Tag Archives: Joe Bunting

A Novel Plan

I heard you’d like to write a novel. That’s the word on the street, anyway. As they say, writing a novel is a one-day event. (As in, ‘one day, I’ll write a novel.’)

No, you’re more serious than that. You’re going to do it. For such a big undertaking, maybe you should have a plan. Lucky you, the internet can provide one. Wait, more than one. Way more. Uh-oh.

There’s the 3-Step plan by Stephanie Gangi, the 7 Steps for planning a novel by the Reedsyblog staff, the 10-Step Plan by The Writers Bureau staff, the 12-Step Guide by Jerry Jenkins, the 15-Step Plan by the Reedsyblog staff, the 20-Step Guide by Joe Bunting, and the idea of forming no plan at all by Maria Mutch.

That narrows it down. We know there are between zero and twenty steps for writing a novel.

To me, all those plans look good, with many common elements among them, just some differences in emphasis and terminology.

Face it, some people need plans, step-by-step methods that have worked for accomplished authors. Other people hate plans, since they seem too rigid and stifling. Still others don’t mind plans so much, but prefer that the plan emerge as the project itself matures.

Whatever works for you. Emphasis on works. If your organized, detailed plan sits there and intimidates you into inactivity, that’s not working. If your lack of a plan leaves you unsure where to start, that’s not working. If your chosen method results in less than your best creation, well, you can do better.

For my novel in progress, I’m going with the Snowflake Method developed by Randy Ingermanson. It’s got 10 steps or so, and is similar to the 10-Step plan by The Writers Bureau mentioned above.

It’s not so much about actual snowflakes, but more about how you’d create a fractal snowflake. You’d start with a basic shape—a triangle or square—and add more detail as you go. That makes sense to me, and I’ve used an abbreviated form of the technique for years in creating my short stories.

They’ve given us a brand-new year to work with. It’s as good a time as any to start. Choose your plan, or no plan at all, and write that novel you’ve been dreaming about. I’ll read yours if you’ll read the next one written by—

Poseidon’s Scribe

January 2, 2022Permalink

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

5 Rules for Writing Humor Right

You may think it’s difficult to write funny stories, but the truth is it’s excruciatingly agonizing. Also, if you endure all that pain and get the humor wrong, readers will laugh at you (and your mismatched clothes and uncombed hair) rather than at your story.

Since humorous writing is so tough to get right, why don’t we forget the whole thing? For one, if we can manage to tell a funny story, readers like it. An amusing tale lifts them from the gloomy tedium of their dreary lives, the poor things. Think of it as a public service, kind of a ‘clown-author saves the world’ idea.

I know, I know. I hear you saying, “But, Steve, I write serious fiction. I don’t need to know how to write humor.” Okay, surf elsewhere if you want. But you really should spice up your “serious fiction” with occasional bursts of frivolity, if only to break up the interminable stretches of seriousity.

For those still reading this, I’m about to reveal my five simple rules for writing humor. Well, they’re not that simple, and aren’t actually rules, but at least they do total up to five. To develop them, I scoured the Internet (and it needed a good scouring). Then I spent literally lots of minutes searching for good advice on writing humor. I found that good advice from Brian A. Klems, Joe Bunting, Annie Binns, and Joe Bunting again. While blindfolded, I then chose only the choicest rules, right up until I got tired. After five. Here they are:

1. Maintain the elephant of surprise. Take common sayings or clichés and tie them in knots. Go in directions the reader doesn’t expect.

B. Dare to ask why pants come in pairs. Start with the ordinary, the mundane, the familiar, and the everyday, then find some weird aspect about it all. Look at it from a bizarre angle. Drive your reader to that vantage and invite her to look, too. (Note, “Hey, Babe, let me drive you to my bizarre-angled vantage to look at my weird aspect” is not a recommended pick-up line. Ever. It’s a metaphor.)

III. It’s still legal to discriminate against words. Choose words carefully. Unearth a thesaurus and examine its guts. Select specific words, not general ones. Seek words that sound humorous when juxtaposed. (I think the word ‘juxtaposed’ is kinda funny all by itself.)

Four. It’s a story, not a routine. When a comedian performs a stand-up routine, he feels free to change topics several times. You can’t do that. Your story must hang together as an integral whole, not consist of disconnected jokes. I blogged once about how some movies do that well and some do it poorly.

7. No, sorry—5. Wait for it… Structure your sentences so the last words have the most impact. Ideally, the joke is in the very last word. Develop a comedic sense of timing so that you’re not rushing to get to that ending punch. Let your sentences roll along, lulling the reader, and then swing your sledgehammer. (Metaphor again.)

If you study those five rules carefully, I can guarantee that…well, that you’ve studied them carefully. You’re going to need a lot of practice to actually write funny stories, and so will—

Poseidon’s Scribe

January 15, 2017Permalink