Getting Words Down
When I began my writing hobby, I wondered about the mechanics of how real authors worked. I figured real authors (famous ones, for whom writing was their day job) just sat at their keyboards producing electronic reams of high-quality prose, stealing glances out the window across the acreage of their vast estates. Or maybe some of them lounged by the side of their Olympic pool with a voice recorder in hand, speaking the words that one of their staff would later type up in a manuscript. Perhaps some of the older, less techno-savvy of these authors still used their favorite typewriter (remember those?), or wrote on paper with a diamond-studded fountain pen. Again, the task of typing all those magical, money-making lines into a word processor would fall to a minion.
The daily routine of a real author, I imagined, would go something like this. Noon: wake up. Afternoon: Do something to get in the writing mood, such as scuba diving, skiing, hunting bear, skydiving, or piloting your private jet to some city for lunch or dinner with famous editor or agent. After dinner: intimate party with one hundred celebrity friends. Midnight: write until four a.m. Sleep. Repeat every day.
Such imaginings did my psyche no good at all. Inevitably I would compare my own situation to that of my fantasy author and find that I fell somewhat short. I lacked not only the vast estate and Olympic pool, but even the diamond-studded pen and private jet. Most of all, I lacked the long stretches of time available to famous writers.
Somehow I would have to make due with a computer located in a small downstairs den, a plastic ballpoint pen, and the short, irregular snatches of time I could steal from my day job and family obligations.
How should I make best use of these scanty resources? Should I carve out an hour of each day and declare it my writing hour? Sit down at the computer and do nothing else but write during that time? Such a strategy would have the advantage of forming a habit, establishing a mental boundary that would keep other activities out and ensure a fixed routine. The act of sitting down every day to write at the same time, in the same setting, would ensure a steady flow of output.
That approach might work for some, and how I wish it worked for me. But my muse would have none of it. I’d sit down at the beginning of my writing hour and think, “Now, be creative.” But nothing happened. Apparently my carefully arranged writing hour was inconvenient for my muse, damn her. So a wasted sixty minutes ensued in which a few words got typed, the delete and backspace keys saw much action, and nothing of consequence resulted. In frustration I retired for bed, first taking my customary nighttime shower. Don’t you know—it was then the stupid muse decided to visit, with me naked and soaking wet, without a computer in sight.
In time, I came to realize that writing—for me—would mean adapting my schedule to that of my muse. I’d have to be ready for her appearance at any time of day. I formed the habit of carrying a writing pad in my briefcase to and from work or when going on errands. I put a voice recorder in the car, and another writing pad on the nightstand. Yes, it means extra work since I write by hand first, then type the same words into my computer’s word processor. But I find the typing process serves as a first edit along the way to a finished draft.
As a story progresses, I hand-write several pages, then type them up and print them out. By stapling blank pages to the back, I can then use my (and my muse’s) available time to edit what I’ve done before and add to it. Then type and print some more, etc. and edit the result until the story’s done. It may seem cumbersome, but it works for me.
Those last four words are the main point. If a writer you would be, then you’ll have to work out the mechanics of the process for yourself. I wish you luck, says–
Poseidon’s Scribe
A Stroll through My Mental Library
Why would you read a blog post containing a list of writers who influenced me? My aim is to provoke you to think about (perhaps even write down) the list of those who inspired you. It’s a useful exercise. Perhaps the most important part of the exercise is to describe those writers as well—what they mean to you.
Come on, walk along beside me now through the library of my mind. The shelves have all the books I ever read. My apologies for its small size; a busy life interferes with reading, unfortunately. But I’m trying to read more. For the purposes of today’s tour the books have been arranged by author, and we’ll be viewing busts of the more prominent ones. Engraved on the pedestal of each bust are the author’s name and a few words describing his or her works.
Ah, I see you noticed the 30-foot high bronze statue just within the entrance. Kind of hard to miss. Yes, that’s Jules Verne. I’ve read most of his works that have been translated into English. His Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea is the only book I ever re-read, and I do that every couple of years. That book inspired me both to join the submarine service and to major in naval architecture in college. To me, he represents scientific accuracy, exotic voyages, high drama and adventure, and a glimpse of a time when technology seemed on the verge of making everything possible for the first time in human history.
