What Matters

Here's a tidbit I heard recently that I hope you find as inspiring as I do:

What you write may not change the world,

but it's still important.  

Yes, it is.

At those darkest times, when despair takes over, when you want to give up because you don't believe what you're doing will amount to anything, and no one will ever care, never forget:  It's still important.

Because you care.  It's important to you, for whatever reason you do it.  And, in the end, that's all that matters.    

On and Off

With Chris now back at work, after a week's vacation, I returned to my own work yesterday–specifically, in this case, reviewing the second round of feedback on Chapter One I received from my beta reader, RG.

As I reviewed all of his comments in detail, I came upon this reminder:

Arrive at the scene as late as possible;
leave the scene as soon as possible.

In other words, don't give the reader anything more than he needs.  

Go ahead and write big during the first draft.  In fact, the bigger, the better.  Unleash your imagination.

The first draft is your opportunity to get it all out on the page, everything that comes to you.  You never know when a simple thought or phrase, or even a word, will help you figure out what the scene should be. 

Then, when you get into the serious editing, delete all the introductory and concluding material that sets up and summarizes but really contributes nothing new or important.  

Get your characters on stage doing something important to the story as soon as possible.  And, when they're done, get them off the stage.

A good reminder, RG.  Thanks. 

Information Dumps

This past Saturday, I received Chapter One back from my beta reader, RG.  This was the second time he'd taken a look at it–I believe the most problematic one of the entire novel so far–and, again, he'd spent a crazy amount of time going through it, providing more detailed feedback than I have a right to hope for.  Yet, it's clear he's taking this task seriously, and I'm forever grateful to him for that.

Thus far, I've only had the opportunity to review his comments in passing; once Chris is back at work–he's on vacation now until June 1–I will go through RG's comments in detail, and learn from them. 

But I noticed one thing that didn't get my back up so much as disappointed me.  It relates to the following paragraph, which occurs in Chapter One, Scene Three: 

A low, cream-colored sofa stood against the wall to my right, book-ended by two tall, thin lamps with cloth shades on small, matching tables.  A brass-framed, glass-topped coffee table sat in front of the sofa, while, at the other end of the long room, a black-lacquered, square table, surrounded by four, black, high-backed leather chairs, dominated the dining area.

Here was RG's comment affixed to this paragraph:

I'm not sure the point of this paragraph of description.  It feels more like a writer's exercise.  What in the room matters?  The seating options, for sure, as Brian must plan where he'd like to sit when David comes with the drinks.  Perhaps there's a mirror where Brian can quickly glimpse himself to check out his hair or ensure there are no dinner remnants between his teeth.  Lamps and tables?  Not relevant.

My initial reaction was, Wow!  Two sentences.  And two sentences I worked so hard on.  Two I felt really good about, actually.  I knew I didn't want the description of one of my major character's furnishing to go on forever–and I would never have allowed that to happen–but couldn't I have two sentences?  Just two?

Since I read RG's comment late Saturday evening, my subconscious has been working on it.  And, today, I had another epiphany–that is, I connected his comment to something I'd read in the past, and saw how it applies directly to me.

RG is right.  First, the description stops the action cold.  Second, what's really critical for the reader to know?  Honestly?  Nothing in this paragraph.  Not a word.  As I think through the remainder of the novel, the reader doesn't need anything I included here (no matter how succinctly, or beautifully, I may have written it).

This is called an information dump, and, according to Don McNair, in Editor-Proof Your Writing: 21 Steps to Clear Prose Publishers and Agents Crave, they should be avoided.  Here's what McNair has to say about information dumps:

Information dumps are like ornaments bunched together on a Christmas tree. 

And, if necessary, Work the information into the story.  Make facts a part of the action.

So here's what I need to do. 

I need to be sure none of what I described in this paragraph is necessary to the telling of the story.  If any of it is, I need to work it into the action.  If those two tall, thin lamps suddenly become critical to the telling of my characters's stories, one of them has to turn them on, perhaps while saying something to the other.  As RG put it, I need to make them relevant.

If they are never relevant, they need to go.  (Sniff.)

