Quick And Dirty Ways To Write Better
Cross-posted to The Midnight Hour
So I’m posting late today, mostly because I was out with the kids and the Selkie. There was a book sale, one that we had high hopes for but were kind of let down by. But it was nice to get out of the house and further nice to see once more that my little ones (not so little anymore, the pair of them) function very well in the Real World. They are mannerly, quiet when they need to be, content to spend a little time doing Big People things, and generally little joys that I can feel good about taking outside the house.
But you’re here for the regular Friday writing post, aren’t you, dear Reader? Today there’s not much, my head has been effectively hoovered clean by a number of things requiring lots of emotional energy and a fair dollop of physical work. I’ll take the liberty of just giving Five Random Bits of Writing Advice.
1. Get the Prom Queen to the dance before cutting her up. Or, as I like to call it, get everything out so you have a whole corpse to perform surgery on. This means nothing more than just writing the damn piece, no matter how bad you think it’s going to end up being, before you start cutting and chopping on it.
A lot of new writers (and even some old hands) get in the middle of a book/piece of writing and then decide to go back and change the beginning. Over. And. Over. Again. This is pure timesuck fueled by fear, and most of the time it isn’t necessary. Getting the whole book out, no matter how crappy you think it is, means that you have a view of the whole story arc and can then go back and prettify the beginning with an eye to punching up the end.
Now, this is different than realizing that a book just isn’t going to go anywhere, that it’s dead on the vine, or deciding to work on something else for a while. One should hopefully learn to differentiate between all those different, seductive little speedbumps. But try not to go back and endlessly revise unfinished pieces; or if you do, be very conscious of what you’re trying to accomplish and whether or not it’s timesuck.
2. Kill those %$#@&ing passive verbs. Passive verbs are weak and wishy-washy. She was sitting or Cathy was running? No. She RAN. Cathy SAT.
Passive verbs often creep in when the writer is unsure, either of the material or of the total wordcount. Unless you can make a good case for absolutely needing the passive verb, kill it. Step on its head before it breeds and get an active verb in there. You want your stories to breathe and move and flex. Burying them under an avalanche of passivity is not going to help.
3. Send in the man with the gun. Can’t figure out what happens next? Kill someone. Rough someone up. Throw in vampires or zombies. Make it worse for your characters.
Often you do know what happens next, and are avoiding it for some reason. A good zombie attack (or other disaster) will shake some things loose, and if all else fails it’s fun, when a piece isn’t behaving properly, to add some screaming and combat. You can always take the screaming out later, if you really want to.
Don’t worry about pacing so much in the first drafts. It is easy-peasy to slow a book down. Descriptive phrases, a bit of reflection on the hero/ine’s part, a little bit of passivity. Getting a book to move faster is the hard part, and if you have a choice, opt for action. You want your reader wondering what the hell is going to happen next, not yawning and thinking “this is a good place to put this hunk of paper down so I can go call Grandma.”
Also, a lot of new writers are afraid to be too mean to your characters. Don’t fall into that trap. If there is not a real risk to the characters, how is the Reader going to connect with them, feel their anguish, fear for them? If there’s no real danger, there is no real emotional reward for a hero/ine, and no place for the Reader to connect. Rough ‘em up. Beat ‘em down. Make those damn characters WORK.
4. Readers, dear Writer, are smarter than you are. If you find yourself saying–or even thinking–”But you don’t understaaaaaand!” to your critique partner, reader/reviewer, editor, etc., take a deep breath and go soak your head. When you come back, realize that it is YOUR job to communicate clearly. If nine out of ten readers don’t get your Deathless Genius, you have not done your job.
Now, there are always going to be folks that don’t “get” what you’re trying to convey, and there are always going to be naysayers and doom-monkeys who won’t like any piece of fiction they didn’t personally stamp with their Purple Velvet Seal’s Ass of Approval. That’s just the way it is, and your work is not going to be for everyone. There is no “one size fits all” within genre or without.
But if more than three people tell you a scene or a motivation ain’t workin’, honey, you need to reconsider. Even if it’s your most-favorite-est scene in the whole damn piece, even if it makes you sigh and cry every time you read it, even if it’s survived numerous revisions. You may just have to murder that darling. Put it in a dump file and you can possibly resurrect it later, or just reread it in the dead of night when you need a little pick-me-up because the world’s not in love with your heartbreaking, staggering genius.
If I sound sarcastic and sharp here, believe me, it’s for Your Own Good. (And mine, too.) Writing is hard enough without letting an overblown ego make it harder. If those hoi polloi you’re expecting to fork over cash for your prose don’t understaaaaaand, then you need to find the way to communicate more clearly. No matter how much you think you already have.
5. Believe, believe, believe. Never doubt that you do have a story to tell. There are stories lined up around the block for you and only you–stories that have chosen you to tell them. Some of them are promiscuous little buggers (fairy tales, hero tales, tragedies, myths) who still want your stamp of originality, the nuance and attention only you can give. Others are weird little children who have your eyes, your nose, and your quirky half-smile, and they’re waiting just for you to put your fingers to the keyboard and give them breath and life. The stories are always there, crowding in around you, peering over your shoulder. Part of the discipline of everyday writing is so they know you’ll be there, same bat-time, same bat-channel, so they can form an orderly queue and wait their turn.
Don’t worry if a million other people have done the same thing. If you quit worrying about being derivative you have more energy to devote to making the story your own–giving it the emphasis only YOU can give. Who cares if fifty million people have written and rewritten Beauty and the Beast? I’m going to have fun writing MY version, thankyouverymuch, and I invite and enjoin you to write your own. If nothing else, it’s good practice for structuring a story.
You have a right to write, and you have a story to tell. Sometimes the head gets so crowded with naysaying thoughts that it might not seem like there’s much of value in there. But do not ever buy into the notion that you don’t have a story to tell. There are stories lurking behind every saltshaker, every blade of grass, every raindrop. Relax. They’ll come out and play–if they can trust you to sit down and spend time listening to them.
As a bonus, I think I’ll throw in an extra word of advice. Whenever you find the word “that” in a manuscript, STAB IT AND KILL IT. 9.9 times out of ten, “that” is unnecessary and just weighs a sentence down. Argue with each and every “that” you find. There will still be plenty of them left over–I’m of a firm belief “that”s are like cockroaches. They breed. Just like wire hangers and solitary socks.
And that concludes the Friday ramble. Good luck out there.