Over here is the bust of Isaac Asimov. I’ve read only a fraction of his published work but it’s still a lot, both fiction and non-fiction. The words engraved beneath his name are scientific accuracy, easy-to-read writing style, clever ideas, and love of wordplay.
Walking along, we’ve come to Arthur C. Clarke. To me, he too symbolizes scientific accuracy, but also an optimistic view of mankind’s future, and various ways we could deal with aliens of far greater and different intelligences.
That bust there depicts Robert Heinlein. Hard-edged style, a strict morality, a libertarian viewpoint, and success through struggle are the hallmarks of his writing, to me.
Watch your step; this area is not well lit. Here, take my flashlight. That bust you just bumped into is Ray Bradbury. He has the most poetic prose of any author here—a flowing style that seduces you into his stories with the sheer magic and power of the words. Then he often slaps you hard with some dark and twisted surprise.
And that one over there is Ayn Rand. She’s the only woman on the tour; I wish there were more. Her writing is characterized by emotional power, uncompromising philosophy, and a deep belief in human freedom coupled with strict ideas about how to live one’s life.
We’ve come to the bust of Larry Niven. Amazing ideas, compelling characters, and the most well-thought-out aliens of any author in the library.
Here we are in the Children’s section—quite dusty, I know. This next bust looks a little strange, with no discernable features. Maybe you don’t recognize the name, Victor Appleton II. It’s a pseudonym used by many authors. I grew up reading the Tom Swift, Jr. series written by the various “Mr. Appletons.” With fondness I recall the high adventure, the marvelous inventions, and the use of science to solve problems.
One more and I think we’ll wrap up the tour. Clive Cussler’s bust bears the following descriptions on beneath the name on its pedestal—engaging adventures set at sea, a writer with an easy-reading style that really puts his characters through hell.
That’s enough for this trip. Perhaps we’ll continue the tour in a future blog post and examine busts of authors we missed. I should mention you won’t necessarily see the influences of all of these writers in my own stories. Also, I don’t necessarily agree with the viewpoints of all of them—I just enjoy reading their books.
Thanks for stopping by for a tour today. Hope you enjoyed strolling through the mind of–
Poseidon’s Scribe
How to Read
That title is a bit illogical; those who can’t read would not turn to a blog post to learn how. By ‘how to read’ I mean something more along the lines of ‘how to appreciate what you read.’
Ever notice how familiarity brings an added dimension of appreciation? Let me explain. Those who have never played football or studied its finer points watch and appreciate a game at a different level of enjoyment than do those who have played it or otherwise understand its intricacies. If you have played a musical instrument, you listen to music in a different manner from those who have not.
I’m suggesting the same is true of reading. Here I’ll confine the discussion to short stories, my area of familiarity. Those who haven’t written or studied fiction since school will appreciate short stories in a different way from those who know something about the craft.
Understand–I’m not disparaging either level of appreciation. Unfortunately, our lifetimes are limited and you can’t become an expert in everything. There’s nothing wrong with reading fiction for pure enjoyment without understanding its finer nuances. In fact, writers selling to the mass market hope plenty of people do just that.
Even so, you might be a non-writer and still wonder about how writers read. What things do they look for in a short story that non-writers may not be aware of? Non-writers know stories involve characters, and there always seems to be a main character, about whom they come to care as the story progresses. But writers look at the way characters are described and portrayed. Is the description brief yet impactful? Does the character have depth or is that protagonist stereotypical or one-dimensional?
Non-writers understand whether a story is written as if God were telling it (the story makes clear what is in the mind of several characters), or if it only enters one character’s thoughts. Writers use the term ‘point of view’ and form judgments about whether the author selected the right POV for maximum effect.
As various events happen in stories, the non-writer reads along and forms opinions about them. Afterward the non-writer might say she “liked the plot,” meaning it seemed logical and held her interest. A writer examines the same story’s plotline looking for characters reactions to events, and whether each character’s actions spring from motivations aligned with the character’s established traits.
Most non-writers can spot the major conflict in a story, understand how the passage of time occurs (whether in a straight sequence or through the use of flashbacks or gaps), and can feel themselves to be ‘in’ a setting if it’s well-described. Writers are alert for other aspects too, such as tone, symbolism, allusions, and themes.