When In Doubt, Leave It Out

Many years ago, when I sat down to help a colleague write performance reviews for people I had supervised, and that she then supervised, there were occasions when I thought something should be said about their performance, but I couldn't figure out the best way to say it, or I couldn't fit it in to what had already been said.  

After we'd struggled particularly hard with one person's review, exasperated, my colleague looked at me and said, "When in doubt, leave it out."

Fast forward to last week.

There I was revising my novel, and I found myself in the same situation:  I had three paragraphs I really liked.  I thought what they said was important to the story, and I really wanted them to work.  But I kept going over and over the same section, trying like hell to make these three paragraphs fit in.  And I still couldn't make them work. 

Then I remembered my former colleague's advice:  "When in doubt, leave it out."

If I have to struggle that hard to work something into my story, and I just can't make it happen, then if that isn't a sign to delete it and move on, I don't know what is.

Which is exactly what I did.  Gone.  The three paragraphs in question.

And you know what?  It turns out they weren't needed, after all.  After I deleted them, I read the section they came from and realized, by adjusting a few words, the reader would have no idea they had once been there and were now missing.

And, not only that, but also I realized what those three paragraphs said was stated elsewhere.  Maybe not in three easy paragraphs, but in different places, suggested, hinted at.  Removing them gave the reader the chance to put the pieces together himself.  I didn't have to spell out anything for him.  If he had been engaged in the story to that point, he would have everything he needed to get what the three deleted paragraphs told him.

In other words, I didn't have to summarize anything for the reader.  And I didn't have to hit him over the head with what I wanted him to get, either.

So my best advice for today is, "When in doubt, leave it out."

Or, "When you can't fit it in, get rid of it."  Chances are you don't need it, anyway.

Take it out, read it through, and see if I'm not right.

Getting Closer to Understanding Show, Don't Tell

I had an epiphany the other day while watching a program on TV.

A character said of another character, "She was a troublemaker."

Hmm.

Not only was there a "was" in the spoken sentence (a word I've written a previous post about here, saying it should be avoided wherever possible), but I saw the trick to eliminating it, and how showing could do the job. 

"She was a troublemaker" is a lame sentence.  It tells us something, for sure, but not much.  It shows us nothing about how she was a troublemaker.  What she did for someone to call her that.

So, specifically, what did she do?  (This is where, as writers, we need to go to work, do our jobs.)

Well, she liked to poke her nose in other people's business.

She fabricated stories about them. 

She gossiped, telling as many people as she could what she'd made up. 

You get the idea.

So, instead of saying, "She was a troublemaker," we could write something like:  "She poked her nose in other people's business, fabricated stories about them, and gossiped to whoever would listen."  From that, readers should figure out she was a troublemaker. 

"Was" is removed as the verb in the original sentence.  It's replaced with such such vivid action words as "poked," "fabricated," and "gossiped."  As a reader, wouldn't you rather read words like these than "was"?  Wouldn't your experience of that story be more interesting and rewarding? 

Often, when we use the word was, we're telling the reader something.  We're not involving the reader at all.  We're just dropping information.  And that makes the experience of the story passive for the reader–a far less rewarding experience.  

And when should we show and not tell?

This can be tricky, but, the more I look into it and experiment in my own writing, the more it makes sense.

Some things should be told.  Things that are mostly minor details that are needed for clarification.  That is, if the reader didn't know them, he might not get what you really want him to know.

But when significant things happen to your character, things that change the story for him, those should be shown.

For example, in the novel I'm working on now, Character 1 wants Character 2 badly.  1 thinks 2 is single, lonely, and available, just like he is.  Turns out 2 is actually in a relationship already, but the relationship is not going well, and 2 and 3 have decided to take some time away from each other to see what happens.

In my original draft, I covered all this material in a couple of narrative paragraphs.  But I told it instead of showed it.  That 2 is already in a relationship is significant for 1, so I realized I needed to show it, through dialogue, through how 1 and 2 react to each other during that dialogue.  When I changed it, I saw how much, as a writer, I was drawn into what happened.  And, if I was drawn in, I knew the reader would be too.   

The Great Courses

Nothing happens by accident.

A number of years ago, I received a catalog in the mail.  It was from The Great Courses.  I'd never heard of it, and I don't know how they got my address.  But I browsed through the catalog, taking particular interest in courses about writing.

