had an action done to him, described by the ‘had been bound’ verb.

It’s possible to convert sentences back and forth between the two voices. I could have phrased the first sentence as “The workbench was looked up from by Doctor Rudolph Wellburn as…” I also could have worded the second sentence as “Red had bound the man with ropes…” I’ll soon reveal why I didn’t do that.

I think of active sentences as direct, honest, and clear. They also seem stronger to me. Passive sentences, with their ability to hide the subject entirely, seem dishonest, confusing, and weak. Needless to say, I prefer active sentences. At my workplace many others write in passive sentences, so I’m on a one-man crusade to change all that. Change has to start somewhere!

Ulysses S Grant - mistakes were made Among the worst passive sentences ever written is “Mistakes were made.” Politicians since Ulysses S. Grant have used that one to acknowledge a problem but to hide the responsible party from blame. However, the press and the public are on to that tactic, and would pounce on any official who uttered it (after laughing out loud).

By now you’re wondering why Poseidon’s Scribe has stated a firm bias against passive sentences, and yet used one in a recent story. There are several valid reasons for using passive sentences:

1. The doer of the action is unknown, unwanted, or unneeded in the sentence.

2. The action of the sentence needs more emphasis or focus than the doer of the action.

3. Sentence variety.

4. Putting the subject at the end of the sentence can delay its impact to achieve surprise or humor.

I chose a passive sentence in my story for reason 1, since the identity of the person who bound the man to the tree limbs was unimportant to the story. Police reports use passive sentences when the person who committed the crime is unknown. Scientists often use passive sentences for reason 2, to emphasize the experiment, not the experimenter, and to sound more objective.

But in your fiction writing I advocate sticking to active sentences as much as you can. Weed out passive ones, and make each one defend its place in your story. Remember, passive sentences are easier to write and you can fall into the habit of favoring them unless you make the effort to avoid them.

Am I being too harsh on passive sentences? Leave a comment and let me know. I’m not infallible, after all, but I’m not too proud to admit that mistakes were made by—

Poseidon’s Scribe

P.S. Be sure to check this space on Wednesday, December 19. I’ll be participating in a blog hop called The Next Big Thing. You wouldn’t want to miss the next big thing, would you?

P.S.

December 16, 2012Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Rules Writers Break

In the movie “Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl,” several pirate characters throughout the movie mention the Pirate Code in reverent tones. Late in the film, Captain Barbossa reveals, “the Code is more what you’d call ‘guidelines’ than actual rules.”

Today I’ll discuss writing rules your grade school teachers taught you, and whether following them is something you must do, or should do. When teaching young children, it is often best to give them black-and-white rule sets. That’s a lot easier to understand than wishy-washy grayness, the actual messiness of the real world.

However, if you aim to be a writer of fiction for the modern marketplace, it’s time to let go of some of those rules. If, as you write, your mind’s eye sees your teacher from long ago admonishing you to follow one of the rules below, try deliberately violating the rule even as your teacher watches. Steady practice at this should make the visions of your teacher go away.

Always use complete sentences. Not only did your teacher tell you that one, but word processing software often alerts you when you’ve created a sentence fragment. It’s fine as a general rule, but there are times when your story requires a sentence or thought to be emphasized, to stand out. An occasional fragment is okay when used deliberately for such a purpose.
Don’t begin sentences with ‘And’ or ‘But.’ Your teacher might have extended this rule to all connecting words—conjunctions—which also include ‘or’ and ‘yet.’ Traditional English sentences require that such words, when used, connect two clauses. Again, if your second clause needs special emphasis, go ahead and set it apart with a separate sentence. But remember to use conjunctions properly when you do, according to their meanings.
Never end a sentence with a preposition. This is an ancient rule imposed by grammarians who wanted to make English more like Latin. The rule is long discredited now, or should be. No one buried it with more flare than Winston Churchill when he wrote, “This is the type of errant pedantry up with which I will not put.”
Always use proper paragraph form. By this your teacher meant paragraphs should have topic sentences, then sentences that build on or substantiate the topic sentence, and then a concluding sentence. Therefore, by that rule, you would never have a paragraph consisting of just one sentence. In fiction writing you can throw that rule out. Just tell your story. Paragraphs are useful to break up the text, to give white space so the reader catches a breath now and then. Paragraphs also help to group like thoughts together. A one-sentence paragraph now and then for emphasis is permitted.
Don’t use long sentences. Many people confuse these with run-on sentences, which are different, and it’s still a good rule not to use them. The thing about long sentences is, your reader could become lost and confused wading through all the ‘ands,’ ‘buts,’ em dashes, commas, and semicolons. Use a long sentence (over, say, forty words) if you need to, but do it for effect and make it easy to read.
Never split an infinitive. Stated differently, the rule is to never split an infinitive. This rule, too, once created controversy but the battle is pretty much over. You may now split with impunity. Go with what sounds right to you.

If you are still in grade school, follow the rules presented by your teacher, (knowing you can break some of them later when your grades are no longer at stake). For the rest of you, remember your main job as a writer of fiction is to move your reader emotionally. If the story demands it, go ahead and break some of these rules. Like the Pirate Code, they’re more what you’d call guidelines. Take it from that one-time pirate and noted rule-breaker…

Poseidon’s Scribe