In the end, both a non-writer and a writer will form an overall judgment about the story they’ve read. Either one might say, “I liked it” or “I didn’t like it,” though their overall assessment is based on integrating different things (and differing numbers of things) they noted as they read. But is the writer’s assessment more correct than that of a non-writer?
No. If every wine expert in the world considers a certain wine terrible, but you (a non-expert) like it, then go ahead–drink it and enjoy. Everyone’s different and entitled to his own opinion. Short stories are meant to be enjoyed by individuals, so judgments about quality can only be made by each person according to his own level of expertise. It’s my fervent hope that you gain some enjoyment reading stories written by…
Poseidon’s Scribe
It’s Not the Critic Who Counts…
So begins the famous and stirring quote by Theodore Roosevelt, which goes on to praise “the doer of deeds” over the one who “points out where the strong man stumbles.” I certainly agree with TR when it comes to uninvited criticism, but what about the case when you seek it out?
In a writing critique group, Teddy, everyone intentionally takes turns being the doer of deeds and pointing out where he stumbles. More than any other method I’ve used to improve my writing, participation in a critique group has been the most effective. I’ve subscribed to writing magazines, attended writing conferences, read books about writing, and gone to writing classes. Note that each of those other venues features a writing professional, an expert with some stature as an author. How is it that a critique group formed spontaneously from a group of rank amateurs, without any money changing hands, can be superior to the other methods?
I don’t know that answer, and it may not be true for you. Certainly one can have a bad experience with a critique group and get soured on the whole idea. But if you live in a populated area, or are willing to travel to one, it can be easy to start up another group. Perhaps that new one will suit you better.
In a later post I’ll discuss various critique group arrangements and rules, but for now I’d like to concentrate on what you bring to it and what you get out of it. What you bring to it are: (1) your written stories or chapters, (2) an open mind and a thick skin willing to receive well-meaning criticism about your work, and (3) a willingness to provide good critiques of other people’s work.
Notice I didn’t say anything about bringing money. Most critique groups are free, or nearly so. I’m amazed at what you can get people to do for free. Among fellow amateur writers, if you’re willing to critique their work, they’re willing to critique yours. It’s said you get what you pay for, so maybe each individual critique is not as comprehensive or as accurate as if a professional had done it, but you’ll be getting more than one—generally you’ll get critiqued by every other member of the group. The combined thoughts of the group (even when some thoughts contradict) will come close to the quality of a professional’s critique.
I’ve listed the things you bring to the group. What do you get out of it? (1) Taken in combination, you get well-meaning written reactions from a group of readers to your work. Some of these criticisms will sting, but remember that these people are criticizing your work, not you. Their only interest is in helping you get published. Wouldn’t you rather hear the sad truth from a group of friends than realize it later after enduring many dozens of rejections? (2) You get the supportive urging of a group to write more. It’s strange how the looming date of the next critique group meeting can serve as the prompting force making you churn out some text. (3) You get the benefit of learning from others about the business side of writing. Depending on the expertise of the group and the time available, talk often turns to experiences they’ve had with agents, editors, submitting stories, their website, the conference or workshop someone just attended, etc. (4) You get the invigorating and energizing atmosphere of just being among fellow writers, people going through the same private agonies and ecstasies, people who get it. Most of us don’t enjoy that atmosphere at home, unless you happen to live with a group of writers. (5) Over time, you’ll find you grow as a writer, and as a critic of other people’s writing. While editing your own work in preparation for the group meeting, you’ll find yourself making corrections you just know the critique group would have recommended.
When I first joined a critique group, I thought the objective was to wean myself of the need to be in the group. After all, I imagined, the world’s greatest writers aren’t in critique groups, are they? Now I’m not so sure. It’s hard for me to imagine being a writer and not being in a critique group.
One final thought. There’s an aspect of critique groups that I find intellectually appealing. These groups form spontaneously; they are essentially self-generating. Order emerges somehow from what were, at one time, several writers working in isolation. Out of nothing at all comes shared wisdom and shared growth. That creative magic of critique groups is, to me, akin to the writing process itself. Maybe, President Roosevelt, it is the critic who counts, too.
