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One of the easiest ways to learn what makes a good, standard query letter is simply to see an example of one that does its job well. If you write fiction or narrative nonfiction, a query letter is your first (and often, your only) chance to get an agent interested in reading (and, with hope, signing) your work. You should put just as much care and attention into crafting and polishing your query as you did into your manuscript. After all, if your pitch doesn’t hit its mark, your book will never leave your desktop.
The main objective of a query is simple: Make the agent care enough about your protagonist and your plot that she wants to read more.
Following is a successful query for a middle-grade novel that led to me first requesting this full manuscript and later signing on to represent the author, Dianna Dorisi Winget. Her debut book, A Smidgen of Sky, went on to sell to Harcourt and hits shelves this fall.
No matter what you’re writing—fantasy, thriller, sci-fi, romance—or whether you’re writing for children or adults, there’s a lot you can learn from this example about conveying characters clearly and getting an agent invested in your story in just one short page.
—by Mary Kole
Example of a Query Letter
Dear Ms. Kole,
[1] According to your agency’s website you’re actively seeking middle-grade fiction, so I’m pleased to introduce my novel, A Smidgen of Sky. [2] This novel won me a scholarship to attend the Highlights Foundation Writers Workshop at Chautauqua. It was also awarded honorable mention in the Smart Writers W.I.N. Competition.
[3] A Smidgen of Sky is the story of ten-year-old Piper Lee DeLuna, a spunky, impulsive dreamer, whose fierce devotion to her missing father is threatened by her mother’s upcoming remarriage.
[4] Everyone else has long accepted her father’s death, but the fact that his body was never recovered from his wrecked plane leads to Piper’s dream that he might one day reappear and free her from the secret guilt she harbors over his accident. Her stubborn focus leaves no room in her affections for her mother’s fiancé, Ben, or his princess-like daughter, Ginger.
[5] Determined to stop the wedding, Piper Lee schemes up “Operation Finding Tina”—a sure plan to locate Ben’s ex-wife and get the two of them back together. But just as Piper succeeds with step one of her plan, a riot breaks out at the prison where Ben works, and suddenly nothing seems sure.
[6] Since middle-graders care deeply about things and people and love to daydream about their future, I think readers will identify with Piper Lee and find her an appealing heroine as she learns that you can both cherish the past and embrace the future.
[7] This story, set in the coastal region of Georgia, runs about 33,000 words and is somewhat similar in tone to Kate DiCamillo’s Because of Winn-Dixie.
[8] I’m a 1990 graduate of the Institute of Children’s Literature and my work has been published in U*S* Kids, Child Life, Columbia Kids, True Love, Guide and StoryPlus.
Thanks very much for your time. I have included the first ten pages and look forward to hearing from you.
Truly yours,
Dianna Winget
Agent Comments on Query Letter Example
[1] This is pretty basic personalization, but it shows me that Dianna did her research. In your query, make it clear that you’ve done your homework and are querying this particular agent with good reason. Agents like to see signs that you’re a savvy writer who is deliberate about the submission process—that bodes well for your working style, should we partner with you in the future.
[2] It’s unusual to lead with accolades, but in the children’s world, the Highlights Chautauqua workshop is a big deal, so this got my attention. If you have similar achievements, by all means, shout them from your opening paragraph! If not, just dive right in and start telling me about your novel.
[3] In setting up your story, you absolutely must convey a sense of what your main character wants most in the world, and of what’s standing in her way, as Dianna does here. We care about Piper Lee right away
because we know what she cares about, and this is key.
[4] We get a good sense of Piper’s character here; it’s important that your query not just flatly tell us about your characters, but show us who they are. The conflict (another essential element of all compelling fiction) rises when the fiancé and future stepsister are introduced. Dianna does a great job of establishing her protagonist’s denial, and she’s already built a lot of tension when she hints at what will soon shatter it. This further demonstrates that her story is driven by strong character motivations—just as any good page-turner should be.
[5] This gutsy scheme teaches me even more about Piper Lee. It’s also bound to have some disastrous consequences, and that’s exactly what agents want to see in a novel: strong actions, strong ramifications, and lots of emotions tied to each.
[6] This is a bit of self-analysis that I wish writers wouldn’t indulge in when writing queries. Dianna could’ve easily left this paragraph out (especially the vague “since middle-graders care deeply about things and people”) and let the strength of the story speak for itself. Of course you think the book is thematically resonant and that readers will love it—you wrote it! So refrain from editorializing. That said, this still makes this letter a great example to show here—because it’s proof that even a query faux pas won’t result in an instant rejection. If you sell your story well enough, agents will overlook small missteps.
[7] This simple sentence is a great and concise summary of necessary information. When you query, be sure to include the stats of your manuscript (genre, target audience, word count, etc.) and any relevant comparative titles—with a caveat: Be sure to highlight a comp title only if it helps the agent get an accurate picture of the style of your story and if it doesn’t smack of delusions of grandeur. Claiming you’re “James Patterson meets Dan Brown” is useless. Dianna’s comparison here was quite apt and, again, made her seem savvy—and realistic.
[8] The bio paragraph and sign-off are short and sweet, and that’s really all we need. If you’ve hit on the basics well and conveyed the essence of your story and why it’s a good fit for that particular agent, you’ve done all you can to entice us to request the full manuscript.
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Follow me on Twitter: @BrianKlems
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There are important benefits of writing a novel or memoir from beginning to end before going back and starting again. Here are seven of them that you should know.
1) Rather than stop and start over again and again, when you allow yourself to write a rough first draft from beginning to end, you actually finish a draft all the way through.
2) Until you write the end, you do not have a clear grasp of what comes earlier.
3) You accomplish what you set out to do.
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Martha Alderson, aka the Plot Whisperer, is the author of the Plot Whisperer series of writing resources for authors:
The Plot Whisperer Book of Writing Prompts: Easy Exercises to Get You Writing ,
The Plot Whisperer Workbook: Step-by-Step Exercises to Help You Create Compelling Stories, companion workbook to
The Plot Whisperer: Secrets of Story Structure Any Writer Can Master (Adams Media, a division of F+W Media),
Blockbuster Plots Pure & Simple (Illusion Press) and several ebooks on plot.
As an international plot consultant for writers, Martha’s clients include best-selling authors, New York editors, and Hollywood movie directors. She teaches plot workshops to novelists, memoirists, and screenwriters privately, at plot retreats, through Learning Annex, RWA, SCBWI, CWC chapter meetings, Writer’s Digest, The Writers Store and writers’ conferences where she takes writers beyond the words and into the very heart of a story.
As the founder December, International Plot Writing Month
better known as
PlotWriMo, Martha manages the award-winning blog for writers:
The Plot Whisperer which has been awarded honors as a top writing advice blog by Writers Digest 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013. Her vlog,
How Do I Plot a Novel, Memoir, Screenplay covers 27 steps to plotting your story from beginning to end and playlists to help writers create a compelling plot for their novels, memoirs and screenplays. Follow her on
Twitter,
Facebook and
Pinterest.
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4) Once you have a skeleton in place, you are able to stand back and “see” her story in an entirely new light
5) Until you write the entire story, you do not know the end. And until you write the end—the climax—you do not know what belongs in the beginning.
6) The less time you devote to making every word perfect in the first couple of drafts the less painful future cuts and revisions will be. Because you haven’t invested hundreds of hours going back to the beginning, you’ll be less reluctant to cut the customary thirty-five to one hundred pages that almost always get chopped from the beginning of the manuscript. The more of yourself you give to making every word perfect before moving to the next scene, the more emotionally attached you become to the words. Cutting your work is never easy, but the more you can endure the chaos of ugly prose, gaps, and missteps in the early drafts, the better.
7) One of the greatest benefits of writing a truly awful, lousy, no good first draft is that it can only get better from there.
Join Martha October 17th at 10am Pacific and learn
How to Pre-Plot & Complete a Novel or Memoir in a Month:
The Benefits of Writing a Fast Draft from Beginning to End
(a Writer’s Digest Webinar)
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Follow me on Twitter: @BrianKlems
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Multiple viewpoints provide diversion from, and contrast to, the protagonist’s perspective. They can deepen conflict, enlarge a story’s scope and add to a novel the rich texture of real life. Subplots carry those effects even further. In our workaday world, we do not live in isolation. Our lives intersect, collide and overlap. Subplots lend the same sense of connectivity to a novel. They remind us of our mutual need, our inescapable conflicts and our intertwined destinies.
Subplots and multiple points of view are often linked by their very natures. When you introduce several point-of-view characters in your story, you will be presented with the choice to create subplots for these characters and weave them into the main plot. How many secondary characters and subplots you choose to create will ultimately affect the pacing and structure of your novel.
Of course, subplots and multiple points of view make novels longer and more work, but rewards for that effort are there for writer and reader alike—that is, if they are successful.
—By Donald Maass,
author of The Breakout Novelist
WHAT MAKES A SUBPLOT SUCCESSFUL?
Choosing a subplot begins with choosing characters with which to work. Who among your secondary characters is sufficiently sympathetic and faces conflicts that are deep, credible, complex and universal enough to be worth developing?
If none are to be found, it might be worthwhile to grow some of your secondary characters, depending on the nature of your novel. Do you intend it to be a sweeping epic? If so you certainly will want to construct a cast with plenty of subplot potential. Is it a tightly woven, intimate exploration of a painful period in one character’s life? In that case subplots will only pull you and your readers away from the main purpose. You may not even want to clutter your novel with multiple viewpoints.
Subplots will not have the desired magnification effect unless there are connections between them. Thus, the main characters in each subplot need to be in proximity to one another; that is, they need a solid reason to be in the same book. Therefore, in searching for subplots, I recommend first looking to those characters already in the main character’s life: family, classmates, friends and so forth.
One of the most difficult subplot tricks to pull off involves creating story lines for two characters who at first have no connection whatsoever, then merging those plotlines. For some reason, this structure is particularly attractive to beginning novelists. While such a feat can be pulled off, again and again I find that novices fail to bring their plotlines together quickly enough. Beginners often feel the need to present scenes from each plotline in strict rotation, whether or not there is a necessity for them. The result is a manuscript laden with low-tension action.
A second requirement of subplots is that they each affect the outcome of the main plotline. Subplots widen the scope of the novel’s action, but if that is all they do, then, once again, the result is likely a sluggish volume.
A third quality of successful subplots is that they range. In 19th-century sagas this often meant ranging high and low over the strata of society, from princesses to beggars, from the palace to the gutter. Social scale is a bit harder to pull off today. More helpful, I think, is to portray a variety of experience. Your setting may be restricted to one milieu, but ranging over that milieu in all its aspects will enrich the world of your novel.
HOW MANY SUBPLOTS IS TOO MANY?
Novels swimming in subplots can feel diffuse. Two or three major subplots are about all that even the long-
est quest fantasies can contain. With more than three subplots, it becomes difficult to sustain reader involvement. Focus is too shattered. Sympathy is torn in too many directions.
Readers of overcrowded novels frequently complain, “It was hard to keep the characters straight.” That is often due to the author’s failure to maintain strong character delineation. Great saga writers have a gift for creating large and varied casts, but it is a rare author who can make more than 20 characters highly individual and distinct. In truth, only giant sagas need that many characters. Novels begin to take on breakout expansiveness with little more than two points of view and as few as one or, possibly, two subplots.
Proof of this can be found in some of our era’s greatest sagas. James Clavell’s 1975 blockbuster Shōgun is a doorstop of a novel, almost 1,200 pages in paperback. It is a massive and immensely detailed journey through feudal Japan. Scores of characters appear, many of them with points of view. For all its heft, though, there are really only two principal points of view: John Blackthorne, the shipwrecked English pilot-major who saves the life of powerful daimyo Toranaga, and the beautiful and courageous married woman with whom Blackthorne falls in love, Mariko. Even so, most of the book belongs to Blackthorne.
