Tag Archives: writing
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
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
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
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
Why I Write
It would be better for you, the reader, if I could title this blog post, ‘Why You Should Write,’ since that would be more interesting and applicable to you. However, it turns out I’m not as well informed about you as I am about me. In hopes that one writer’s motivations may apply to someone else, I urge you to read on nonetheless.
The simple answer to why I write is that I cannot do otherwise. The creative, story-telling impulse is too strong to resist; my muse screams too loudly when I don’t write. In that manner, it is easier to write than to abstain.
All of that is true, but it wasn’t always so. I didn’t always have a story to tell. Even when I did, my doubts about writing outweighed my desire to do so. Of doubts I had many. How could I possibly write as well as the authors whose stories I read and loved? How could I ever hope to convey ideas and provide entertainment in such a clever and skillful manner? I understood that writing took time; could I spare that time? I knew beginning writers got a lot of rejections; could I deal with them?
Further, I had not done well in English classes in school. Enjoyed—yes; excelled—definitely not. In college I majored in a branch of engineering. Engineers are not known for their language skills. An ability to write well is actually frowned upon, and could get you tossed out of the Engineers Guild. (I’m kidding, of course–at least about there being a Guild).
So, despite a lack of writing skills, a lack of confidence in my English ability, and despite an inferiority complex when I compared myself to the world’s best authors, despite all those things, I still took up a pen and scribbled. Why?
Looking back, I did have three things going for me. First, I had a strong interest in reading fiction. Loved it. Devoured books, especially science fiction. Second, I am creative by nature. I delight in imaginative brainstorming, but not so much with other people, as brainstorming is normally done. I seek to come up with solutions to problems that are unique and interesting to me. Third, I’m one of those self-improvement nuts. Phrased more positively, I was willing to spend the time trying to improve a new skill. I’m willing to push on past minor failures along the way to achieving a goal.
These attributes didn’t pop up out of nowhere, of course. I was influenced by my parents. Much as Jules Verne gained a sense of precision and skill with words from his lawyer father, and a sense of romance and knowledge of human relationships from his mother, I too was a product of separate influences from my parents. Thinking about it now, my own parents separately bequeathed me important attributes necessary to be a science fiction writer. Thanks, Mom and Dad!
In summation it appears that, for me, the impulses to become a writer overcame the opposing factors (the doubts, lack of skills, etc.). After that, like any hobby, the snowball effect took over and the habit of writing became self-sustaining. I found I enjoyed writing the more I practiced it and the more I learned about it. My critique group helped hone my skills and provided an encouraging atmosphere. Eventually, I felt confident enough to submit stories to the marketplace. Lastly, getting stories accepted and published provided the most powerful incentive of all to write more.
That’s why I write, and if you’re wondering if you could take up writing as a hobby or vocation, perhaps some of the items I discussed apply to you too. More likely, your reasons will be different. Did this blog post trigger some thought of agreement or disagreement? Write to me here and let me know.
Poseidon’s Scribe
What’s in a (character’s) name?
Here’s one weird thing about the way I write. I can’t get started writing my story until the characters have names. I might have fully outlined the plot, gotten the story clear in my mind, even come up with fleshed out personalities and histories for my characters, but without their names I can’t write the story. In planning one of my stories, plot comes first. As I’m outlining the plot, I’ll use character markers like Characters A, B, C, etc., or ‘Bad Guy’ or ‘Wise Old Woman,’ something like that. But I’ve found when it comes to generating the prose, these markers won’t suffice.
Maybe that’s not weird. Look at real life, and those things to which we give names. We give our own babies names at birth or very shortly after. We name our pets—the large ones–soon after obtaining them. In a strange way, the name gives them their uniqueness, their personality. Think of small pets like tiny tropical fish that often are not named. Can they be said to have as much individuality as named pets? Some people name their cars, and I contend that in some mystical manner they are imbuing their vehicles with a persona that doesn’t exist in unnamed cars. Ships receive names after construction but before going to sea, and the naming itself is part of an elaborate ceremony. Sailors have long considered it bad luck to sail a ship that lacks a name.