Tell me what you think about writing critique groups. In the meantime, with limitless gratitude to my own group, I remain—
Poseidon’s Scribe
The Worst Click
You’re a beginning writer and you’ve been writing and rewriting your manuscript. For some reason, the actual product doesn’t match in grandeur the masterpiece you had in your head when you started. The process of assembling the actual words, herding them together in some sort of order, made the whole resulting story seem more juvenile than you intended. Not juvenile as in ‘written for juveniles to read,’ but ‘written by a juvenile who nearly failed English.’
You could go through and edit your creation one more time in hopes that greatness will finally emerge, but you’ve done that already repeatedly and it hasn’t worked. It’s doubtful if one more edit will accomplish much. Besides, you’re getting a little sick of the thing. Your muse has flitted off, interested in different and ever newer pursuits.
Somewhere you’d heard that even the best writers let a manuscript sit for a time—a few weeks or even months—and then come back to it, able to look with a fresher eye. In your case that’s not an option, since today’s the deadline for the anthology for which you’re aiming. Or maybe you already did let the work sit for a while but it didn’t result in a better manuscript, just further loss of interest in the story. In either case, this opus isn’t going to get any better than it is right now.
So you sit staring at the monitor, looking at an e-mail you’ve written to the editor. The e-mail has your story attached—oh, you triple-checked that. The file with the story is in the format preferred by the editor, again triple-checked. The e-mail is short and upbeat. Everything is ready. All you have to do is click the ‘send’ button and your first-ever story will be on its way to an actual editor.
So what gives? Why the delay? It’s a single mouse click, for crying out loud. What happened to that boldness you felt when you couldn’t wait to charge in and start writing the story? Where’s that reckless abandon with which you stayed up until three in the morning last month to pound out the first draft of the final scene, typing “The End” in weary triumph? What’s happened to reduce that bravely audacious writer to a quivering mass of doubt, consumed with fear at the sight of a Send button?
What if, you keep thinking, the editor doesn’t like it? What if it’s the worst piece of tripe the editor has ever read? It would be bad to receive a rejection, but devastating if the editor replied with something like, “It was enough for me to endure your opening paragraph, and how I wish I could have that precious time back. I have many enemies, but none so vile that I would force them to read a single sentence of your work. Not only am I rejecting your story, but I beg you, for the good of humanity, to take up another hobby—any other hobby.”
It’s that and a thousand similar scenarios that keep your finger poised above, but never quite clicking, the mouse button that would send your first story on its way. I’ll write about dealing with rejections in a future blog post, but in this case you’re rejecting the story yourself before you even send it in.
Would it help if I told you that every writer goes through that the first time? What if I said that no self-respecting editor ever sends a rejection full of personal put-downs like you imagined? How about if I told you it’s only this first submission that causes such angst, that all the rest are far easier?
Since you face an irrational fear, one of your own making, there’s no works-every-time cure I can offer. However, I suggest you dig deep inside yourself. Remember when you started this quest? You wanted to find out if you could be a writer, if you have what it takes. This little moment of truth is part of the process, part of the writing game.
Chances are this submission will result in rejection, but that won’t deter the writer within you. Oh, no, that inner writer will instead be spurred on, intent to do better next time. That would-be (no, will-be!) author inside you laughs at rejections, even prints them out and saves them as badges of honor. That confident scribbler within you knows that one day the act of submitting stories will be routine. And on that day you’ll look back on this first moment of indecision and laugh.
So click ‘send,’ brave writer! Hold your creation—your baby—aloft so the world can see. You can do it. I did, and survived. As always, write to me here if you have some reaction to this post. Now well past that first, worst click, I call myself—
Poseidon’s Scribe
Just Short Stories? No Novels?
Should an aspiring fiction writer start with novels or short stories? Don’t look to this blog entry for a concrete recommendation for your situation. I can only tell you the path I took and my reasons for choosing it. For you, success could well lie on a different path.
When phrased as an either/or choice – novels or short stories – the question itself is too limiting. There are a variety of other avenues for the creative writer of prose, including flash fiction, novellas, podcasting, television and movie scriptwriting, and playwriting. I’m sure I’ve left out some options and many more possibilities remain to be discovered, or forgotten ones rediscovered. Some writer will have to be the pioneer who leads these expeditions. Why not you?
While serving aboard a submarine many years ago, I thought of an idea for a story. So grand was this story idea, I was certain it would make me both famous and rich. To truly capture this story, only the novel format would do. I was sure my tale would seize the attention of the country and even the world. I could already see myself resigning my commission in the Navy, doing the talk show circuit, and traveling to book signings.