Similarly, Larry McMurtry’s 1985 sprawling cattle-drive of a novel, Lonesome Dove, tells dozens of colorful tales—of cowboys, prostitutes, swindlers and such—but without a doubt the novel’s primary focus is cattleman Augustus McCrae. James Jones’ gigantic 1951 epic of World War II, From Here to Eternity, is built around just two men, Pvt. Robert E. Lee Prewitt and 1st Sgt. Milton Anthony Warden; this in a novel that fills 860 pages in its current trade paperback edition.
What these master storytellers know is that a large-scale story is nevertheless still just a story. Overcomplicate it and you lose the essential simplicity of narrative art. Readers identify primarily with one strong, sympathetic central character; it is that character’s destiny about which they most care. Have you ever skimmed ahead in a novel to find the next scene involving your favorite character? Then you know what I mean. Enrich your novel with multiple viewpoints, but keep subplots to a minimum.
The subplots you do include should absolutely amplify themes running through the main plotline. They should be supportive, not wholly separate. How can you be sure the subplots in your novel are doing their jobs? Here is where your purpose in writing your novel needs to be clear in your mind. Most authors launch into their manuscripts without giving any thought to theme. Breakout novelists, on the other hand, generally are writing for a reason. They have something to say. You cannot fully grasp the relationship of your subplots to your main plot until you know what they are really all about.
If you do not know—if, say, you are an organic writer—then perhaps it is best not to plan subplots but simply allow multiple points of view into your story, then see which points of view grow into subplots. (In fact, it is not uncommon for organic writers to find that a minor story line has mushroomed out of control and has become their novel’s main plot.)
Finally, it is worth repeating that not all novels need subplots. There are, for instance, a great many point-of-view characters in John Grisham’s The Partner. Yet out of perhaps a dozen major points of view, no character other than Patrick Lanigan has a truly separate story line. The entire novel is built around the desperation of this runaway lawyer with $90 million in stolen money. Everyone else in the novel either supports him or tries to tear him down.
The Partner feels like it is elaborately plotted, but in reality its structure is simple: It is about a man digging himself out of the worst imaginable trouble. To be sure, there are endless complications, but The Partner has no true subplots.
It is perfectly possible to write a breakout novel from the protagonist’s perspective alone. So how do you know whether to include a particular subplot or let it drop? The answer lies in a subplot’s contribution to the overall novel. Is it mere diversion, as in the oft-attempted-but-rarely- successful “comic relief” subplot? If so, it should be cut.
On the other hand, if it complicates, bears upon, or mirrors or reverses the main plot, then it adds value.
None of the techniques I am talking about are easy. Adding subplots multiplies the work involved in writing a novel. But it can also multiply the rewards, both for the reader and the writer. Think big. It pays off in many ways.
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In my novel One Amazing Thing, nine characters are trapped by an earthquake in the basement of a high-rise building. When they realize there’s no escape, they begin in their panic to lash out at one another. After a bad fight that brings down chunks of the ceiling, a student named Uma urges them to focus their energies on something positive by each sharing a story from their lives, something they’ve never told anyone. When one of the other women protests, saying she doesn’t have a story, Uma insists that everyone has at least “one amazing thing.”
I, too, believe that we all have stories, wonderful, amazing ones floating around us—or even inside us—like magical spores. I have long relied on “found” stories—or snippets of them—to create my fiction. I’m not alone in this. Most of us bump up against amazing things more often than we realize. If we can remain in a state of openness, ready for the great story that might come to us any moment, and if we can learn to identify these moments of power, we’re off to a great start. But how to transform these moments into successful fiction? To create stories that are ours, that ring with authenticity, that have personal depth—but that are not restricted by the autobiographical? I’m going to share with you three techniques that have worked for me.
—by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
1. Meld disparate experiences into an unlikely fictional unit.
Sometime back, while on a visit to Kolkata, the Indian city of my birth, I went to see a friend in the old, northern part of the city. As we were chatting over tea, I heard a series of explosions. My friend explained that the old Chatterjee mansion on the corner was being demolished, to be replaced by an apartment complex. We went to the balcony to look at this beautiful, dilapidated home, with its aged marble exterior and its green-shuttered, floor-length windows. Even as we watched, a wrecking ball shattered a wall. Generations of families—grandparents, parents, widowed aunts, married sons with their wives and offspring—had loved and quarreled and outsmarted one another in that house. Its demise signaled the end of a way of life.
That night I lay in bed and imagined residing within such an orthodox home as a girl. What would I have loved? How might I have felt restricted? What might have caused me to rebel? A single protagonist alone could not express all the reactions one could have to this world-within-a-world, filled with traditions and secrets. What if there was another girl, a cousin? What if she responded vastly differently to the same rules? What if she discovered a secret too terrible to tell her beloved cousin?
These what-ifs (crucial to the writing process) fired up my imagination. I didn’t get any sleep that night, but by the time the hawkers on the street below started calling out their wares, I had the idea for my novel Sister of My Heart. During the rest of my visit, I went to as many old homes as I could. I mystified relatives by asking to see prayer rooms or storage areas under the stairs or old-style bathrooms with claw-footed tubs. I stood on terraces and recalled the games my cousins and I used to play. I looked down on the street below and tried to imagine how a young woman, restricted by orthodoxy, might feel as she viewed life passing her by. But in spite of all my field research, I still didn’t feel ready to write the novel. Something was missing, something pungent and powerful, a conflict that would impel the story forward.
Back in the U.S., I continued searching for that missing something in newspapers, in magazines, in my daily interactions with people. A frustrating year passed. Then one day I came across a TV program that discussed the problem of fetal sex selection, a significant issue in India that had troubled me in the past. Pregnant women (often coerced by their in-laws) would go to prenatal centers to learn the sex of the unborn child. If the fetus was a girl, it would often be aborted. As I watched the grainy footage of dimly lit centers where women kept their faces averted, I began to imagine those faces—and how the women they belonged to might have felt. In my mind, suddenly, a face came into clearer focus: that of one of the cousins in Sister of My Heart.
What would happen if she found herself in such a clinic? Who could she turn to? If her only choices were to have the abortion or to walk out of the marriage, what would she do? And, just like that, the missing chunk of the plot fell into place. Two very disparate experiences from my life, one personal and emotional, one objective and intellectual, had merged into an unlikely fictional unit.
To take one personal experience that is meaningful to you and let it inspire or inform your work can be powerful. To translate more than one of them into a single work can be exponentially more so. After all, while you will likely come across many people who can relate firsthand to any one of your life’s experiences, only you have lived them all. Find innovative ways to revisit and reinvent these meaningful moments in your fiction, and you quite literally will be writing the story that only you can write.
2. Take sides—against yourself.
Sometime before I wrote “Mrs. Dutta Writes a Letter,” now my most anthologized short story, I had become aware of a growing problem in my community: the reluctant immigration of aging parents to the U.S. from India. Deprived of their familiar support systems, these immigrants did poorly in their new environment, often becoming depressed or ill. The issue made me uncomfortable. I knew I’d face a similar situation soon—my own widowed mother in India no longer had immediate family there. Indeed, a few months later, she came to our home on an extended visit.
It was not a success. My mother found it difficult to adjust and resented being expected to change lifelong habits at her age. She was bored and lonely when my husband and I went to work—and sad, though I didn’t realize it then.
I, too, was full of resentment. My life was disrupted by her demands. In addition to my work responsibilities, I ran around doing things for her all day—or so it seemed. By evening, I was too exhausted to even think of writing. Worst of all, nothing I did made her happy. When she returned to India, declaring that she would rather die there than live here, I felt both angered and guilty.
To heal myself, I decided to write a story about the experience. I had an arsenal of details: How my mother would criticize me for asking my husband to share the household chores. How she would rise before dawn and clatter around the house, waking us all. How she refused to use the washer and dryer and would instead drape her hand-washed saris over the backyard fence, so that I lived in fear of complaints from our neighbors.
But the more I dwelled on these facts, the worse I felt—not just as a person but as an artist. The characters in my story were wooden and unsympathetic. The mother was a harridan. The daughter was self-righteous and whiny. I threw away draft after draft in frustration. But I had to write this story! Go where the pain is, a writing teacher had once told me, and I knew from experience that she was right.
I finally realized that the story wasn’t working because I had an agenda: to prove that I (thinly disguised as the fictional daughter) was a good person who had done her best with her unreasonable mother, the story’s villain. But in doing this, I was misusing the story form. Stories are for understanding the nuances of life, for empathizing with characters in spite of—or perhaps because of—their exasperating frailty. If I wanted my story to succeed, I had to give up my identification with the daughter and become the opponent.
It was when I made old Mrs. Dutta the point-of-view character that the story came together. It wasn’t easy. But I forced myself to plunge into her homesickness for India. I finally began to feel her loneliness, her bafflement at being trapped in a country where the rules had changed overnight. And the story came to life. I understood this, too: The story did not need a villain; most stories don’t. Mrs. Dutta’s situation was compelling enough by itself.
Your real-life conflicts are full of riches to be mined for your fiction. After all, conflict is what drives plot. But you may find, as I did, that you’re too close to the subject matter of your life’s battles to achieve the objectivity you need to tell the story with the complexity it deserves. Try stepping into your adversary’s shoes with honest empathy, and you may find the fresh perspective your story needs.
3. Use your secret expertise.
When I was planning my first novel, I knew I wanted it to be about immigrant life in America, its challenges and joys. The subject fascinated me because I was living it myself; it surrounded me on every side in my Indian-American community. But I didn’t want a realistic documentation of daily life to portray the ways in which we were changing America and being transformed by it. I’d already done that in my debut collection of stories, Arranged Marriage. This time I wanted something unusual and unexpected, something to astonish readers into delight and attention.
The answer came to me one day when I was cooking. As I opened the steel container that held my spices and their pungent smells rose up to greet me, I thought of how recipes containing them had been passed down through generations of my family—not just to gratify the palate, but for their medicinal properties and lucky powers. I knew that turmeric was a germ killer that could be smeared on fish to preserve it until frying time. Considered sacred, it was also used in prayer ceremonies. Fenugreek soaked in water soothed stomach ailments. Red pepper thinned the blood, mitigated colds and guarded against the evil eye. All of this was common knowledge in my ancestral village. But here in America, this information was rare, even exotic. What if I created a character who truly understood spices? Who had studied them all her life and now used her knowledge to help her community? Where would I place her?
It came to me that one of the most magical places I have encountered in this country is the Indian grocery store. Stepping into one is like stepping into a separate world. The shadowy aisles are crowded with mysterious substances—mysterious, that is, unless you possess a special knowledge. I visualized a woman walking the aisles, plunging her arm into a bin of coriander, tucking a stick of cinnamon into a lonely customer’s turban to bring him friends.
That was how the idea, protagonist and setting for my first novel came to me: Tilo, the owner of the spice store, had special powers. She could look into her customers’ hearts; she could commune with the spices and ask them to do her bidding; in exchange for this power, she had promised never to fall in love. Suddenly I could see the plot structure: Many people would come to Tilo for assistance, and their problems would help the reader understand the immigrant community. I also had my conflict: Tilo would fall in love with one of the customers and be forced to choose between her power to do good and the love she craved. The resulting novel, The Mistress of Spices, became a bestseller.
The things that are second nature to you, or that have fascinated you since childhood, can be some of your most authentic, amazing things—and yet authors often overlook them, hidden in plain sight. In fact, drawing on your secret expertise is perhaps the most natural way of all to write what you know.
These techniques have helped me take the raw material of my life and shape it into fiction that no one else could have written. I am confident that if you experiment with them, you will be equally pleased with the results.
