craft

Tell…Don’t Show

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Lately I’ve been finding myself sighing, flipping pages, and thinking about my fantasy hockey team while I read the latest New York Times zillion-copy seller. I’ve turned into a serial-skimmer, looking for the telltale short paragraphs and action buzz words that tell me there’s something worth reading amidst the reams of fluff.

Now, after the fifth or sixth unsatisfying read, I think I’ve figure out what’s striking an off-note to me in these novels. The investigation took a while, because it’s counter to everything I’ve learned as a writer.

These writers are showing, not telling. And I really wish they’d stop.

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A novel idea

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After several years of working on my craft but poor showings with my short stories, I decided it was about time to try my had at writing a novel.

The funny thing is, for such a mundane and commonplace object, the novel is fairly poorly defined. It’s one thing to stroll through a library or a bookstore, running your hand along spines, and say “these are novels”. It’s quite another to sit down in front of a computer, fire up a word processor, and start to type.

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Get in your saddle and ride…now

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My journey to digital self-publication is far from original but it almost didn’t occur due to an almost fatal (to my career) ability to procrastinate.

I’d wanted to “be a writer” for almost as long as I can remember, but the proof is in the pudding (to daisy-chain two clichés together). For years, I managed to write a paltry short story or two a year. I’d toss them in the mail with little market research or editorial diligence, then wallow in self-pity when the rejection slips came back. The wallowing was made worse by my firm belief that I, indeed, had “it” and just needed to be “discovered” by a Big Six editor (before I knew what that was) while pausing at a rest-stop on I-95 or by chatting up a NYT best-selling author as I stood in the lunch line at Subway.

And I didn’t bother bolstering whatever natural talent I had with a scrap of education or self-edification. I figured I could always get my MFA (ha!), but why bother? Hemingway hadn’t gone to school for writing, Melville barely left his farm after returning from the sea, Bukowski was a postman for Christ’s sake. I’d eventually get around to the act of writing…and when I did, watch the hell out world, because life would never be the same. They’d make Hallmark calendars centered around the day I published my novel. Animals would come up to me in the forest to sit on my lap and eat out of my hand. Weather patterns would form around my house as the creative power of my brain caused a micro-climate to form in my neighborhood.

Needless to say, actually sitting down and writing something didn’t figure into this equation. Since it was understood that you had to write to be a writer, I glossed over that small fact and thought a lot more about hypothetical acceptance speeches and book signings than I ever did about creating anything. Writers call this irony.

By the time I woke up (mmm…around 30?) I realized I not only had to start writing, I had to start writing–and learning–now. I had serious ground to make up. There were writers my age who had finished two or three novels in college…and considered them “drawer novels”, not fit for anything except propping up a table. And writing had to begin with learning and re-learning all those things I’d ignored or given short shrift to for years: plot, character, pacing, theme, rhythm, voice, point-of-view, continuity.

Long story short, for the past ten or twelve years I’ve been applying myself as much to learning the craft as working towards publication (of any sort). It’s been frustrating watching others catch success along the way while I’m re-reading Elements of Style, but I’m not going to write anything I can’t stand behind and that’s going to take patience and a dedication to the craft.

There are only two important rules in this game: are you writing? And, is what you’ve written the best it could possibly be? The second rule implies immersing yourself in the creative art of writing. But the first requires the act itself.

If you’re not actually writing, you’re not a writer. Please don’t make my mistake. Get in your saddle and ride…now.

Writing Resources

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I’m far from an expert on the craft of writing, but I do know what’s helped me and what hasn’t. This is a very small group of writing guides, but it’s my “marooned on a desert island” list. It also doesn’t include what I consider the indispensable basics, either, like Elements of Style or Garner’s Usage. These titles are more concerned with the intangibles of writing and its result.

On Writing, A Memoir of the Craft
Stephen King

On Writing is fittingly called “a memoir”, as much of it is made up of autobiographical musings by King. But the narrative style actually works well in putting the reader at ease, standing in stark contrast to other style, grammar, and writing books that can be terse and dry. I found it especially helpful when I began my first novel, as King touches on just about everything you need to get started: approach, commitment, daily word count, the importance of action, when to let yourself off the hook and when to put yourself back on. You won’t find a lot of hard and fast rules about writing or grammar here; as the title says, the book is more about the intangibles of craft. Worth reading in its entirety before you fully commit to a novel-length project. The book ends with a sample chapter of King’s with hand-written proofs and corrections followed by a short list of authors King admires.

Get it on Amazon

On Writing Well
William Zinsser

Zinsser’s books are primarily intended for those writing non-fiction, but his tips, guides, and anecdotes are a goldmine for any writer. Zinsser uses his own personal experiences to illuminate his career as a journalist, and result is a homey and comfortable approach to writing. Unlike King’s On Writing, however, he also has a lot of the “bolded-header” type of rules and regulations you might find in a manual: when to drop in an exclamation point, using the right word for the job, avoiding the wrong or hackneyed word, paragraph length, the best place for contractions and so on. He uses quoted examples of his own pieces as well as writers he admires so that you see the lessons in action. There aren’t any exercises, per se, as the whole book is meant to be instructional.