Though chock full of enthusiasm and energy, I was less well supplied with writing experience. I’d heard all the arguments for starting with short stories, of course. But such well-meaning advice could be safely ignored. It simply didn’t apply to my case, I was sure. Undeterred by these considerations, I set to work.
Actually writing the novel proved harder than I’d counted on, which surprised me at the time for some reason. There was a lot to think about, with plots and subplots, characters, settings, even a theme. How to keep it all straight? Confident that my future fans would patiently await the great opus, I struggled on.
The struggle filled some time, like two decades or more. At the end of that period I found I’d created a manuscript of which even my desk drawer was—and still is–ashamed. To this day, the desk’s immune system occasionally rejects it and I have to gather up the pages, force them back in, and nail the drawer shut again.
In truth I had more to show from all the work than just an unpublishable manuscript. Without knowing it, I’d been honing my skills in a harmless way, practicing the craft and making all my early mistakes.
Abandoning that first novel, I started another. But doubts had set in about whether I was cut out for this. A novel is a daunting task and a significant investment of time with very uncertain payoff, particularly for the beginning fiction writer. It’s easy for discouragement to build up and eventually overwhelm enthusiasm.
I then read The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures, edited by Mike Ashley and Eric Brown, published by Carroll and Graf in 2005. It’s a marvelous collection of short stories inspired by Jules Verne, all written by modern authors. As a Jules Verne fan, the book inspired me. I wrote my own short story, a work that would have fit well in that collection, or would if they decided to put out a second anthology in a similar vein. That story, “The Steam Elephant,” appeared in Steampunk Tales issue #5.
That started me off writing more. There are several reasons why I’ve enjoyed my switch to short stories. I can churn out many more of them per year. They keep my ever-fickle muse interested and focused. It’s easier to test out different genres. Short stories represent a good method for further growth as a writer while getting the positive feedback of more frequent acceptances.
At some point I’ll return to the novel length story. The average non-writer doesn’t regard an author as serious until she or he has published a novel. Certainly the pay for a published novel is greater as well. Who knows, one of these days I may dust off the two novels I started, rewrite them, and send them out for consideration. If you’re engaged in writing a novel equally as good, perhaps I’ll join you on the talk show circuit! Until then, I’ll remain a short story writer, and—
Poseidon’s Scribe
Shortcut to Greatness?
When we watch magicians perform, we’re smart enough to know there’s no real magic involved. We know there’s a perfectly logical trick. In fact, we’re sure if that magician would only reveal the trick to us, we could do the act too. Magicians guard each trick with great care so that knowledge of how they do it doesn’t spoil the show.
Think it’s the same with writing? What if we could beseech a great author to teach us his tricks, reveal the secrets she’s been concealing? “Make me a best-selling author, too,” we’d say, “I don’t care if it takes all day!”
I’m not a best-selling author (yet), so for all I know they are withholding the secrets from us, hoarding their tricks and special knowledge, unwilling to spill the beans and open themselves up to a little more competition.
If those no-good, stuck-up top shelf authors really are keeping secrets from us, then they’re not only guilty of that, but of lying as well. Writer after writer has claimed there are no secrets, other than hours and hours of practice. Writers as diverse as Isaac Asimov, Janet Evanovich, Stephen King, and Tom Clancy all say there are no shortcuts, no simple tricks, and no keyboard sleight-of-hand moves that will make you a great writer. W. Somerset Maugham said, “there are three rules for writing the novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.” Apparently the number of rules is three, though, so that’s progress.
In his book Outliers: The Story of Success, Malcolm Gladwell claims the secret to genius-level greatness in any field is a combination of luck and a lot of time spent practicing. How much time? Gladwell says around ten thousand hours. Yes, ten thousand. That’s a lot more than the solid afternoon we were hoping to devote to it. More like fourteen months, continuously, without sleeping. If all you can spare is two hours a day for your writing, then you’ll need nearly fourteen years to achieve greatness.
At this point, you may be yearning for some easier path. What about writing courses, writing conferences, workshops, how-to books, critique groups, and the online versions of these? I’ll give my perspective, having tried many of them. I think all of these aids have value, some more than others. In particular, I believe critique groups have been the most beneficial for me. However, it’s important to embark on each one with the right attitude, the correct level of expectation.