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Follow me on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Check out my humor book, Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl.
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The writing world lost a legend with the passing of Tom Clancy. From
The Hunt for Red October to
Clear and Present Danger to
Threat Vector, Clancy entertained millions of readers worldwide and redefined the thriller writing genre (and inspired quite a few video games as well). He was dubbed the “father of techno-thrillers,” a term he rejected, saying he “just writes novels.”
To honor the author of the Jack Ryan novels, we dove into our archives and found this wonderful Writer’s Digest Interview with Tom Clancy from 2001 (featured below). My favorite quote from the interview: “I do not over-intellectualize the production process. I just keep it simple: Tell the damn story.” [Click here to Tweet this quote!
]
His last novel, Command Authority, is due out in December.
You will be sorely missed, Mr. Clancy.
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Follow me on Twitter: @BrianKlems Order my book: Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl.
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Television can give us great breaks from the work of writing, even if we feel slightly guilty for watching. But we can temper our guilt by inviting our Inner Editor to sit beside us and show us what to avoid in our writing.
As we become better writers, we become more attuned to the believability of characters and their actions in movies and series. Here, from TV shows (that I guiltily watched), I’ll share two types of unbelievable situations we can learn from and practice avoiding in our writing.
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This guest post is by
Noelle Sterne, author, editor, writing coach, and spiritual counselor. Sterne writes fiction and nonfiction, having published over 300 pieces in print and online venues, including
Writer’s Digest,
The Writer, Women on Writing,
Funds for Writers, and
Transformation Magazine. Her monthly column, “Bloom Where You’re Writing,” appears in Coffeehouse for Writers. With a Ph.D. from Columbia University, for over 28 years Noelle has assisted doctoral candidates in completing their dissertations (finally). Her practical-psychological-spiritual handbook in progress helps them further. In her book Trust Your Life: Forgive Yourself and Go After Your Dreams (Unity Books; one of ten best 2011 ebooks), Noelle draws examples from her practice and other aspects of life to help writers and others release regrets, relabel their past, and reach their lifelong yearnings. Her webinar about the book, with narrative and slides, is available on
YouTube. Noelle explores writing, creativity, and spirituality on Author magazine’s “
Authors’ Blog”: Visit Noelle at her website:
www.trustyourlifenow.com.
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Where Did She Learn That?
Everything that happens, especially in crises, must be prepared for. Otherwise credibility is sorely strained. Maybe you don’t consciously realize it as you’re watching a show and you become engrossed in the plot and/or characters’ struggles, but your Inner Editor is ever lurking. Sometimes, usually as I’m falling asleep after a two-hour TV movie, questions pop up: “How did he know that?” “Where did she learn that?”
Case in point: A Hallmark movie called Mending Fences (2009) takes place on a ranch. One of the main characters is the grandmother, whose eyesight is seriously failing and who has little use for today’s electronic gadgets, including cell phones.
When she and her city granddaughter take a horseback ride out to the edge of the property, they encounter a violent storm. The granddaughter has just learned to ride and her horse spooks, throwing her to the ground and knocking her out. The grandmother, panicked, reaches into the girl’s pocket and grabs her cell phone.
In the dark, with rain pelting, the grandmother holds the phone and, with one press of a button, reaches her daughter, the girl’s mother. Help arrives quickly.
Okay—how did the grandmother (a) know how to use the phone, (b) know that a speed button would connect with the mother’s phone, and (c) see the right button in the dark with her failing eyes?
Lesson: The writers gave no preparation at all for the grandmother’s day-saving actions.
Remedy: Plant, plant, plant. For example, early in the movie, when the granddaughter first arrives from the big city, the grandmother grudgingly admires her cell phone. The girl admonishes her, “Like, it’s the 21st century, Gram. See, it’s easy.” And with a flourish she shows off, pressing the speed-dial button and instantly hears her mother answer.
Too Much Talk
A major technique of hour-long shows, especially mysteries, is the last-minute figure out/tie-up/confessional. Murder, She Wrote is famous (or notorious) for these. I confess I’m a Jessica addict and still marvel that I haven’t seen all twelve years of the late-night reruns. In the crucial three and a half minutes before the hour’s end, Jessica always nails the murderer with a nonstop exposition that rivals an auctioneer’s spiel.
It generally goes like this: With the local police ready nearby, Jessica surprises the murderer who is breaking into the office to destroy the incriminating evidence. When she confronts him or her, the murderer denies it boisterously. “What a wild imagination!” “This woman is crazy!” “You have no proof!”
In her gentle but firm way, Jessica replies, “No, Cliff, you’re wrong. You . . . .” And she begins the long, involved narrative of what really happened, her confident voiceover recounting every detail while the screen shows all the steps of Cliff planning and carrying out the deed.
How in Holmes’ name did she figure all that out?
Lesson: The parallel in your writing to all this talk is too much exposition. You need some, of course, at the start of your story or novel and a few points along the way. But don’t rely on a stuffed-in, long-winded, over-detailed explanation at the finale. It just ties everything up too neatly and, as with Jessica’s soliloquy, strains reader credibility.
Remedy: Like the previous version of unbelievability, one solution here is to keep planting. Granted, it’s a challenge and art to plant enough clues subtly enough so the viewer or reader doesn’t guess the murderer too early (one writer friend and her husband have contests for who can guess the culprit earliest in the show).
For example, you could show the murderer interested as if naturally in the victim’s life or possessions—a special ceramics class, a custom-engraved pen, an old beloved upright piano with a wobbly leg (but show other characters interested too). Brush on these potentially important pieces of evidence once or twice near the beginning and at the middle: the broken bowl shard for throat slitting, the pen for chest stabbing, the piano leg for head clobbering. By this method, you’ll be planting clues but not the whole garden.
Believe It
As you watch such shows and observe their flaws, apply the lessons to your own work. Check and recheck your plants and plot twists for believability. Keep asking yourself how your characters knew about this or knew how to do that. If you come up blank, go back and tuck in some believable allusions. Then your readers will not only enjoy your stories and novels but will also believe your characters and eagerly look for them in your works.
This week I helped celebrate #BannedBooksWeek by moderating a Google On Air panel of popular authors discussing why banning books does a disservice to readers everywhere (Man, Google, you picked THAT screengrab of my giant head as the promo image? Sorry about that folks.). Anyway, the discussion lead to some amazing points about the problems with banning books, other solutions to dealing with kids reading mature content and why parents should put less emphasis on getting books banned and more emphasis on reading with their kids. Watch and enjoy.
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Follow me on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Check out my humor book, Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl.
Sign up for my free weekly eNewsletter: WD Newsletter
Is your manuscript too long? Many of the queries I receive begin, “In my 200,000-word novel….” I stop right there. As I tell all of my clients, I can’t sell anything over 120,000 words by a first-time writer. “Help me cut it,” they say, knowing that I spent some 15 years as an editor before becoming an agent.
But I won’t do it. I make them do the cutting themselves. Once it’s cut down to size, I can help refine it. But they need to do the cutting themselves.
—by Paula Munier
And so do you. Only you know your story well enough to determine its basic shape. That said, I have created guidelines that will help you make those big cuts you need to make.
Let’s say that you have a manuscript that’s weighing in at 180,000 words. Start by answering the questions only you can answer:
1) Do you have two books? At nearly 180,000 words you could still have two 90,000-word books.
This would mean that you have a storyline that could accommodate two structures, as follows, with each book coming in at 360 pages (250 words per page):
- Act One: 90 pages (22,500 words)
- Act Two: 180 pages (45,000 words)
- Act Three: 90 pages (22,500 words)
2) Or do you have one book that is simply too long? In which case you need to cut it down to 120,000 words, which is 480 pages (250 words per page):
- Act One: 120 pages (30,000 words)
- Act Two: 240 pages (60,000 words)
- Act Three: 120 pages (30,000 words)
Answer these questions by writing out the basic storyline in Major Plot Points only: Inciting Incident, Plot Point 1, Mid-Point, Plot Point 2, Denouement. Breaking it down into these basic big chunks should help you figure out if you have one book or two, and once you know that then it will help you break it down into acts. Once you have the acts and accompanying plot points, you can cut to the word counts I’ve outlined above. It will be easy because anything that doesn’t get you from plot point to plot point must go.
This may not be what you want to hear, but it really is what you need to do. For more on plotting, check out my “Build Your Own Plot Perfect” Boot Camp at the upcoming WD West conference: http://www.writersdigestconference.com/ehome/61986/117547/?&
And Happy Cutting!
Let me be clear—I don’t take sides. I appreciate the self-published author, the author published by a small press, and the New York-published author. Because you know what? No matter what publishing route any of us decide to take, we are all still authors.
We write because we can’t not write.
No label will ever take that passion away from us.
Each of us has our own path.
Each of us has our own voice.
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Guest post by Jessica Bell. The Australian-native contemporary fiction author, poet, and singer/songwriter/guitarist, Bell also makes a living as an editor and writer for global ELT publishers (English Language Teaching), such as Pearson Education, HarperCollins, Macmillan Education, Education First and Cengage Learning. She is the co-publishing editor of
Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and the director of the
Homeric Writers’ Retreat & Workshop on the Greek island of Ithaca.
CLICK HERE to subscribe to Jessica’s newsletter. Every subscriber will receive The Hum of Sin Against Skin for free, and be the first to know about new releases and special subscriber giveaways.
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The beauty of indie publishing is the very thing that critics say is its downfall: there is room for everyone. Have a unique voice that doesn’t fit the mass market? Want to write another angel book, even though publishing experts say angel books are “dead”? Indie publishing allows the readers who love exactly the kind of books you write to find you, even if that number is too small to interest a mainstream press. And if you have written a book that has mainstream appeal? There are even more readers who will scoop up your value-priced indie book.
The climate of the publishing industry nowadays is pretty exciting for indie authors. And the stigma attached to non-traditional publishing is well on its way to the paper shredder. Take a look at this article.
More and more authors are finding the courage to self-publish or sign contracts with small presses dedicated to building niche markets. They’re proud of their work, and they’re making serious money selling it to readers around the world. They are reaching readers by the thousands, tens of thousands, and even millions, without securing a contract with a mainstream publisher. The fact is, the market is saturated, especially as more and more indie authors make bold steps toward self-publishing. Mainstream publishers are driven by market trends, leaving a unique opportunity for indie authors to cater to niche markets and target audiences.
Since I decided to go indie, I wear the badge proudly. Because, yes, it’s in my best interests right now. My best interests. This is a choice I’ve made, and it’s working out well. I sell around 400 books a month. And bit by bit, that number is increasing. To some, this might seem like peanuts compared to self-published successes like Hugh Howey and Colleen Hoover. But to me, whose intention was to connect with readers, the figure is certainly nothing to laugh at. With these sales, I cover all my marketing expenses, and earn a little extra cash. And most importantly, I’m being read, and my visibility is growing. I’d rather have my work out there, and organically garner interest now. I have the control to attract new readers every day, build a loyal fan base for my other works, rather than leave my manuscripts sitting in a drawer waiting for consumer trends to change in my favour. I may not have millions of readers, but 400 a month is a lot better than zero.
Indie publishing is not the only solution, but if you don’t get that big break because the mainstream publishers are only publishing a select number of books, and yours doesn’t happen to be what they’re looking for, then submitting your work to a small press, or publishing your books yourself, may be your best option. In fact, for some authors, even if a mainstream publisher is interested, indie publishing may still be the route you prefer to take.
Indie publishing allows all writers of all stripes access to the world’s readers.
The industry has changed, forced into embracing the digital revolution, just like the music industry. Independent artists are everywhere now. Authors don’t self-publish because they’re too lazy to go through the slog of submitting queries to agents, or editing their manuscripts properly, or simply out of impatience to see their work in print, just like independent musicians aren’t too lazy to find a record deal. They simply have a different sound. Or they don’t want to be told by the record label what they should and shouldn’t record. In a saturated market, where publishers/music producers have millions and millions of queries and proposals, independent artists are driven by self-belief and a passion that their work deserves a place.