Get it on Amazon

Self-Editing for Fiction Writers: How to Edit Yourself Into Print
Renni Browne and Dave King

Self-Editing is the kind of book that puts a keen edge on the dull knife of your writing. It’s a more business-oriented version of the traditional help manual, pointing out the common errors, trite phrases, and basic mistakes that drive agents and editors crazy–and result in your manuscript being rejected. Browne and King aren’t just mercenaries with a red pen, however; they’re obviously concerned with good writing, just good writing that gets published, too. There are dozens of examples of bad and good attempts–made-up excerpts as well as famous ones–and each chapter has particular exercises meant to strengthen your writing in important areas: point of view, dialogue, tempo, sophistication, voice.

Get it on Amazon

The Art & Craft of Novel Writing
Oakley Hall

Hall’s Art & Craft is structured almost like a manual, with sections for dialogue, point of view, plotting, etc., but has always felt a little nebulous to me, with a suggestion here and a guideline there, and no real structure to sink my teeth into. Despite that, it’s the book I return to when I feel “rules” aren’t working anymore and I want to get back in touch with what makes writing, as the title implies, an art. There are many demonstrative examples of good, nuanced writing and many of the chapters are annotated. The book ends with a detailed examination of the entire first chapter of The Columbus Tree by Peter Feibleman, an example of a synopsis of one of Oakley’s own novels, then a lengthy reading list of other authors, focusing on the writing process and craft.

Get it on Amazon

Don’t Murder Your Mystery
Chris Roerden

This book and it’s less genre-centric big sister, Don’t Sabotage Your Submission, should be within arm’s length of all novelists of mid-level experience and onward…that is, those of us that know just enough to be dangerous (mostly to ourselves). Roerden addresses a host of writing mistakes that even veterans are known to perpetrate, from subtly bad POV to poor exposition to bad word choice. This is the book that will buff your writing to a high gloss.

Get it on Amazon

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Coincidences, Vacuums, and MacGuffins

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Sue Grafton once said, “Coincidence can get you into a plot, but it can’t get you out.” I’m going to paraphrase her by adding, “And you can even have coincidence, but you can’t have a vacuum.”

Let me explain. A good thriller writer I enjoy is known for his action scenes, humor, and the complete implausibility of most of his novels’ key premises. His ability to push the reader forward and keep the suspense high is so masterful that most readers shrug at the no-way-in-hell inventions and proceed to the next shootout.

I’m one of those readers. I’m okay with colossal coincidences if the rest is working. What I can’t abide, however, is the middle dropping out of a story.

By that I don’t mean the literal middle of the book—the plotting, the dialogue, the consistency of voice, though all those things are important—I mean the central premise that got us going in the first place. When I get to the end, and there’s no meat, no substance, not even a coincidence, just a vacuum, then I start waving the red flag.

It’s a little tough to explain without actually revealing the plot, the title, or the author, but to summarize, the entire premise of one of his novels is built around discovering a MacGuffin* that, should it be found and exposed, will reveal horrific and damning truths about the several Very Important People connected to it. The world holds its breath as the protagonist races to find the MacGuffin and discover the secrets about the VIPs. Bad guys are mowed down by the dozen, allies are maimed, buildings explode. Finally, the villains are defeated and the MacGuffin falls into the trembling hands of our hero…

…who doesn’t have a clue what’s what it means. Nor does anyone involved, including the Very Important People who are Very High Up in the government that are mentioned in connection to the MacGuffin. And that’s it. Our hero gets tired of thinking about it and moves on. The book ends.

This is a profound disservice to the reader. It can’t have been that hard to think up some reason—any reason, even a bad reason —why dozens of minor characters were willing to sacrifice their lives over this object.

And for anyone who would defend this by saying, in effect, life is messy and sometimes things don’t make sense, let me introduce you to an aphorism that most fiction writers learn in Creative Writing 101: Truth is stranger than fiction.

This bon mot isn’t meant as a guide, it’s a warning: the essence for writers isn’t that they should look at our crazy, mixed-up world and use it as justification for their poorly plotted novels, it’s that no one cares about random events. We all know life has its oddball moments; we turn to tabloid newspapers and internet chain letters to keep us abreast of them. What we want from our fiction writers is to construct things that make sense, not for more of the same crap we see on the news and experience in our daily lives.

It’s not enough when a main premise is just a vehicle for us to experience the shooting, the chases, the love scenes. There has to be some there there. I’ll hang with you and your crazy reasons for getting me to read in the first place. But don’t leave me hanging.  As we all know, when the center doesn’t hold, things fall apart.

* A MacGuffin was Alfred Hitchcock’s phrase for the interchangeable “thing”–Maltese Falcon, diamond ring, voodoo doll, etc.–that drives the plot forward.