The Rules of Writing

After publishing a few stories here and there I've developed some hard and fast rules for writing an acceptable* story.

Certainly, the language mechanics are important.  That the story should follow the rules of decent grammar (unless for some reason you chose otherwise) is also a given. The story should also adhere to the rules: of punctuation, and speling (unless there are good reasons to ignore those details.)

Font selection and document formatting used to be important but this seems not so much now that one can change the presentation with the swipe of a mouse, and I won't even go into the ancient use of 20 pound bond and SASE's - most of you can google those terms for an explanation if you need to.

Composition is sort of important, most of the time.  Scenes should logically follow one another, except when you use flashbacks or forewarning, or wish to elide into some discourse on something that might or might not be relevant for the reader to know.

Each scene should have at minimum a protagonist, setting, and activity - although the paragraphs within a scene need not contain all of these and maybe you can leave out one or two of those elements if you feel like it.

Should I mention that dialogue should be as readers think people talk as opposed to the sometimes random nature of real conversation? It helps to occasionally inform the reader of just who (or what) is speaking, has spoken, or is about to speak so their minds don't wander off the reservation.

As in real life, story consequences should follow actions and have some reason for being there.  It is particularly important that characters tend to maintain a single identity throughout the story, at least to themselves, most of the time.  Keeping the character's names straight helps a lot.

The meta is relevant as well.  A story usually attempts to convey some concept to the reader and leave them with a sense that they have been on a journey.  The style of story telling sometimes does this even when the actual intellectual content of the piece is negligible. But who am I to say anything negative about stylists?

Writing in a language the editor will understand** also helps.


*Meaning "good enough" -  I've long abandoned attempting perfection.

**This is usually English.

#SFWApro

Second Thoughts

Some time ago I posed a question in The Act of Writing about what happens when I sit down to write and what possible utility (as in rewards) it produced.  My conclusion at that time was that the mysterious act of writing is probably its own reward.*

But the underlying question remains about what happens when I sit down to write? What strange alchemy transforms a rather dull reader into the producer of stories. My first thought is that it might be physically related.  I learned touch typing on an ancient Underwood in high school and to this day find it a physical pleasure to feel my fingers move the keys as the letters march, character by character, across the screen. Occasionally, when I drop into the fugue state that summons my muse, my sense of time and place disappears and my fingers begin to move independently of my conscious mind. My muse, being a fickle bitch, does not let this happen too frequently and my fingers and brain more often than not need to be coaxed into action to do the slogging hard drudgery of piling word on word.

Regardless of how I invoke the muse I still question from what source and by what processes do I dredge images, characters, settings, and actions that fill the pages of my stories? More importantly, what sparks these into being to such a degree that I am impelled to place strings of words on a page? I am barely conscious of the construction under weigh, aside from deciding what logically follows something, much like putting down a course of bricks to build a house, a barn, or a fence. Is there an architect inside my brain that dictates the design and keeps the stories from being completely chaotic**?

Sometimes the story takes form slowly, from a messy first draft through successive edits until, finally, a half-decent story emerges. There's little magic involved in moving scenes about, changing a bit of dialogue here, adjusting a description there, nip and tuck, polishing and highlighting until the bloody thing "looks right."

Which is an idea for another blog.

* although I must honestly admit that selling something written is slightly more rewarding.

** an accusation that has been made on more than one occasion after the story has been published.

#SFWApro

Catching Up

My brain has finally achieved near-synchronicity with my current life-cycle.  Almost two weeks back from several time zones east of here and I am finally regaining the full use of my brain and my former energy levels.

Foolishly, and before I realized how foggy I was, I opened the incomplete draft of one of the novels in an attempt to reignite the spark only to find my dastardly former self had emblazoned the draft with vague notes and highlights, rendering it nearly incomprehensible. This was unforeseen.  I left with the plot unresolved and fully expected my subconscious to have produced a solution while I took a full month off. But my writer's brain turned out to be a lazy bastard and did nothing at all.  I am now doubly disappointed by not only the lack of resolution but my inability to grasp the rung where my hand last rested.

In frustration I attempted to resume work on a long novella that has languished desktop-wise for far too long only to discover that I was no more able to untangle the plot lines or advance the narrative than with the novel. "Maybe one of the shorts," I shouted and, with a wave of the mouse, brought forth the most recent only to send it flying when I realized how much work would be involved to bring it to fruition.

But I continued to work, throwing words at the pieces in hopes of achieving some sort of resolution so I could start seriously editing.  I also took a couple of naps, caught up on my reading, corresponded with friends, took brief looks at Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, and dove into the writer's black hole - Google! Wait: Those things were not writing, they were just avoidance strategies I  used until, energy restored, I could once again become productive.

At least I hoped so.

*I often wonder if other writers have a problem with keeping their noses to the grindstone. Are they able to produce endless streams of prose without doubt plaguing every word choice or phrase like me; ever a pillar of self-doubt and insecurity?

#SFWApro

Return to Plotland

My brain has finally achieved synchronicity with the present time zone, well, almost.  I fully expected my subconscious to have produced a solution to either of the two novels endings since I gave it a full month off.  Naturally, I have been disappointed.  My writer's brain is a lazy bastard and did nothing at all for me.