Independent artists are, in fact, some of the most motivated and tough-skinned artists I’ve ever known. A lot of them, including me, have huge stories behind the reason they publish independently. Stories that most people will never know about, because when someone releases a book, it’s not like you can say on the blurb:
“This book is self-published, but the author actually once had an agent and a book deal with a Big 5 publisher, but decided to go the indie route because she felt it was better for her, both professionally and emotionally.”
Or …
“This book is self-published because the author spent years and years querying it, was told that the writing was great, but no agent believed they could sell it. So … here’s the book. The author doesn’t need to sell a million copies, a few hundred is enough. Plus it’s been through so many edits after all the agent feedback, you won’t be able to find a thing wrong with it.”
Or …
“This book is self-published because the author looked at the future changes coming in the industry and decided to leap ahead, to follow a path that had not been trodden a thousand times before. This author isn’t afraid to be different.”
Every indie author’s path is unique.
Because every author is unique.
So, I urge everyone who is skeptical about indie publishing, to think about the story behind it, and the effort it’s taken to get it out there, and the determination the writer has. Indie publishing is not for the impatient … it’s for authors who want their fate to rest in their own hands.
There are many pathways to success as a writer. Whether you choose to pursue a mainstream contract, go the small press route, or dive straight into self-publishing, your path will be unique to you.
You are a writer.
So be an author.
Note: Today I am celebrating the launch of Indiestructible: Inspiring Stories from the Publishing Jungle which brings you the experiences of 29 indie authors—their passions, their insights, their successes—to help you make the leap into indie publishing. The personal essays in this book will leave you itching to get your work into the hands of readers and experience, first-hand, all the rewards indie publishing has to offer.
100% of proceeds will be donated to BUILDON.org
, a movement which breaks the cycle of poverty, illiteracy, and low expectations through service and education.CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE INDIESTRUCTIBLE
Contributing authors:
Alex J. Cavanaugh <> Angela Brown <> Anne R. Allen <> Briane Pagel <> C.S. Lakin <> Ciara Knight <> Cindy M. Hogan <> D. Robert Pease <> Dawn Ius <> Emily White <> Greg Metcalf <> Jadie Jones <> Jessica Bell <> Karen Bass <> Karen Walker <> Kristie Cook <> Laura Diamond <> Laura Pauling <> Laurel Garver <> Leigh Talbert Moore <> Lori Robinson <> Melissa Foster <> Michael Offutt <> Michelle Davidson Argyle <> Rick Daley <> Roz Morris <> S.R. Johannes <> Stephen Tremp <> Susan Kaye Quinn
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Follow me on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Check out my humor book, Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl.
Sign up for my free weekly eNewsletter: WD Newsletter
Today at 4 p.m. (Eastern) I’ll be moderating a free Google Hangout Event in honor of Banned Books Week
, where we celebrate the freedom to read whatever we want! I’ll be joined by bestselling author Jaime Ford (
Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet), as well as authors Deb Caletti, Sean Beaudoin and Kathleen Alcalá. Should be a fun, lively discussion. (Though forgive my hoarse voice–I’ve been battling a nasty cold for days.)
We’ll be discussing our views on banned books, how different our lives would be if our favorite books were banned, what it’d be like if our books were banned and more. Plus, we’ll be taking questions from the audience via the Google Hangout Chat function.
I hope you’ll join us and show your support.
Click here to join the event (it’s free, plus it’s a great chance to experience a Google Hangout if you never watched one before!).
P.S. In honor of Banned Books Week, WD is taking 15% off orders from our shop
and ALSO donating 15% of proceeds to the American Booksellers Foundation for Free Expression. Talk about a nice combo: Support your writing career by supporting the freedom to read. Click below and use the discount code
READFREE.
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Follow me on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Check out my humor book, Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl.
Sign up for my free weekly eNewsletter: WD Newsletter
Whenever there’s a loud noise outside my little back-room office, the cats all instantly look at me. (Somehow there are always at least two or three cats napping on my desk or on nearby bookshelves.) If I react to the noise — if I leap up in alarm, spilling my coffee and scattering notes — the cats go mad. They start rocketing around the room in total panic, clawing books off shelves, running headlong into the sliding glass door, climbing up me as if I were a tree and a bear were after them.
But if I ignore the noise from outside and continue placidly typing or reading, or even if I just glance casually out the window, the cats all shrug and resume their naps, because obviously the noise was nothing important.
They judge whether or not to take it seriously by my response. And when I’m reading fiction, I do something very similar.
When something of apparent importance happens in a story I’m reading, I look at the responses of the characters to know whether it’s something I need to take seriously — or not. If the narration claims that a bloody murder just took place, but characters who have not shown any signs of being a sociopath are reacting with flippancy and jokes, I decide that it was a false alarm — no murder actually occurred. And therefore the narrative voice was just kidding, really, and I stop reading because I
wasn’t kidding when I picked up the book. I wanted convincingly real events, happening to convincingly real characters.
Even P. G. Wodehouse’s Bertie Wooster takes his objectively trivial problems seriously — in fact the stories are funny largely because
of how seriously he takes them. They’re not trivial to him!
I know
this — but sometimes when I read over my first drafts I find that some section of the narrative tone has become tongue-in-cheek, ironic, almost winking at the reader over the top of the page as if to say,
We both know this is just stuff I made up, right? For a few paragraphs I’ve totally abandoned any pretense of trying to make the reader believe that the characters are real-life people with real-life problems. So I read over that section — and I discover that I was dealing with something emotional. Not romantic love and sex necessarily, but any affecting sort of scene — a daughter leaving home, or someone genuinely afraid of getting a diagnosis from a doctor, or a parent dying, or even a
pet dying. I was embarrassed when I was writing it, so I hid behind flippancy. My characters are mugging and smirking.
Nothing worth taking seriously, in other words. My cats would go back to sleep.
I read somewhere that Jack Kerouac was always hindered in his writing by his fear that his mother would read it. I think more readers are worried about their friends, or even about strangers — they’re afraid of seeming to be sincere, so they make sure the reader understands: You can’t make fun of this story because it’s already making fun of itself.
I rewrite those passages in my stories. Sure, by portraying emotions as I think they genuinely happen, I’m taking the risk of letting the readership conclude (maybe validly) that I’m shallow and immature and naïve, but — if we’re not willing to be honest in our writing, what are we saving it for?
Learn More at the Writer’s Digest West Conference Sept. 27-29 in L.A.
Tim Powers is the author of thirteen novels, including THE ANUBIS GATES, DECLARE, HIDE ME AMONG THE GRAVES, and ON STRANGER TIDES. His novels have twice won the Philip K. Dick Memorial Award, twice won the World Fantasy Award, and three times won the Locus Poll Award.
Powers has taught fiction writing classes at the University of Redlands, Chapman University, and the Orange County High School of the Arts, and has been an instructor at the Writers of the Future program and the Clarion Science Fiction Workshop at Michigan State University.
Powers will be providing the opening keynote at the Writer’s Digest Conference in Los Angeles, California, September 27th – 29th.
Register Now and Join Us >>
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Follow me on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Check out my humor book, Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl.
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Everyone loves to pick up an escapist novel and just drift away into a world of romance, intrigue, or mystery. This was especially true for me while working as a correspondent and anchor for CNN for more than two decades. I would always grab a paperback on my way through the airport. The more outrageously fictitious, the better. You see, I had quite a good dose of reality every day: bombings and school shootings, wars and financial ruin, natural disasters. I wanted fun and enjoyment in my reading. Here are a few rules I adhere to when I write my own romantic thrillers.
—By Kitty Pilgrim
Make your characters bigger than life.
My main female character is an oceanographer, my hero is an archaeologist. I believe most current fiction is aspirational. I give the readers a glimpse of the glamorous life. What woman doesn’t want to race through a foreign destination with a handsome man, solving a mystery that will save the world? Especially when there is a full load of laundry to fold.
Make your villains quirky.
Who wants a boring bad guy? Everyone has boring bad guys in their life: the surly plumber, the nasty traffic cop, the hostile bank teller, the bored grocery store clerk. For your fantasy world to work, the bad guys and the good guys both have to have a lot of pizazz. Remember the exotic antagonists who went after James Bond?
Keep it real.
Include real facts in the plot line to ground the story. Add a bit of history, or a smidgen of science. I actually interview real scientists and explorers for my books, to add interesting details so the reader can learn new information as they float through the action. I also travel to the locations in my books to be able to describe, food, ambiance, scenery to make the scene more vivid. Last year I went to Egypt, Scotland and Greece for locations for my books.
Sprinkle it with fairy dust.
Remember the magical stories of your childhood? Wendy in Peter Pan flying out the window, or Alice having a real toe-to-toe debate with the White Queen. What child didn’t want to fly away with Peter, or have the spunk to stick up for her opinions with an authority figure? As adults we need our share of fairy dust. Make your heroes and heroines able to do extraordinary things. Allow them to have adventures you would fantasize about. We all need to dream. Why not with a book?
Kitty Pilgrim is an award winning journalist and writer of international romantic mysteries. Her latest book is The Stolen Chalice.
Learn More at the Writer’s Digest West Conference Sept. 27-29 in L.A.
Meet Kitty Pilgrim at the Writer’s Digest West Conferencein Los Angeles! Kitty will present “Telling Extraordinary Stories with Fact-Based Fiction.” The lineup of speakers is one of the best and the conference also includes the famous Writer’s Digest Pitch Slam, where you get one-on-one time with agents to pitch your ideas.
Register Now and Join Us >>
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Follow me on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Check out my humor book, Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl.
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People sometimes look askance when I say that experiencing a life-threatening illness was a good thing for me. The truth is that when you’re at the bottom of a deep, dark pit, there is nowhere to look but up. Contemplating how you might climb out—and what you will do when you get there—can be a positively transformative experience.
In the last few weeks of a long stay in Egypt in 2004, I began to feel unwell. Once back in California, I tried to tough it out, but a month of exhaustion, shortness of breath, and peculiar fuzzy-headed thinking finally forced me to seek medical help. After a stereotypical knee-jerk diagnosis of depression, the real cause for my malaise was identified as profound anemia. At serious risk for a stroke or heart attack, I was rushed to the nearest hospital for a massive blood transfusion.
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Guest post by Lydia Crichton, who has traveled all over the world in her twenty-plus year career as a marketing and fundraising expert for nonprofit organizations. A trip to Egypt in 2002 turned into a life-changing odyssey, which led her to discover a passion for telling stories that entertain as they explore complex and controversial social and political issues. She currently lives in California’s Napa Valley––the inspiration for a second book in the Julia Grant Series,
Grains of Truth, woven around the shambles of illegal immigration in the U.S. For more information, visit:
www.lydiacrichton.com.
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The next eight months unfolded like a bad dream. Countless tests, often painful and all expensive, failed to reveal the cause of the anemia. After a hospital nurse confided that “some patients are treated here for symptoms for years without ever learning the cause,” a chance encounter led me to a naturopathic doctor. Through a quick and painless saliva diagnostic, she identified the problem: parasites. Within a week of administering a few inexpensive herbal remedies my blood count began to rise, as did my state of mind.
That’s how my “calling” as a writer began—certainly not with any formal education in the craft—but with a desire to record my ordeal (which became less important as time went by), and the need to speak of things I had seen and learned in Egypt. My “work” prior to that could mostly be found on billboards, in business letters and grant proposals (some of which might be classified as fiction). Basically, with a brain in recovery, I learned to write backwards, with absolutely no idea what I was doing; the only point of reference being thousands of books read over the years. It all started with a hand written journal of my travels. As a fairly private person, I hadn’t thought to make the memoir public. Oddly enough, although my logical left brain still languished, my creative right brain was asserting itself in unusual ways. When I sat down to sort out my thoughts on the computer, other ideas poked their heads out right away.
