Y is for...Yarn
A story, a traveller's tale, an anecdote. Yarn. The word has associations of length, of being something rambling and relaxed, of something oral perhaps, of something made up as it goes along. There may even be hints of exaggeration -- someone who is spinning a bit of a yarn is not entirely to be believed.
You need a number of individual threads to make a yarn, nimble fingers and a great deal of patience and ingenuity. You need to be able to keep several different strands in play at the same time -- you can't leave one hanging, because that will create a weakness. All of this is true in fiction writing, where the spun thread might be the plot you are constructing, twisting different narratives into something tensile and strong, or it might be something as simple and basic as a sentence, fine, taut and beautifully constructed.
The best yarn is individually crafted from fine materials (none of this mass-produced, machine-made polyester nonsense). Make the best of all the elements at your disposal, and start spinning...
Friday, 31 August 2012
Wednesday, 29 August 2012
An Alphabet of Better Writing # X
X is for...X-Rated
With Fifty Shades of Grey still hogging the Amazon Best Sellers list and Mummy Porn the must have for every publisher as a result, my Alphabet of Better Writing would be incomplete if I didn't mention sex in it at some point.
A recent bio of Louise Mensch, who writes under her maiden name Louise Bagshaw, mentioned that her novels generally contain thirty sex scenes. Thirty? Now that's what I call stamina. Me, I'm more of a quality-rather-than-quantity girl. I can't write sex scenes just for the sake of having sex scenes in my book. I can't be that gratuitous.
One of the tenets of good writing is that there should always be more than one thing going on in any scene-- you don't cover plot in one and character in the next, it has to be more of a mash up than that. I think the same is true of sex: there needs to be more going on than just the act of copulation. There are so many interesting emotions and motivations which can come into play - do the participants love each other? Like each other? Is one more interested and committed than the other? Is it an honest and open encounter, or is there a hidden agenda at work? Do they enjoy it? Do they feel guilty after? Is it manipulative, celebratory, perfunctory or joyous? Is it some of these things for one of the people? As with the act itself, what is going on inside the heads of the participants is at least as important as what is happening physically, so if you want to write about it well, you need to cover all these bases.
Weirdly, the two sex scenes that I remember most are both comical - perhaps that's why they stand out in my memory. Read Michael Dibdin's Dirty Tricks, or What a Carve Up by Jonathan Coe for a masterclass in erotic writing with a twist. As in the real world, sex that makes you laugh out loud is often the best kind.
With that in mind, here's my very own X-rated picture, snapped in a lock keeper's garden in France...
...what's not to like?
With Fifty Shades of Grey still hogging the Amazon Best Sellers list and Mummy Porn the must have for every publisher as a result, my Alphabet of Better Writing would be incomplete if I didn't mention sex in it at some point.
A recent bio of Louise Mensch, who writes under her maiden name Louise Bagshaw, mentioned that her novels generally contain thirty sex scenes. Thirty? Now that's what I call stamina. Me, I'm more of a quality-rather-than-quantity girl. I can't write sex scenes just for the sake of having sex scenes in my book. I can't be that gratuitous.
One of the tenets of good writing is that there should always be more than one thing going on in any scene-- you don't cover plot in one and character in the next, it has to be more of a mash up than that. I think the same is true of sex: there needs to be more going on than just the act of copulation. There are so many interesting emotions and motivations which can come into play - do the participants love each other? Like each other? Is one more interested and committed than the other? Is it an honest and open encounter, or is there a hidden agenda at work? Do they enjoy it? Do they feel guilty after? Is it manipulative, celebratory, perfunctory or joyous? Is it some of these things for one of the people? As with the act itself, what is going on inside the heads of the participants is at least as important as what is happening physically, so if you want to write about it well, you need to cover all these bases.
Weirdly, the two sex scenes that I remember most are both comical - perhaps that's why they stand out in my memory. Read Michael Dibdin's Dirty Tricks, or What a Carve Up by Jonathan Coe for a masterclass in erotic writing with a twist. As in the real world, sex that makes you laugh out loud is often the best kind.
With that in mind, here's my very own X-rated picture, snapped in a lock keeper's garden in France...
Monday, 27 August 2012
An Alphabet of Better Writing # W
W is for...Warp and Weft
...and weavers, who when they are working (so much alliteration), stretch one set of threads across their looms (the warp) so that a second set (the weft) can be woven through it. When you are weaving this creates fabric, when you are writing it creates texture and tension.
The key thing about warp and weft is that they are going in different directions. This is what creates the tension. When you are writing something sad, you can give it added depth by locating traces of humour, the faintest watermark, within it. You can counterpoint a high voltage action sequence with a split second of revealing reflection. Within the warp of dialogue, you can have the weft of silence.