I'm nothing if not slow.  Over the next several years, the catalog kept showing up in the mail, usually in the early part of the year, and I'd browse through it and read about the writing courses.  I was curious about buying the course titled  "Building Great Sentences," but the price seemed prohibitive.  Besides, I wasn't sure I'd sit down long enough to make my way through each of the lectures.  (Some time later, I was at a local bookstore, and found the book version of the same course, written by the professor who delivers the lectures, Brooks Landon.  I bought the book, read it thoroughly, marked a number of notable spots, and learned lot–although I have to admit I'm not much for some of the loaded sentences Landon constructed, consisting of so many words, my twelfth grade creative writing teacher, Mrs. Cassidy, would have shivered.)

Over the past months, another course caught my eye:  "Writing Great Fiction: Storytelling Tips and Techniques."  I kept seeing it advertised in several magazines (a sign?), but, again, the cost was prohibitive.

Then, recently, I found the same course severely discounted.  The DVD version was only US $59.95.  Once shipping and handling were included, as well as applicable taxes and US exchange, the total cost was just over CAD $100–not bad at all for twenty-four, half-hour lectures.  (Turns out, most courses offered by The Great Courses are discounted once a year.)  The other nice thing is most courses can be streamed moments after you purchase them.  So, while you wait for the DVD and accompanying course guidebook to arrive, you can stream the first few lectures (or all of them, if you like).

When I discussed buying "Writing Great Fiction" with my partner, Chris, he asked what could I possibly learn from "Writing Great Fiction" that wasn't already included in one of the hundreds of books in my writing reference library.  Good question.  I guess there's something more engaging in watching a lecture than reading yet another book about writing.  Plus, I wanted to try The Great Courses for myself–see what it was all about, in case I wanted to take advantage of another discounted course in the future.

So far, I've watched lectures 1, 2, 3, 4, and 22 of "Writing Great Fiction."  The first four were terrific.  Lecture 22, titled "Revision Without Tears," I found disappointing.  But, to be fair, I didn't watch all the lectures that precede it, which probably took away from the information it contained.  So I plan to go back and watch each one in chronological order.

If I've piqued your curiosity about The Great Courses, be sure to check it out online.  The array of courses offered is vast (you're sure to find something that interests you), and they really do a nice job of putting together their packages and Fed-exing them so they're received in only a few days.

Creative Suffering

As I work to revise Chapter Eighteen (where I'm at with my first beta reader) and Chapter Two (where I'm at with my second beta reader), a few questions keep circulating in my mind:

1).  Does a writer have to suffer for his writing to be good?

2).  Does the degree to which a writer suffers determine the quality of his work?  (In other words, if a writer suffers more, is his writing going to be necessarily better?)

Of course, I'm not talking about suffering in the same way as the poor people of Nepal are suffering right now, after the devastating 7.8 earthquake that hit there last Saturday.  That's another type of suffering altogether, one related to the very survival of human beings.  Nothing about the experience of suffering in the writing process comes close to that.   

What I'm talking about is the agony that some writers feel when they're creating something.  In my case, the agony is the difference between what I know my writing could be, what it actually is, and the enormous amount of work involved in trying to bridge that gap.  Many times, I doubt I have the talent, ability, or patience to get it there.  That's the source of my frustration and agony.

Some people love the writing process and don't seem to suffer at all.  I know a fellow blogger who appears to love everything about writing.  I've never heard him complain once about any aspect of it–from creating that first draft out of nothing, to rewriting and editing, to working with a professional editor to take his writing to a publishable level (by the way, he is a published writer).  He inspires me with his attitude, not to mention his ability and talent.  He is a truly gifted writer. 

I wonder, then, how much of the agony some writers experience has to do with their attitudes toward their writing.  If my blogger friend has such a positive attitude toward writing, and, therefore, finds himself enjoying the process of writing, do all I have to do is follow his example?  If I approach my writing with fewer expectations and leave myself more open to the magic and beauty of it, am I more likely to experience writing as a magical and beautiful experience?

In other words, if I were more positive about writing, would I lessen my creative suffering and enjoy the process more?

I'm going to give that a try.  It couldn't hurt.