A story began to emerge, and it wanted to be a good one, the kind that I like to read: to entertain, to present something new and spark readers’ curiosity to want to learn more. My first novel, Grains of Truth, was born. Originally, the book consisted of three parts, with my own story setting the stage as Part I. Insecure about the daunting task of writing an entire book, I went on to throw in everything I could think of including the kitchen sink—along with the bathtub and several other appliances. Working in a fevered state, the first draft took six months. From the start, I believed that it could be a good story, but I also realized that it needed a lot of work. A lot of work. Things had to come out. A lot of things.
Over the next few years the manuscript went through relentless editing, revision and rewrites. I began to learn how to write: took classes and workshops, attended conferences and seminars. A screenwriter’s workshop in Los Angeles taught me how to improve the pace and tighten it up. I went through it, from beginning to end, over and over and over again; looking at structure, dialogue, pacing, character development, word usage…well, you get the idea. Each edit honed it down, bringing a heretofore unknown satisfaction. It was always easy to get lost in the story because this was my story—my people—my creation. Research fueled the plot and gave birth to new characters. Having them serve the story that I wanted to tell, making the pieces fit together in a seamless way, making the points I wanted to make while never losing sight of the vital importance of keeping the reader entertained and engaged: that was the challenge. I worked hard at having different characters present differing points of view on an infinitely complex subject: striving to set aside my personal points of view to objectively view the point. As in life, this can be a difficult thing to do.
Thankfully, the pistons in my brain now fire as well as they ever have. With the writing of the second and third books in the Julia Grant series, my process has become more organized, more efficient. Once settled on a provocative issue, the stories still unfold in an organic way, revealing themselves as they see fit, but I now log an outline as I go along. This helps to streamline edits and rewrites. And, even though the words come easier now, the one edit still nearest and dearest to my heart is that of examining them. Because a good story is, after all, made up of just the right words.
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Follow me on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Check out my humor book, Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl.
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Learn how to blog a book with Nina Amir’s popular guidebook.
Order Now >>
If you are like most writers, when you get an idea for a book, you want to start immediately. If you are a mapper or plotter, you may stop to outline your scenes or your content prior to sitting down to write. If you are “pantser,” someone who likes to just write “by the seat of your pants,” you probably just hurry to your computer and start typing.
In either case, it’s highly likely that you don’t do any business planning. Yet, almost every book project benefits from the creation of a pre-writing business plan. No matter how you want to publish your book, a business plan helps you produce a marketable, which equates to a successful, book.
—Nina Amir
Creativity vs. Marketability
Putting together a business plan for your book necessitates evaluating your idea from a business as well as a creative standpoint. Since publishing is the business of selling books, your business plan helps you determine if your idea is saleable. That means you must consider if you have created a marketable book concept.
Don’t think of this stress on business as creativity vs. marketability. Both represent necessary pieces for a successful book. You don’t have to throw creativity out the door to create a marketable product. As a writer, creativity remains the cornerstone of your work, but you want to make sure that creative idea you’ve developed also sells. That’s where business planning comes in.
Why a Business Plan Creates a Successful Book
If you aren’t convinced you need a business plan for your book, here are five reasons why this document contributes to the overall success of your project:
- A business plan helps you focus your book on your reader and target market. To create a business plan for your book you must identify your ideal reader. This also involves identifying a target market. Once you have this information, you can determine what content best serves the people in your market. A book that offers benefit to many people in a specific market has a higher likelihood of selling. That benefit can come in the form of solutions, answers, relatable stories, escape, or inspiration. You decide what value to add to people’s lives through your book based upon knowing the needs and desires of your ideal reader and target market.
- A business plan helps you write a unique and necessary book. A business plan for a book includes a competitive analysis, which compares your book idea to existing successful books currently on the market. This helps you decide how to make your book better and different from current titles.
- A business plan helps you hone your idea. When you have taken the time to look at the market and competition for your book, you can work with your initial idea to make it more marketable. You can mold it into an idea that bests serve your ideal reader and rises above the competition—and write creative content to match that idea. In other words, you can combine your competitive and market analysis to help you make content decisions, which increases your book’s chances of becoming a popular category option.
- A business plan helps you plan for success. Today, books succeed because authors help them do so. A business plan includes a post-publication promotion plan as well as a description of your author’s platform, which equates to your pre-release promotional efforts. Both pre- and post-publication promotion determine how many copies of your book you might sell. To plan for success, take the time to create a promotion plan for author platform building starting 1-3 years before you book is released and for the release of your book including 1-3 years after it hits the bookstores.
Writing by the seat of your pants has its place, and often turns out inspired works. In today’s ever-more competitive publishing industry, however, marketability remains the watchword. If you take the time to do initial planning, you increase the likelihood of producing not only a creative but a saleable book as well.
Learn More at the Writer’s Digest West Conference Sept. 27-29 in L.A.
Meet Nina Amir at the Writer’s Digest West Conferencein Los Angeles! Elizabeth will present two sessions there: “How to Blog a Book” and “Your Book’s Business Plan: How to Prepare Yourself and Your Book Idea for Publishing Success.” The lineup of speakers is one of the best and the conference also includes the famous Writer’s Digest Pitch Slam, where you get one-on-one time with agents to pitch your ideas.
Register Now and Join Us >>
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Follow me on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Check out my humor book, Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl.
Sign up for my free weekly eNewsletter: WD Newsletter
It’s with a heavy heart that we mourn the passing of bestselling author Ann Crispin, co-founder of Writer Beware (
you can read a short note about it here from Ann’s close friend and Writer Beware counterpart Victoria Strauss). Ann contributed to Writer’s Digest on several occasions and has long been an advocate of writers’ rights. To honor her, we’ve pulled 5 excellent tips from our archives that she shared with us over the years.
1. Not all agents are created equal, and editors know the difference.
2. When you meet your dream editor at a conference, your first words after “Nice to meet you” should not be: “I’ve written a great book, can I send it to you?”
3. Don’t think working with just any agent will give your manuscript a better shot at acceptance than your own submitting efforts will.
4. Looking for publication is no bed of roses, and there are no shortcuts. Remember, every writer who ever has succeeded was once where you are.
5. A publisher that skimps on quality and doesn’t provide adequate editing and proofing won’t do a better job with promotion.
You will be missed, Ann. —The Writer’s Digest Staff
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I find that writers are usually nice people. Nice people have a hard time understanding nasty people, let alone liking them. Let alone loving them!
You must overcome this.
—by Elizabeth Sims
Because even though you deplore evil in real life, you must be able to embrace the evil mindset to write a good novel, especially a mystery or thriller. [Like this quote? — Click here to Tweet it!
]
Not to get all English-majory on you, but I remember a pertinent lesson from studying the early novel Gargantua and Pantagruel (Francois Rabelais) in university. To hyper-simplify what Rabelais tried to convey in that vast satire: to be a man is to be a dog (with a dog’s disgusting habits and appetites), and the only way to fully be a man is to enjoy being a dog.
There is our lesson for writing villains successfully: to be an author is to be a villain, and the only way to fully be an author is to relish being a villain.
Thus we must learn to enjoy playing in the dirt, oui?
Even if your story will not tell anything from their viewpoint, you really need to get to know your villains so they will act realistically and consistently. Brainstorming on your bad guys will definitely help your plot as well as your characters.
Reach into your own dark side for this one.
1) Spend some time remembering something awful you did that you were sorry for. The specifics are unimportant: remember how you felt when you were doing it. Jot a note or two.
2) Now remember something awful you did that you’re not a bit sorry for. Feel that feeling! Jot a note or two.
Those two simple practices will instantly improve your empathy for your villains.
Now, must your villains be bent on destruction and murder 24/7?
Well, no.
Real villains in the real world often act like the nicest people ever. Ted Bundy worked a suicide prevention line while he was killing women who looked like the girlfriend who threw him over. Jack the Ripper probably had friends. That BTK guy—remember him?—had a whole family, friends, a church…
Your villains are merely people acting in their own self-interest, feeding their own needs—only with total disregard for the rest of us. That is where they differ from normal people. The truly horrifying thing is, they don’t have to differ all that much, to be effectively evil.
I might add that believable characters are always a mix of good and bad; it’s really just a matter of degree, and of course, perspective. The axe-murderer’s mother will believe to her grave that he acted in self-defense. He will believe he acted in self-defense.
Which leads us to more depth: Think about your characters, and love them, in light of human failings like self-delusion, unrealistic expectations, secret yearnings—yearnings that can’t possibly come true.
Enjoy the dirt, and reap the rewards!
Learn More at the Writer’s Digest West Conference Sept. 27-29 in L.A.
Meet Elizabeth Sims at the Writer’s Digest West Conferencein Los Angeles! Elizabeth will present two sessions there: “How to Write a Dynamite Mystery or Thriller That SELLS” and “Quit Your Day Job—Seriously!” The lineup of speakers is one of the best and the conference also includes the famous Writer’s Digest Pitch Slam, where you get one-on-one time with agents to pitch your ideas.
Register Now and Join Us >>
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David Magee didn’t learn to write his Academy Award–nominated screenplays Finding Neverland and Life of Pi in a classroom. He never cared much for screenwriting books or workshops, and what writing he did in his younger days—random scenes or script ideas he scribbled in personal journals—he hardly showed anyone. In fact, he didn’t learn to write from the movies at all. He learned by reading novels—and tearing them to pieces.
Originally an aspiring actor, Magee took a job reading audiobooks to make ends meet, a job that required him to first read the full novels, and then their “horrible” abridgements. Despite his shyness with his writing, he couldn’t help telling his producer what might have been the most important sentence of his career: “I could do better than this.”
—by Scott Atkinson
He was given a shot—and over the next five years he abridged more than 80 novels for audio.
“I really learned the craft of focusing the writing on the dialogue, what an actor could convey, turning back stage and set descriptions to the bare minimum so we could get on with the story. These are all things that are incredible training for someone who is looking to become a screenwriter.”
He found himself learning to be a screenwriter, yes, but more important, he found himself learning to become a storyteller. And it turns out there’s a lot the screenwriter who got his start reading stories—and stripping them to their essence—can give back to novelists.
1. Your novel is probably too long.
After first abridging books and later adapting them for screen, Magee has come to the conclusion that most books could be “wonderful” at three-quarters their published length.
“There are craftsman where every word on the page counts,” Magee admits. “But a lot of books that I read, I see these setting descriptions going on forever and not contributing to a greater understanding of the characters or the story.”
Magee learned to be “ruthless” with his own writing by first being a ruthless abridger. So if you’re having trouble killing your own darlings, you might do well to head to your local used bookstore and buy a thick, beat-up paperback. Then buy a red pen.
2. A story can be built in scenes.
Some novelists start on Page 1 and knock out a daily word count until they type “The End.” But if that doesn’t work for you, don’t worry. It doesn’t work for Magee, either. He never starts on Page 1 of a screenplay. He begins with the basic theme and overall journey—what screenwriters call the controlling idea—and lets it come together, scene by scene—and not necessarily in order.
He thinks: “What am I trying to write about? Am I trying to write about how lonely you can feel even among friends? Am I trying to write about the need to grow up, which was the theme of Finding Neverland? Am I trying to write about how stories help us get through life, which is Life of Pi? And then I try to organize my storytelling around the development of that theme or idea, finding ways to tie the main character and other characters to that idea.
“You have some ideas for scenes and you jot them down as quickly as possible, and start to imagine where they might fall into that. And then gradually you start piecing together a collage of those things either on cards or with colored pencils, in a notebook or on a piece of paper, and you start figuring out what happens when.”