How do I choose names for my characters? One rule is obvious; a name must be appropriate to time period and geographical setting. Very few members of the Mongolian horde were named Trevor, I suspect. The internet serves as a vast resource for coming up with realistic character names. We’ll stay with our Mongol horde example, in case you’re writing about a single squad (called an arban, apparently) of the horde and you want to have plausible names. Just typing ‘mongol names’ into a search engine comes up with plenty of sites with good examples. Some sites pair the names with their meanings. I do try to pick names with appropriate meanings, if the name feels right.
It’s a good idea to have interesting, distinctive names for your main characters and more plain names for background characters. On the other hand, writers often give common surnames to main characters to convey a sense of a humble, common background, or give the character an ‘everyman’ feel. Indiana Jones, for example, or many of the characters in the novels of Robert Heinlein. If you do that, you might want to make sure the first name (or middle name) is unusual.
It’s also wise to avoid having any two characters whose names start with the same first letter, or the same sound. Why risk confusing a reader? Like most rules of writing, you can break this one. Say you want to suggest a deeper similarity between two otherwise opposite characters. Similar names can provide a hint of that, but you’ll have to go the extra mile in each scene to make it clear from context which character is involved so the reader doesn’t mix them up. To take our Mongol horde example, you’ll need to use context to remind your reader that Mungentuya is the arban’s leader, and Munkhjargal is the young upstart who wants to challenge him.
As with other research, time spent choosing names is time not spent writing. So you want to select your characters’ names wisely, but not take all day about it. Remember, the object is to come up with a great story, not a list of perfectly suitable names.
On occasion I have picked a character’s name, started writing, and found later the name doesn’t work. Sometimes changing a name is the right thing to do—and technically easy, using the ‘replace’ feature–but it always feels odd. When you’ve built up an association of a character with a particular name it can be jarring at first to change it. Still, if it must be done, like deleting a wonderfully written scene that just doesn’t help the story, then do it and get on with things.
As always, feel free to comment.
Poseidon’s Scribe
Researching and Writing
There’s plenty of useful information out there about how writers conduct research for their stories. Still, I suspect it’s a question many beginning writers still wonder about. I’m one of them, and I still wonder about it! I won’t repeat much of what is said here or here (both full of great advice) but instead I’ll just mention how I do my research.
If I had to name the two phases of my research, I’d call them “mood” research and “bracket” research. Before I began writing a story, I conduct some general research on my topic time period, geographical setting, etc. This is to let the world of the story percolate in my mind for a while, to put me in the mood of the story, to immerse me in being there (and then).
This research is online for the most part, though I often supplement it with books from the local library. The usual caution about the accuracy of information available on the internet applies here. I’ve never made a trip to the area where my stories are set, but I really should, and someday I’ll do that. Sometimes I’ve set my stories in regions where I have already been, so some of the mood research is already done.
After I’ve done my mood research and begin writing the story, I always come up against some question not answered by any of my previous research. This is often some little thing, some detail I’m not sure of. This lack of knowledge comes at a time when I’m in the zone, writing along and I really don’t want to be distracted by stopping to conduct further research. Time for bracket research. For example, say I’m writing about two women in Switzerland chatting in a house, and it’s about the year 1600 or so. What would they be drinking? Coffee? Tea? Wine? Rather than puzzling too long about it, or stopping the flow of words to surf for the answer, I just put the question in brackets: [What are they drinking?] and continue on. The story might end up being littered by many of these bracketed questions. Later I just search for the brackets, research each question, and edit the manuscript accordingly.
Some writers hate research and have to force themselves to do it. Not me. I love it and will gladly spend time doing that rather than write. I call it the suction problem. It’s the same effect I experience when walking through a shopping mall in the vicinity of a bookstore. A localized variation in the gravity vector causes me to slip along the floor toward and into the bookstore. I sure get strange stares from other shoppers as I slide along backwards or sideways in the grip of this suction force. Only by an extraordinary effort is it possible for me to resist. (It helps to wear rubber-soled shoes for traction, and to find building support columns I can grab.)
It’s the same way with research, both the mood and bracket types. I have to force myself to stop researching and return to writing. After all, the end goal is to submit a reasonably good story while I’m still alive, not spend my remaining years combing through every bit of reference material on the subject. Recognizing that end goal and being aware of my preference for eternal researching helps me focus.
So that’s how Poseidon’s Scribe does his research. How do you do yours? Write to me here with your comments.
Poseidon’s Scribe