It's not simply a question of contrast - one thing followed by something sharply different - it's finding a way of integrating two opposites, superimposing comedy on tragedy, or the interior world on the exterior, or whatever. That's how you achieve texture. The end result should be like shot silk.
...and weavers, who when they are working (so much alliteration), stretch one set of threads across their looms (the warp) so that a second set (the weft) can be woven through it. When you are weaving this creates fabric, when you are writing it creates texture and tension.
The key thing about warp and weft is that they are going in different directions. This is what creates the tension. When you are writing something sad, you can give it added depth by locating traces of humour, the faintest watermark, within it. You can counterpoint a high voltage action sequence with a split second of revealing reflection. Within the warp of dialogue, you can have the weft of silence.
It's not simply a question of contrast - one thing followed by something sharply different - it's finding a way of integrating two opposites, superimposing comedy on tragedy, or the interior world on the exterior, or whatever. That's how you achieve texture. The end result should be like shot silk.
Friday, 24 August 2012
An Alphabet of Better Writing # V
V is for...Voltaire
Well, I could have done verisimilitude, or villain, or any number of other words beginning with V, but I've chosen Voltaire.
A few weeks ago when I was on holiday in France, I went to visit the chateau at Cirey en Blaise. Voltaire took refuge here when a warrant for his arrest was issued in 1734, following the publication of his inflammatory Philosophical Letters. He stayed for fifteen years, striking up a relationship with the beautiful and intellectually gifted chatelaine, Gabrielle Emilie de Breteuil.
During his stay at Cirey, Voltaire renovated the chateau and built a new wing, for which he designed the beautiful doorway that he dedicated to the Arts and Sciences.
He continued writing and carried out research into metaphysics while Emilie worked on her translation of the complete works of Isaac Newton. They also built a little theatre, for which he wrote plays that were performed two or three times a week.
The reason I'm telling you all this is that Voltaire provides the perfect example of how to max out your creativity. True, it helps to have money and a doting Marquise on hand, but I was struck by the breadth of his engagement with the world: writing in a way which flouted censorship, pushing the boundaries of intellectual thought, agitating for social change, while turning his hand to architecture and amateur theatricals.
I'm sure there is a lesson to be learned here: that you can feed your creativity by expressing it in a number of different ways, cross fertilising, stimulating. If you're tired of writing, read; if you're tired of reading, walk, or think, or bake, or make something. Find your own way to fan the flame, don't let the fire go out.
Well, I could have done verisimilitude, or villain, or any number of other words beginning with V, but I've chosen Voltaire.
A few weeks ago when I was on holiday in France, I went to visit the chateau at Cirey en Blaise. Voltaire took refuge here when a warrant for his arrest was issued in 1734, following the publication of his inflammatory Philosophical Letters. He stayed for fifteen years, striking up a relationship with the beautiful and intellectually gifted chatelaine, Gabrielle Emilie de Breteuil.
During his stay at Cirey, Voltaire renovated the chateau and built a new wing, for which he designed the beautiful doorway that he dedicated to the Arts and Sciences.
He continued writing and carried out research into metaphysics while Emilie worked on her translation of the complete works of Isaac Newton. They also built a little theatre, for which he wrote plays that were performed two or three times a week.
The reason I'm telling you all this is that Voltaire provides the perfect example of how to max out your creativity. True, it helps to have money and a doting Marquise on hand, but I was struck by the breadth of his engagement with the world: writing in a way which flouted censorship, pushing the boundaries of intellectual thought, agitating for social change, while turning his hand to architecture and amateur theatricals.
I'm sure there is a lesson to be learned here: that you can feed your creativity by expressing it in a number of different ways, cross fertilising, stimulating. If you're tired of writing, read; if you're tired of reading, walk, or think, or bake, or make something. Find your own way to fan the flame, don't let the fire go out.
Wednesday, 22 August 2012
An Alphabet of Better Writing # U
U is for...Unreliable Narrator
Mostly, when we read a story, we take the narrative at face value. We believe what the author is telling us, either directly in a first person narrative or through the hero or heroine in a third person one, because -- well, why wouldn't we?
Precisely. As readers, we are trusting and - necessarily - gullible. We want to believe. If something happens inadvertently to break the magic spell, we feel cheated and / or irritated and may well chuck the book to one side.
But what if the writer deliberately pulls the rug from under her reader's feet, by revealing that the narration or the narrator is in some way unreliable? What then? However you achieve it, gradually with a drip, drip, drip of hints and suggestions, or with a flourish of leger de main, it's an extraordinarily manipulative thing to do. It is bound to provoke an intense reaction in your reader and (as long as they don't cast the book to one side) this is a Very Good Thing. Firstly, it will make them re-evaluate everything they have read so far, to see how they could have misread the situation so completely; it will niggle away at them and keep them in the world of your story for longer. Secondly, they will want to know why: why has the writer subverted her own story? What is she trying to achieve? Where will it lead?