3. Tension must drive every scene.
Once you’ve got your scenes, each one must count. If they don’t have tension and aren’t moving the story forward or revealing character, they have to go. Movie audiences know. So do fiction readers.
“In terms of keeping the story going, it’s a matter of never allowing the tension to completely go out of the scene,” Magee says. “A character wants something, and in the course of a sequence of scenes they try to get it. They either succeed or they fail but at the end of that, all is not resolved. Either they realize that was not what they ultimately needed, or it leads them to realize what they need next. They’re still in peril in some way.”
4. Plot and character are not enemies.
Some novelists shy away from—OK, despise—an emphasis on plot, focusing instead on character. For Magee, however, it’s not a matter of character vs. plot, but rather how character creates plot.
“Plot and character are two sides of the same coin. A character behaves the way they behave, and their behavior makes the plot. You learn about character through what they decide to do, and that creates the plot. So those two create the story. How do you do it? My analogy is always sleight of hand. A magician learns to focus an audience’s attention on what he wants them to enjoy and focus on, and he’s slipping in exposition underneath while they’re not looking. Look at the shiny coin over here, but pay no attention to what I’m doing over here. But what I’m doing down here is setting up what’s going to happen later.”
5. You must bring dialogue to life.
In a screenplay, it’s essential that dialogue ring true—and a novel should aspire to just as high a standard. While it’s common advice to read your dialogue aloud, Magee takes it to the next level—he performs it, and doesn’t care who’s watching.
“I had a neighbor who made fun of me for walking around the backyard, waving my arms around and talking to myself, working out a scene,” he says. “I do that all the time.
“Because of the tradition I came from, and reading books on tape, I consider novels—just as much as screenplays, and just as much as plays—part of an oral tradition. I know there are writers whose work only lives on the page, or who are doing things that are not meant to be read aloud. That’s not the kind of writing that interests me. To me a really good book is something that can be told around a fireside.”
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Many writers consider dabbling in writing about food—I mean, we all like food, don’t we? Before diving in, it’s important to ask yourself these 5 questions to make sure you’re taking your roll as food writer seriously.
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Judith Newton is a Professor Emerita in Women and Gender Studies at U.C. Davis where she directed the Women and Gender Studies program for eight years and the Consortium for Women and Research for four. She is the author of the award-winning food memoir,
Tasting Home: Coming of Age in the Kitchen (Shewrites Press/March 2013) and co-editor of five works of nonfiction on women writers, feminist criticism, women’s history, and men’s movements. She blogs for the Huffington Post and lives in the San Francisco Bay Area of California where she tends her garden and cooks for family and friends. For more info, visit:
tasting-home.com*********************************************************************************************************************************
1. Since my interest in writing about food lies mainly in the emotional work that cooking for, and dining with, other performs, I always begin a piece on food by asking what did this cooking or dining experience mean to me? Why did I think it important? Everything follows from that answer.
Two years ago, for example, my husband and I had a simple meal in Santa Fe that struck me as enchanted. It was our last day in town, late in the afternoon, and we had decided, quite spontaneously, to try for an early dinner. A restaurant with a courtyard like an impressionist painting–full of greenery, light and shade, soft white, yellow, and tan umbrellas– had been jammed the day before for lunch and we had refused the forty minute wait.
But, now, magically the place was empty, all our own. We sat at a table to the side of the courtyard that was partially shielded by a bush as tall as a tree, and out of the blue at 4:30 p.m. on a Tuesday, a guitarist began to play. The dishes we ordered and then ate with delight–chicken enchiladas with green chile and wild mushroom tamales– struck us as the best food we’d had all week. That moment, in its many unexpected pleasures, was so perfect that my throat began to ache. What was I feeling? That was the question with which I began. Was I feeling the delights of this meal with a special intensity because I was about to leave Santa Fe?
2. A second question that I pose when I am writing about a moment of cooking or dining is what larger story is this a part of? Is there some movement from one place to another in which this moment participates?
In this case, the answer was yes. This final meal recalled the many other pleasures that Santa Fe had offered us for a full week—a picnic before the opera at a wooden table overlooking a canyon, against a rose flushed sky; the comforting heft of chili mixed with lettuce, cheese, and Fritos in a Frito Pie, eaten to the sound and feel of New Mexican rhythm and blues pulsing from the bandstand in the plaza; the cool air of a bar after a hot walking tour of Santa Fe restaurants, the combination of spice, sweet, and chill in a cocktail called the Agave Way.
Our final meal bore the imprint of those pleasures too, pleasures I had to leave because I do not live in Santa Fe. And then it struck me, in a meditative moment over my draft, that this is also what it feels like when the beauty of the world rises up before you in some sudden way and at the same time you understand that you will be leaving it and all its beauties, This time you will not return. And that was the larger story–my coming to understand how this moment was about mortality.
3. A third question I pose has to do with connection. What personal relations has this experience of cooking or dining involved?
For cooking and dining almost always have impact on my relation to another. Sometimes the relation undergoes a shift that is part of the food experience. My husband, and I were alone, for example, when we discovered the empty restaurant, after a week spent, quite happily, in the company of old friends. The surprise of the restaurant’s being open, of its being empty, of its existing for a moment just for the two of us, the guitarist making songs like Sixteen Tons sound like ballads, the spicy flavors of our meals, made for a moment in which two people shared the experience of feeling blessed. Sharing unexpected pleasures, or even expected ones, can create or deepen many bonds, can produce a moment of unusual intimacy. That is what dining together often does for a couple, a family, a community, a group of strangers.
4. A fourth question is how I can bring the reader to the table, engage her in a sensuous apprehension of the food and its surroundings, because always , for me, the surroundings enter into our experience of the food itself. What senses can I evoke, how I go beyond the visual and beyond a description of taste. How can I use smell and feel and even sound?
The wild mushrooms tasted of earth, the polenta was soft to the tongue and scented with poblano chili. The yearning music of the guitar mixed with, and was somehow answered by, these other bodily sensations. (I always take pictures of the meals I mean to write about so I can re experience them later. The same goes with pictures of the setting and of the city or country itself. )
5. A fifth question is how do I bring the sensuous apprehension of food together with its emotional meanings and my reflections upon both?
Most often I rely on weaving. The food, the setting, the feelings they inspire are threaded together within a narrative that moves from one point to another. Sometimes I reach for something outside my immediate frame of reference to emphasize the underlying theme. While writing the Santa Fe essay, for example, I remembered a favorite picture of Frida Kahlo, the one at Xochomilco, the watery pleasure garden outside of Mexico City. Frida looks over the boat and as water trails lightly through her fingers she seems to be feeling but also thinking about pleasure. “Perhaps,” I wrote, “she is thinking about the fleeting nature of delight. Perhaps she is thinking about mortality. I want to think about mortality too–so I remember to live. “ For me this picture helped capture what was at the heart of our Santa Fe meal—an enchanting moment against the sharp edge of leaving it.
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Three writing conference attendees go into the hotel bar. The bartender, sensing a conversation – because writers are always great fun to talk to—asks them what they do in their day job.
First one says, “I’m a forensic pathologist. I take apart dead things to find out what made them dead.”
Next one says, “I’m a doctor. I examine the living to find out what needs fixing.”
Third one says, “I’m a coach. I break down the athlete’s game and try to make it better so that they can get out there and compete. I also yell a lot.”
—Larry Brooks
There is no punch line here, because this is not a joke, except perhaps the part about writers always being fun to talk to. It’s an analogy for what I do: I’m a story coach. And it isn’t always pretty. Which is a good thing, because the whole point, the reason this has value, is to learn from the mistakes of others.
Copy editing, it’s not.
I confess I’m not an editor, per se – I wouldn’t know a dangling participle if one was hanging from my lower lip. Nor am I a creative partner in the project. Rather, I’m the guy who reads and evaluates your story, compares it to accepted standards of conceptual, structural, thematic and narrative excellence, then assesses your chances. With a few fixes and value-adds thrown in to help get you closer to your goal.
A human MRI machine for fiction, in effect.
The Dirty Little Secret of Storytelling
Doing this for any length of time throws the covers off a few rarely spoken truths about storytelling. One soon realizes that the stuff that stands between success and frustration – for the writer and the reader – begins to congeal into a cliques of literary toxicity. Buckets of common weaknesses and omissions. For the most part we, as readers, don’t see these flaws in the published books we read, they’ve been revised into oblivion along the road to publication, often by someone like me. Because of this our personal learning laboratory is limited to critique groups (full of peers who may not know, either) and the rare ability to self-diagnose.
The Low Probability of Self-Diagnosis
If every writer could on a regular basis read what doesn’t work, and then recognize the underlying cause, they’d more easily side-step these story-killers in their own stories. Or so the hypothesis goes. But writing stories is always an inexact craft, made all the more unreliable due to the fact we almost always suck at assessing our own work.
A successful story is more than simply putting a great character, or a killer premise, or a powerful theme onto the page, followed by a few cycles of stir, rinse, repeat. Because even when you nail all the requisite story elements you may still end up unpublished. Success is ultimately the nuanced sum of a story’s parts, with a little secret sauce thrown in.
You can’t just make this stuff up.
The principles that make a story work are ancient, universal, flexible yet unforgiving.
More than a few writers study and attend workshops and write drafts for decades before they understand the standards against which stories are evaluated, and when they do it’s like a choir of angels singing the theme from Titanic. Others never get there because they reject those basic principles out of hand as formulaic. A vastly smaller but nonetheless hopeful group fails to fully grasp what a story even is, in the mistaken belief that it can be anything at all.
I confess, that latter group makes me crazy.
The simplification of these principles is like trying to define love itself – it masks the complexity of getting them right. But unless you want to leave your story to chance, leaving you with lottery-like odds, awareness leading to craft is your best strategy. Because each of these elements of craft, and more, can and should be targeted in your story development process, and then professionally assessed once it’s on the page.
Rest assured, when you put your story in front of an agent or editor, that is precisely what is happening – it is being professionally assessed. And those waters can be cold and unforgiving.
Among the many potential pitfalls that lurk along the writing road, three stand out as those with the most story corpses rotting in their bowels
When Premise Lacks Conceptual Appeal
It surprises some to learn that concept and premise are not the same thing. One begets the other. Even agents and editors get this wrong in a vernacular context, using these terms synonymously, thus rendering the writing conversation even murkier. Trouble is, we can write a story with virtually no conceptual essence at all, like that “What I Did On My Summer Vacation” essay you once turned in to rave reviews. It’s just that it won’t sell. Concept is the centerpiece, the notion, the Big Idea, that imbues a premise with compelling energy. Concept is not story, premise is story.
A story about two people falling in love… that’s the beginning of a premise. A story about two people falling in love in a nunnery, or during Army boot camp and one is the drill instructor, or one is a ghost… those are concepts.
Superman without the cape and those superpowers, he’s just another rejected, concept-void novel about a farm boy wanting to make his dad proud.
When Episodic Narrative Drives Exposition
We come to our stories for various reasons. Often it is a fascination with a time, a place, an issue or a situation that we hope to showcase for our readers. For example, you set out to write a story about racism in 1960s Mississippi, so you write a whole bunch of scenes that depict what it looked like, what it felt like, the injustice of it, one after the other. Sometimes this becomes a sort of biography of a fictional character, almost memoir-like in execution. But unless you are clearly writing within a “literary” genre, ala Jonathan Franzen, this rarely works until a dramatic plot enters the proposition.
Something that requires resolution needs to span the entire story. Great stories aren’t just about something, they are about something happening.
Luckily Kathryn Stockett understood this when she wrote the mega-bestseller, The Help.