If you pay for a conference, a how-to book, etc. thinking you’ll emerge out the other end as a pro market author, I suggest you ratchet down your hopes a few settings. Each of these venues is fine to partake on an occasional basis to learn different viewpoints, refresh knowledge you might have forgotten, etc. But make you a superstar author? Doubtful. Not impossible, just improbable.
There are expenses involved with each of the venues, too. On the other hand, the long hours of lonely practice are nearly free, except for the amount of time spent. I urge you not to fall into the trap of thinking that just because the last writing course (or workshop, etc.) you took didn’t result in instant success, surely the next one will. Now that I think of it, I’ve never heard of a Great Author attributing his or her achievements to a how-to book or a conference, or any of those things. Many of them do talk about reading a lot, especially reading the classics. But they all say there is no substitute for writing, writing all the time, writing constantly.
So maybe one day some successful author will take you down a winding staircase into a hidden hideaway, enter the little-known combination into the locks, swing wide the series of creaking vault doors, and open the chest containing the secrets to easy writing greatness. If you know those secrets, e-mail me here. Until that day, I suggest practice. But what do I know? I’m just…
Poseidon’s Scribe
What’s the Use of a Muse?
Like some writers, and people who pursue other creative endeavors, I use the term ‘muse’ to mean an embodiment of the concept of one’s own creativity. To the ancient Greeks it must have seemed a supernatural phenomenon when some individuals produced poetry, sculpture, and music out of nothing, as if some deity were whispering guidance in their ears. The process can still mystify us today when we encounter a great creative work and wonder how a mere human could have made it. No wonder the term ‘muse’ has survived even into our scientific, rational era.
Some writers have imagined the physical characteristics of their muse, even named it, and go so far as to speak to it, appealing to it for that spark of insight only the muse can offer. Stephen King described his own muse, I think it was in his book On Writing, as a grunting, cigar-smoking old man. I imagine my muse in a more conventional way, as a young Grecian woman with flowing robes. She stands only about seven inches high, but is able to hover near my ear when she wants.
Here I’ll pause to offer a free idea to all you web entrepreneurs out there. If piano students can have their busts of Beethoven to serve as inspiration, why can’t someone manufacture small figurines of muses for writers and other artists? I wouldn’t underestimate the power of physical symbols to stimulate the desired mental activity. If such a figurine was not too expensive, I’d buy one!
Every writer asked to describe his or her muse’s behavior would certainly list at least two major characteristics. One is a perverseness with respect to summons. My muse appears at the time of her choosing, not mine. Pleading, wishing, praying, even sacrificial animal offerings leave her unfazed. (Okay, I haven’t tried that last idea very often.) I could be all set and ready to write, my materials before me in a well-lit and quiet room, several hours at my disposal, and the cursed muse will remain hidden. But let me be somewhere without a notepad—say, taking a shower or mowing the lawn—then the whispering starts and I can’t shut her up. Some of the finest prose ever imagined has been whispered to me at such times—trust me on this—only to be forgotten for lack of a pen and paper, and to remain forever unwritten.
The other behavioral trait of my muse is easy boredom. A half hour or hour at a stretch is the longest stream of inspiration the muse will bequeath. Moreover, the very project she was so excited about just a few days ago has become passé, no longer worth her time or interest. She’s moved on to some other idea and demands I write about that. Should I ever start writing ‘formula fiction,’ such as romance, mystery, or series books can often be, I think my muse would quickly grow bored with the formula. She specializes in the planting of seeds, not the toil of watering, tending, or harvesting.
My muse craves the new, the different, and the untried. Once, I noticed a call for horror stories to be part of an anthology associated with fish or fishing. I, the writer who hated horror stories, quickly clicked elsewhere. Silly me, thinking I was in charge. My muse was turning the idea over and over, and wouldn’t let go. Mere rational logic would not sway her. My insistence that I disliked horror, had never written it, or read much of it–all those arguments meant nothing. The result was my story, “Blood in the River,” which appears in the anthology Dead Bait. I never thought I would write a romance story or a fantasy either, until the muse suggested the ideas for “Within Victorian Mists” and “A Sea-Fairy Tale.” Often I’ve carefully outlined the plot for a story only to have the muse guide me in a different direction. On occasion I’ve created a character intended to be minor, but the muse has other ideas and brings that character into the foreground.