Nevertheless, my brain cleansed by a month's absence from working on the novel, I return to the keyboard and open the rambling monster the unfinished novel has become.  In a way, examining the abandoned draft is like an archeological dig where I am excavating for clues as to the novel's purpose, dusting off this fragment or that, mapping the corridors and rooms to once again getring a sense of place and time.

The map shows many, many places where I'd left helpful notes to my future editing self such as "What the hell does this mean?" and "Needs more description" or "Needs more dialogue."  If I wrote that why didn't I effing do something about it at the time instead of expecting the future me to know what to do? Was there some expectation that I'd return smarter or more knowledgeable. despite a long history that this would never happen?  Who knows - obviously I didn't.

Then there's the puzzling "Move this elsewhere" note.   Couldn't you have left me a clue, you idiot! I  have no more idea of where this fragment should go than you did!  Damn!  If I had time travel I'd go back and strangle myself, which would solve both problems, I think.  In other places I discover blocks of text highlighted in yellow, pink, and blue which add festive color to the draft but no explanation of their purpose.  Why did I choose those colors and why highlight that text at all?  I haven't a clue.  Perhaps in time it will come to me. I can only hope.

So where was I when I left? I clearly recall jumping around a bit to tune up this or that chapter but where did these three extra chapters of alternative plot lines come from?  Were they from an earlier draft or something new I was playing with just before I left on vacation?  Are they pieces I cut but did not have the heart to discard?  Perhaps further digging will clarify the question.

Finally, at the end of the draft I discover the outlines for the last few chapters I'd tried to nail down.  But before I can write them I have to finish reading all that went before to remind myself of what this novel was about.

After than all I have to do is edit it.




@SFWApro

The Experiment Continues

A month ago I decided to NOT WRITE while on vacation in England and France in order to get away from obcessing on the multiple short story drafts and the two 98% completed draft novels on my desk.  I wanted to take a breather from thinking so I could bring renewed energy and commitment to the work.  Best to step away from the art for a bit, said I.

Only everywhere I've been my surroundings scream with story ideas.  Local history abounds with plot lines, ancient structures belie future ancient structures of our contemporary age, and the polysyllabic sounds and a dozen languages (mostly Italian, since this is France in August!)  gives rise to new ideas for a Sam Boone or two.

I find myself dreaming in story lines and awake find myself involuntarily contemplating how this or that incident/scene/location could become SF-ish.  I picture aliens interpreting the tourist sites, albeit with rather different conceptual interpretations and interests than the often confused tourists.  Every time I yearn to jot notes, only to stop by reminding myself of the promise I made NOT to be a writer on this trip but simply to enjoy the moments. This exercise has taught me is that despite my attempts to suppress it, the creative impulse cannot be denied; there are simply too many story ideas in the world to be ignored.  I suppose that eventually memories of this hiatus will leak into my work, color my language, or even spark a new direction.

And oh, do I want to get back to my writer's lair.

#SFWApro

Starving in Paradise

My French has improved noticeably since I arrived and I am able to order meals without difficulty, although the number of times my order is screwed up makes me wonder whether the waiters are as fluent, despite being French themselves.

Dining in France while lactose intolerant is an exquisite torture.  The French live on milk in all forms.  I thought a sandwich for lunch would be nice given the wonderful French breads.  The cafe menues have lots of choices: ham with butter, ham with butter and cheese, cheese with butter, and even cheese with cheese and butter.  I was amazed only that they did not offer one butter with butter. When asked to have no butter at all they look at me in amazement, as if I'd asked for no bread.

Dinners are worse, given there is so much (as Terry Pratchett would say) avec with everything.  Were it not for the Touraine's wonderful goat cheeses, which I can eat without exploding, I would starve. Thankfully rillettes, galettes, crepes, and salades plus sausages and territors all with fromage du chèvre are easily found, as is pizza -a traditional international dish.

Coffee comes in tiny cups, dark and so thick you could stand a spoon in it, or maybe that's from too much sugar being added to make it somewhat less bitter.  One cup of this coffee is too little and two cups are "O my God, why is everyone moving so slowly?" while your heart races. Still, that's a small price to pay when eating the wonderful pastries and omlettes, or even having preserves or goat cheese on breads unlike any other.

I will regret departing.

#SFWApro







There is not enough time

France

After half a century of absence we have returned to France, this time with a better appreciation of the culture and a fatter pocketbook, which is fortunate since prices have skyrocketed in the years we've been away. The first thing that's struck me was that the prices of everything is too high, a complete reversal of when we lived here.

Le meme change les plus change.  Commercialization has blossomed but the bread and wine remain the same.  Although there are supermarkets, small establishments still dominate the towns where a roadside meal of bread, cheese, and wine on a balmy day is a rare pleasure. Walking the smaller villages among structures that have experienced the wicked passage of time, wars, and a changing population is a pleasure for Americans to whom historic buildings are measured in decades instead of centuries and which are largely untouched by war's cruel hands.  It is interesting to see pre Christian Roman structures alongside modern residences and among 12-17th century chateaux.

Even though I am giving my writing brain a rest I am collecting many thoughts that may be employed in future stories, mostly about the mistakes we two seem to be making in directions, instructions, and intents, but also which bits of history and views might serve.

And tomorrow is all about the wine.