In that one she took the cliché “shi*t happens” to a literal extent, delivering a multi-voiced story – Skeeter and her book, requiring the assistance of the maids to get written – that framed its racial themes with dramatic tension that arced the entire novel, not just an episodic portion of it.
When Character trumps Dramatic Arc
Character is good. Absolutely necessary. It is one of what I call the six core competencies of successful storytelling. But character without a compelling dramatic arc to experience in the story is like putting a player into a uniform and shoving them out onto an unlined field in front of a crowd… with no ball and no opposing team on the horizon.
This can work, but it’s rare (don’t try this at home unless you’re writing a “literary” or biographical story), because it underplays the very thing that makes fiction work: dramatic tension that arcs the entire story. Harry Potter had a specific problem or goal in each book, it wasn’t just about showing us what life was like at Hogwarts. Same with John Irving’s The Cider House Rules, rich as it was in theme. That story was driven by dramatic tension – characters with things to do and problems to solve, always in the face of antagonism, and all connected to a core dramatic spine.
Theme and character, when done well, are almost always the consequence of a conflict-rich stage upon which they are allowed to show themselves.
The Missing Key
All three of these pitfalls have the same solution: give us a hero facing a challenge or a goal that changes their near-time life, launching them on a quest to solve the problem or attain the goal, with something opposing that objective (usually the villain, but sometimes a force; in either case, the story works best when that opposition is external rather than an exclusively internal demon), with meaningful stakes hanging the balance.
This is as close to a non-negotiable imperative as it gets in the fiction business. It’s like gravity itself – defy it at your own peril. And when you do, make sure a parachute or a pair of wings is involved. As a story coach, the violation of this principle, usually in one of these three uniforms, is the most common undoing of stories I see.
Those writers I mentioned earlier who don’t even know what a story is? This is what they’re missing.
And I confess, even though watching a story perish on the page may be illuminating and reinforcing of the principles, it is always sad. It is the death of a dream. I much prefer the story that soars on the wings of a compelling dramatic proposition, populated with characters that come alive on the page to pierce the thin translucent curtain that separates our fiction from our lives.
The things that make that happen are what story coaches look for, assess and urge toward excellence.
Learn More at the Writer’s Digest West Conference Sept. 27-29 in L.A.
Larry Brooks will be speaking at the Writer’s Digest Conference
in Los Angeles, September 27th – 29th, along with many other authors and agents. The lineup of speakers is one of the best and the conference also includes the famous Writer’s Digest Pitch Slam, where you get one-on-one time with agents to pitch your ideas.
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In Alphabet Juice, Roy Blount Jr.’s earthy, contrarian screed to the pleasures of language, he traces to Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch the now immortal edict of revision: Murder your darlings.*
It’s interesting that this advice, so often attributed to one great writer or another—Twain, Faulkner, Hemingway, Orwell, Auden, even Samuel Johnson—was in fact penned by a relative obscurity who’d be lost to posterity were it not for that one fierce, scolding admonition.
—by David Corbett
And yet, as Blount points out, the phrase “Murder your darlings” is itself, well, a darling. There are many less flashy ways Quiller-Couch could have issued his diktat: “Eliminate all words or phrases, no matter how pleasing, that draw undue attention to themselves (or the writer) at the expense of the narrative flow.”
But who would remember that?
Writing is rewriting, another pithy bon mot (per Eudora Welty), and one that shies away from the homicidal imagery. After all, you’re not out to flog your manuscript—or yourself—into a state of self-abnegation. You’re hoping to create an impression in the reader’s mind, one that forms clearly and flows naturally. You’re hoping for immediate comprehension and yet also a force of impact, a depth of meaning, or an aptness of expression that causes what’s been read to linger. You’re hoping to make the reader happy.
Notice that each one of those goals involves someone else: the reader. One of my favorite aunts used to say: “You don’t know yourself by yourself.” The writer’s corollary to this might be: The proof of your prose lies with the reader, not the writer.
Finding Good Help
Given that we revise to make our writing more pleasurable for the reader, why not include the reader in the housework?
The truth at the core of “murder your darlings” is that many a writer, smitten with a particularly lovely bit of writing, will ignore the fact that something’s not quite right about it. It says, “Look at me,” instead of, “Keep reading.” Readers catch this far more frequently than writers do, because their approach to the text is from the outside, whereas the author’s is from within.
However you can manage it, through writing groups, conferences, friends or colleagues, try to develop a trusting relationship with a reader whose instincts you respect, and who will be willing to be candid with you. That is, someone who wants and expects you to be brilliant, but who is also willing and able to hurt your feelings if necessary. You may not take every criticism to heart, but you need to learn to respect the reasonable expectations and judgments of the readers you’re setting out to reach.
If an objective reader isn’t available, you can and should try to train yourself to read your own work as a disinterested party, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. We automatically imbue the text with intentions we’ve brought to it—we know what lies “behind the words”—rather than taking those words at face value, as we do with someone else’s work on first impression.
Sometimes putting a work aside for a time can help with objectivity, if the luxury of delay affords itself. Better yet: Read your work out loud. We tend to hear clumsy locutions, florid overwriting, flabby dialogue—as well as weak prose, poor pacing and other such sins—far better than we see them when reading.
Deep Cleaning
Aristotle believed that the skills that demonstrate a facility with language, such as style and characterization, are the easiest for young writers to master, and that only upon maturity do writers demonstrate command of the subtler techniques that lie beneath the surface of the text, such as structure. Regardless, it’s often the surface that’s easiest to fix, and a great many writers begin there with their rewrites, tuning up their phrases, tightening their sentences.
This is a mistake. It can too easily lead to what the author and writing instructor James N. Frey likens to “rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.” A manuscript with deep flaws in its conception of character, execution of plot, or simple logic cannot be fixed with polished prose, and focusing on language if your manuscript possesses these deeper missteps is wasted effort.
To revise successfully, you have to know what you’re writing about, what your story is, your point, your premise, your theme, whatever you call it. You have to know what it is quivering inside the story that moves you, for that’s the thing you’re trying to share with the reader.
You often need to write through to a preliminary end to see this deep meaning remotely, let alone clearly. You may need to meander for a while to discover it; you may need to rethink certain passages or scenes to gain the more intimate understanding necessary to feel it deeply. But if you try to revise before this clarifies itself in your mind—or your heart—you can end up polishing doorknobs to empty rooms.
We live in an age of irony, when it sometimes seems that one can’t care too little. This is a death sentence for good writing. There’s nothing wrong with emotion or passion, as long as it’s tempered by insight. And what’s revision except tempering your prose through insight?
Once you know what it is in your text that compels you, you can better see the shape it needs to be to bring that impact home. You can see the inescapable beginning-middle-end of it, see if it concludes with a decisive act or a devastating moment of self-revelation, see the crucial decision that must be made—or is forsaken.
In short, revise the deepest, least visible aspects of your story first: character, story, premise, structure. Only then will the other techniques of revision be meaningful or helpful.
Uncovering Clutter
I personally often revise as I go, and wish I didn’t. It’s a bad habit I wish I could break, and I do it because it gives me confidence that the writing is strong enough to merit continuing. Sadly, this reveals more about my self-doubt than it does about the worth of what I’ve written.
Little by little I’ve gotten better at allowing myself to write badly in order to at least get something on the page, something I can come back to. This leads us to a crucial point: You can’t revise what you haven’t written.
John Lescroart tells aspiring writers that he works on his books in two stages. In the first, he wears his “genius hat,” and with that jaunty chapeau on his noggin he can do no wrong: Every scene is dramatic and taut, every line of dialogue sings, every joke is funny. Once he gets an entire first draft written, he takes off the genius hat and puts on his “critic’s hat.” Now he goes back and fixes all the missteps he so merrily ignored in writing the first draft.
When you’re ready to put on that second hat, try these two techniques:
Eliminating Excess: In The Writing Life, Annie Dillard discusses what she calls “the old one-two.” This is where a writer expresses something quite well, then follows up with a rephrasing, as though to convince himself (or the reader) he got it right.
Take, for example, this: He realized he’d sold her short, turned a blind eye to the shadow falling across her soul. He’d put his faith in her glamour and dismissed her vanity, smiled at her ambition but ignored her greed. Depending on context, this freight train of repetitious clauses could easily be reduced to: He’d sold her short. That touch of bitter irony says just enough, while leaving the reader intrigued.
Often writers do this kind of overwriting unthinkingly as they develop a rhythm while forging ahead. And there’s nothing wrong in allowing for that kind of excess—when you’re wearing the genius hat. But when you return to these lines wearing the critic’s hat, remember: Say it once, say it well, and move on.
A corollary to this rule might be stated as: Trust subtext.
Or, in the immortal words of Billie Holiday: “Don’t explain.”
A great deal of unnecessary effort is too often expended on trying to hammer the reader over the head with something you’ve already conveyed quite well.
Jokes you explain are never funny. Stories you explain are never interesting. The key is to provide enough so the reader feels engaged, but not so much she can feel you trying to control how she responds to the text. Few writing mistakes are as cringe-inducing as when the writer belabors the obvious or otherwise explains things tendentiously, or at unnecessary length. (“I love you,” she gushed warmly.) Remember: The reader is your helper, not a problem child. It’s never the case that she’s “too dumb to get it,” and without your elaboration she’d be lost. Rather, if you’ve written it well, explanation is superfluous.
Tidying Up: In scriptwriting software, one dangling word of dialogue can force a premature page break, costing the writer a significant bit of precious real estate on the page. This prompts many scriptwriters to go back and focus on the dangling words at the end of a sentence or a paragraph (known as orphans), in order to tighten that section so an entire line isn’t lost to a mere word or two.
I never would have thought this discipline could be so useful in tidying up my prose as it’s proved to be. Writing that I thought was lean and taut almost invariably saw further improvement if I had to find some way to make it even more so. The skills you learn in ridding your prose of orphans translate across the board, and the merciless pursuit of clear, tight prose will serve you well even after all the orphans are tidied and tucked in.
Filling in the Cracks
Not all revision reduces to cutting, obviously. The admonition “less is more” carries the implicit addendum: “unless it’s not enough.”
This requires an understanding of your strengths and weaknesses as a writer. Sometimes, where you’re weak—be it in setting, pacing, backstory—the text will seem lackluster, wanting. Here especially trusted readers—or an unerring ear—come in handy. They can feel the empty spaces better than you.
But it’s not true that you must master all or settle for nothing. Ballantine editor Mark Tavani urges his writers to “forget their weaknesses and attack their strengths.” No writer is skilled at everything, nor should he try to be, and each will bring his particular virtues to the page.
All writing, especially fiction, requires a bit of legerdemain in the form of indirection, calling the reader’s attention to this over here so they fail to notice the blatant defect over there. The solution to revising an underwritten piece is to first make sure you’ve exploited your strengths to the fullest. Once you feel secure in this, you may find that the empty places you thought were there no longer seem quite so lacking.
Underwriting is a form of writer’s block, and easily deserves an article entirely of its own. The cure, as mentioned earlier, is often to give yourself permission to write badly, so you at least have something to work with. Revising writing that needs even vast improvement is infinitely easier than scaling that forbidding rock face commonly known as the blank page.
Don’t Forget the Mirror
At every step of writing, it’s important to remember that words are a means to reveal, not something to hide behind. One of the great mistakes of writing is to think of it as a way to impress people in order to escape or obscure our own personal shortcomings. Even great writers are not immune to shame or dread or being caught with spinach between their teeth, and being published is no antidote to being human.
Or, put differently, we can’t substitute writing problems for personal problems. In fact, the one often arises from the other.
I often get lost in minutiae, for example, missing the forest for the trees, for the sake of crossing absolutely every T and dotting every I. This results from an obsession with “getting it right” so that I can’t be faulted, a legacy of a fault-finding home life and a school regime dictated by ruler-wielding nuns.