So you can’t beckon a muse and expect her to arrive, and once she’s close it’s never for long. How can any writer deal with that? How does one channel that fleeting, inspirational energy into something useful? Ah, there are ways, but they shall have to remain the subject of a future blog post. So stay tuned! In the meantime, feel free to contact me with comments. With the occasional assistance of my muse, I remain…
Poseidon’s Scribe
A Trip to the Idea Store
At the risk of upsetting beginning writers who agonize over figuring out what to write about, I’ll admit this is one problem I do not have. Whatever other deficiencies I have as a writer, a lack of ideas is not among them. I’m awash in ideas, flooded with them. Not bragging, since it’s a curse in some ways.
Unfortunately, like some star baseball pitcher who’s a “natural” at the game but can’t pass on his technique to others because he can’t describe what he does, I’m not sure I can put into words just where my ideas come from. For me, it’s just plucking from the Idea Tree—they’re free for the taking, and all around me. You, on the other hand, might have to visit the Idea Store, and it will cost you. I think I can at least give you the store’s address.
First, let’s clarify. An idea is not a story. An idea is not even a plot. The idea for Moby Dick might have been something like, “I’ll write about a sea captain obsessed with hunting a particular whale.” The idea for the Harry Potter series might have been, “I’ll follow the adventures and maturation of a young boy who’s attending a school for wizards.” Both reasonably good ideas, but my point is that it’s not the ideas that make those books great. The skill put into the writing of the books, the fleshing out of the ideas, matters much more. So don’t think your idea has to be unprecedented, astounding, or unique. Your story idea can be simple, mundane, overdone, even stupid, but if the story you write based on that idea is well crafted, it will sell.
I’ve found that most story ideas consist of two elements that I’ll call the ‘seed’ and the ‘twist.’ The seed is something really basic, perhaps something from everyday life, or something in the news, or something you read in a book or magazine. For Herman Melville, his seed might have been the sea captain. For J. K. Rowling, the seed might have been a boy going through school.
The twist is some adjustment you make to the seed, some new way of looking at it. It’s where you examine the seed and ask, “but what if—?” Turn the seed over in your mind and alter it in different ways. “What if my sea captain was obsessed with a particular whale?” “What if the school was for educating wizards?”
Here are a couple of examples from my own writing. For “The Wind-Sphere Ship,” the seed was a steam-powered ship. The twist came when I realized that the power of steam was known in ancient times but never put to any use other than with amusing toys. What if—? For my story, “Within Victorian Mists,” I set out to write a steampunk romance, and I knew I wanted it set in the Victorian era. I’d recalled reading somewhere that lasers were invented late; that is, the basic materials had been available earlier but nobody had hit on the concept, even accidentally. Moreover, holograms are an extension of laser technology. What if—?
Story ideas need not involve technology, of course. Often the seed for a story is some previous proven story line by a historical author, or a successful genre. The twist is simply to bring the story up to date, put it in a different setting, turn a tragedy into a comedy (or vice versa), or tell the same story from the point of view of a different character. You can even take an event from a classic story that seems unlikely or too coincidental and make that event happen differently, then explore how that would turn out.
This idea of seeds and twists for story ideas is akin to the concept of TRIZ in engineering problem-solving. Genrich Altshuller reviewed Soviet patent applications and realized that after a technological breakthrough occurred, he could predict the follow-on patent applications that would arrive. They were all twists on the basic seed technology. How many times have we seen this in the electronics industry? Think of VCRs, PDAs, PCs, etc. The first gadget to hit the market is large, boxy, and black, with rectangular buttons. The follow-ons become smaller and smaller, then come in different colors and more stylish packaging.
Back to story ideas. In a later post, I’ll talk about a technique for improving your creativity. In the meantime, try taking some simple seed ideas and giving them a twist. Write down your ideas, even the stupid ones, because they can often spark a good idea. That list is what you just bought at the Idea Store for the price of a little thought. Earlier, I said you can write a good story from a stupid idea. That’s true, but it’s a low-percentage shot. I suggest writing from your best ideas first.
Good luck, and feel free to write to the Scribe if this blog post worked or didn’t work for you.
Poseidon’s Scribe