But I digress.
Knowing this about myself has proved immeasurably helpful in my revisions. I see where I’m overwriting from a misbegotten devotion to being thorough, when in fact restraint is necessary to lure the reader in. It’s an invaluable lesson that came only over time, with insight and attention to what I was doing in my life, as well as my writing on the page.
In my teaching I’ve encountered shy, reclusive introverts with a lovely prose style who avoid all conflict on the page—just as they shy away from it in life. I’ve had thinkers whose characters never get out of their own heads, and compulsive talkers whose dialogue is a jabbering onslaught of empty words.
We can’t help but be who we are on the page, and that’s a good thing, as is realizing that the skills necessary for improving our writing will serve us in our attempts to be better people. The point of all writing is to be clear and honest, and every story points toward an ending where the hero has the chance to be braver, wiser, more loving. With hope, we can do the same. If so, we’ll most likely be able to mark our progress on the page.
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An eighty-plus-year-old friend of mine is on a one-woman campaign to eliminate the word “iconic” from public discourse. She’s got a point. But my own current choice for vocabulary to vaporize is “creative”, as in “I can’t write or make art because I’m not creative.” I suspect that creativity is simply a slightly more desperate form of problem solving, and its presence or absence is not likely what’s making it hard for anyone to write well. My father, the writer Bernard Malamud, used to say that his success was 10 percent talent and 90 percent effort.
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Guest post by Janna Malamud Smith, author of four books, My Father is a Book: A Memoir of Bernard Malamud, A Potent Spell: Mother Love and the Power of Fear, and Private Matters: In Defense of the Personal Life. Her most recent book, An Absorbing Errand: How Artists and Craftsmen Make Their Way to Creative Mastery, explores the psychological obstacles artists face in their creative process. Her titles have been New York Times Notable Books, and A Potent Spell was a Barnes & Noble “Discover New Writers” pick. She has written for The New York Times, Boston Globe, and the Threepenny Review, among other publications. A practicing psychotherapist, she lives with her husband and two children in Massachusetts. For more info, please visit jannamalamudsmith.com.
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Remembering him and his ways has helped me understand that people stop writing––stop trying, stop practicing, stop revising, stop making the huge effort it takes to get good––because they trip over unconscious fears that lie like rakes across their paths, and they go splat, and it feels awful, and they figure the game’s up, and that they have no talent or they’re not “creative” enough. Of course, that’s a simplified version of my thoughts. And, of course, I recognize that many current circumstances––from the pressures of the Internet/social media revolution to the pressures of a terrible recession, and the competition in the arts & entertainment marketplace––have a large impact.
What especially captured my attention as a psychotherapist, and the focus of my new book, An Absorbing Errand: How artists and craftsmen make their way to mastery, are the quiet fears that derail people as they try to learn to write or make art. I am quite certain that IF you can stay in the game, your creativity will often prove adequate to your task. But the difficulty comes from learning how to recognize and tolerate your fears, so they don’t lead you to prematurely throw in the towel.
In my book, I examine the lives of various artists––from John Keats to Charlie Chaplin to Leni Riefenstahl to Julia Child to Michael Jackson––and use them as jumping off points for examining difficult feelings, and ways of getting them to power your writing project rather than halt it.
1. Fear of Being Seen
For example, there’s the fear of being seen. Of course, if some part (or parts) of you didn’t want to be “seen,” or heard, you likely wouldn’t write. Most people are drawn to writing because they want to express themselves, to have their say; and they want other people to pay attention. But that wish for attention tends to be ambivalent, and is often closely paired with a profound sense of terror at the notion of being recognized by eyes you imagine as belonging to “the enemy.” It’s no accident that so much energy in the natural world goes to camouflage. Recognition , as in, “I recognize you” carries two very different connotations. One refers to feeling seen with loving eyes, and appreciated. The other, carries more of the feeling of being recognized as prey to be eaten. It’s life and death. Often times, as we write our way into areas where––without any conscious awareness––we start to write about feelings or subjects that either feel disloyal to people we love, or perhaps were somehow prohibited in our upbringing, we start to fear that we will be “recognized” in this frightening way. Inner voices get going, hoping to distract us, telling us we’re stupid or evil or inept at writing. I know someone who stopped working on a family memoir because he couldn’t imagine letting the world “see” the portrait that was emerging. I imagine he unconsciously felt guilty about his portrayal and feared being judged and criticized by family and community. The first step in dealing with the fear (and with all fears) is simply to recognize IT.
2. Fear of Being Humiliated
Closely related to this first fear, is a second of being shamed or humiliated. You write your heart out, and put what you’ve written out in the world, and everyone points at you and shakes their heads in dismay, or outright laughs. You are pathetic or disgusting or over-reaching. Or so your fear of humiliation suggests to you. Shame is one of the most hard-wired, deepest feeling states we have. It’s universal, and likely it was incredibly useful in the distant past when we were more immediately dependent on our tribes and kin for our well being. Shame is the way we collectively seek to eliminate behavior that endangers or harms the group. (Shame on you for making eyes at your sister’s boyfriend.) But for individual artists, writers – and people in general, shame is a much more ambiguous – and often useless-cum-destructive feeling. My hunch is that the fantasy of being shamed, of feeling profound public humiliation, stops more people in their tracks more quickly than any other feeling. Once again, awareness helps. But one good antidote to shame I discuss in the book is surrounding yourself with a group of friends, colleagues, perhaps fellow artists, that meets regularly , appreciates you, and helps you laugh off the shame states as they emerge.
3. Fear of Aloneness
The third fear is the fear of feeling the profound aloneness that can come with writing and other solitary artistic endeavors. Solitude is often a critical phase of art-making. People need privacy not only to concentrate and to be able to spend time deep inside their own minds and psyches. They need it so that they aren’t forced to reveal their work when it’s unready and too vulnerable. There’s nothing worse than having someone comment negatively upon (and even a slightly raised eye-brow can feel crushing) something that is only begun – or half-finished. On the other hand, we have so romanticized artistic solitude, that we don’t prepare people for how lonely it can be, and how hard it can be to tolerate that loneliness. So, a good first step is to change your expectations about how much time alone is really healthy for your work. Maybe your solitude is too solitary, and that profound aloneness has to be tempered before you can succeed.
I hope you read An Absorbing Errand. I know that if you do it will help you overcome the obstacles that hinder mastery. Good luck!
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It’s day two of our annual 12 Deals of December, where we release a new deal of great savings on Writer’s Digest resources (books, bundles, etc.) from December 1st through December 12th. These discounts are big and meant to help you get more for less around the holidays. So without further ado, here’s today’s deal:
It’s time for our annual 12 Deals of December, where we release a new deal of great savings on Writer’s Digest resources (books, bundles, etc.) from December 1st through December 12th. (I love these offers because it reminds me of my favorite holiday song, the “12 Days of Christmas”). These discounts are big and meant to help you get more for less around the holidays. So without further ado, here’s today’s deal:
This collection is for you if:
- You want exclusive discounts on some of our most popular products
- You need gift ideas for that special writer in your life
- You are interested in writing fiction or nonfiction
- You need help publishing, promoting, or marketing your writing
You’ll find this special collection has something for everyone—regardless of genre. When you buy this one-of-a-kind collection you’ll save 72% off retail and receive some of the best products we have to offer! Hurry, there are only 125 available—buy yours today!
The Your Favorites 2012 Collection includes:
- Middle Grade and Young Adult Craft Intensive: Telling Kidlit Stories in Today’s Market (OnDemand Webinar): Find out what it takes to write for young readers and what agents & editors are looking for in an informative pre-recorded online session with author and literary agent Mary Kole. (Value: $79.00)
- Writing 21st Century Fiction (Paperback Book): Bestselling author and literary agent Donald Maass shares the best ways to write fiction in today’s market that impacts your readers. (Value: $16.99)
- 2013 Writer’s Market Deluxe Edition (Paperback Book): This customer favorite includes an online subscription to WritersMarket.com and has hundreds of pages devoted to articles on the craft of writing and listings of agents, writing contests, and conferences. (Value: $39.99)
- How to Blog a Book (eBook): This book is a great resource for anyone who wants to get started blogging, is looking for ways to make money from their blog or wants to know how to turn a blog into a book. (Value: $12.99)
- Writer’s Digest October 2012 (Digital Issue): This popular issue dissects the submission process, gives great advice on how to find an agent (and what it takes to land a book deal), and provides timeless techniques for improving your story and much more! (Value: $5.99)
- Sell Your Book Like Wildfire (eBook): If you’re on the hunt for creative ways to promote your work or simply want to brush up on your marketing skills this book is for you. (Value: $16.99)
- Writing Your Way (Paperback Book): Filled with information for any type of writer, you’ll learn how to create a writing process that works for you—and techniques for improving your writing. (Value: $16.99)
- 10 Elements of a Saleable Novel Today (OnDemand Webinar): Writing a novel is one thing—but do you know how to sell it? Literary agent Jim McCarthy reveals the key elements every novel should have. (Value: $79.00)
- Crafting Fiction & Memoirs That Sell – An Agent’s Point of View (OnDemand Webinar): Improve your chances of getting an agent! You’ll learn what agents look for in a manuscript and get sound advice from literary agent Gordon Warnock on the important aspects of your manuscript like title, hook, voice, and plot. (Value: $79.00)
- Writer’s Digest Yearbook 2012 (PDF): This trusted guide for writers is filled with publishing news, articles on the craft of writing, and helpful advice from published authors. Use it to take your writing (and career) to the next level! (Value: $5.99)
In honor of National Novel Writing Month, I’m going to be offering free content each weekday in November to help all NaNoWriMo participants (and, really, anyone who is working on a novel).
Here is today’s giveaway:
Day 30: Your book is finished—congratulations! You’ve achieved something extraordinary. And if you’ve still got a bit more to do, keep at it! But what do you do once your novel is complete? Well, first, you’ll want to start revising. But you’ll also want to start thinking about getting an agent. To that end, here’s a link to a special 90-minute webinar that Chuck Sambuchino, editor of our annual Guide to Literary Agents, recorded in front of a live online audience earlier this year. It details all of the tips and insights you need to know to get the attention of an agent and provide them with the information they need about your book. Good luck! To get this freebie, just enter your e-mail address below.
Looking for more NaNoWriMo resources?
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Everyone defines success a little differently. Some define it as owning a giant house. Others define it as reaching a goal. In the writing community there are countless ways to measure success—completing a first draft, landing an agent, winning a writing competition, receiving that first royalty check, writing a hilarious tweet that gets retweeted several times, etc. So what does it mean to be a successful writer?
Personally I think writers struggle to define success because there’s always another hill to climb. It’s a “perk” of being a writer. Published your first book? You feel successful until no one bites on your second book. Had a column in a magazine? You’re riding the high life until you’re asked to write your farewell piece. But it’s this lack of a clear definition of success that keeps us motivated and thirsty and driven to accomplish more.
The first time I ever experienced a taste of success was not after I started writing my Questions & Quandaries column in Writer’s Digest, but when I received my first piece of fan mail. The note was kind and generous with compliments, but it was also the first time I ever felt appreciated for something I wrote (other than that time in sixth grade where I wrote that Mother’s Day poem my Mom loved). That was a great feeling and one that gave me a sense of success.
So here’s my Q to you: Will you ever consider yourself successful as a writer? If so, when? If you had to pick a moment thus far in your writing career that you felt was your most successful moment, what would it be?
Post your answer below. In fact, if I get more than 50 responses I’ll pick my favorite one and give that writer an opportunity to write a guest post for this blog about finding writing success. Help me get over that 50 mark by tweeting this or posting it to Facebook:
What Defines Writing Success? (& A Chance to Get Published With @WritersDigest) – TBD
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