If you want to see how to do it (without giving too much away), read Fingersmith by Sarah Waters, or check out one of my previous posts...
Mostly, when we read a story, we take the narrative at face value. We believe what the author is telling us, either directly in a first person narrative or through the hero or heroine in a third person one, because -- well, why wouldn't we?
Precisely. As readers, we are trusting and - necessarily - gullible. We want to believe. If something happens inadvertently to break the magic spell, we feel cheated and / or irritated and may well chuck the book to one side.
But what if the writer deliberately pulls the rug from under her reader's feet, by revealing that the narration or the narrator is in some way unreliable? What then? However you achieve it, gradually with a drip, drip, drip of hints and suggestions, or with a flourish of leger de main, it's an extraordinarily manipulative thing to do. It is bound to provoke an intense reaction in your reader and (as long as they don't cast the book to one side) this is a Very Good Thing. Firstly, it will make them re-evaluate everything they have read so far, to see how they could have misread the situation so completely; it will niggle away at them and keep them in the world of your story for longer. Secondly, they will want to know why: why has the writer subverted her own story? What is she trying to achieve? Where will it lead?
If you want to see how to do it (without giving too much away), read Fingersmith by Sarah Waters, or check out one of my previous posts...
Monday, 20 August 2012
An Alphabet of Better Writing # T
T is for...Tension
Tension is the sense of drama and suspense which makes your story interesting. It has elements of excitement and compression and its function is to sustain your reader's curiosity. Your story must have some innate drama to make it interesting in the first place; how you handle the tension will dictate whether your reader keeps turning the pages until way past bedtime or discards the book in favour of something else.
Maintaining narrative tension is rather like knitting -- you need to keep the thread pulled tight otherwise holes will start to appear and the whole thing might unravel. Every scene should have a function that helps to move the narrative along -- use the editing process to cut any which are superfluous - and each one should be economically written. The delicate skein of your story will not be able to support the weight of too many words.
To maintain tension you may need to change yarns occasionally - cut away from a climactic moment of drama to something totally different, so that your reader has to keep going in order to find out what happens next. In the same vein, altering the mood of scenes, contrasting something heart-rending with something lighter and more humourous, creates an internal dynamism which will stop your narrative from falling flat.
Tension exists at the micro as well as the macro level: cut the dead wood out of every sentence, every paragraph, so that your prose is concentrated and well sprung; remember to vary the length of your sentences, too. Short ones carry more tension.
Tension is the sense of drama and suspense which makes your story interesting. It has elements of excitement and compression and its function is to sustain your reader's curiosity. Your story must have some innate drama to make it interesting in the first place; how you handle the tension will dictate whether your reader keeps turning the pages until way past bedtime or discards the book in favour of something else.
Maintaining narrative tension is rather like knitting -- you need to keep the thread pulled tight otherwise holes will start to appear and the whole thing might unravel. Every scene should have a function that helps to move the narrative along -- use the editing process to cut any which are superfluous - and each one should be economically written. The delicate skein of your story will not be able to support the weight of too many words.
To maintain tension you may need to change yarns occasionally - cut away from a climactic moment of drama to something totally different, so that your reader has to keep going in order to find out what happens next. In the same vein, altering the mood of scenes, contrasting something heart-rending with something lighter and more humourous, creates an internal dynamism which will stop your narrative from falling flat.
Tension exists at the micro as well as the macro level: cut the dead wood out of every sentence, every paragraph, so that your prose is concentrated and well sprung; remember to vary the length of your sentences, too. Short ones carry more tension.
Friday, 17 August 2012
An Alphabet of Better Writing # S
S is for...Setting
The setting of a story can be crucial. It's certainly never incidental and you shouldn't underestimate the importance of it. Apparently writer Catherine Czerkawska discovered to her dismay that publishers wouldn't take a gamble on her lovely novel The Amber Heart in spite of her established track record because it was set in Poland!
When you are framing a story in your head, don't consider the setting in purely commercial terms, either. A well-handled location can add immeasurably to a reader's enjoyment of a book: would we remember Wuthering Heights if it weren't for the wild beauty of the Yorkshire moors? Would Thomas Hardy's Wessex Novels be so memorable without -- well -- Wessex? You should give setting at least as much importance as a minor character in your story.
When you are working on place, it is important to be authentic and accurate -- even if the location exists only in your head, you need to be consistent. As with the use of any kind of detail, less is more, so aim for quality rather than quantity when you are bringing the landscape of your narrative to life -- brevity is the soul of everything, not just wit.
If you want some practice - a little writing exercise - try describing the picture below.
Think about colour, texture, geology, the weather, the smell, the silence, the history of the place, what it means to your protagonist and what dramatic potential it might have. When you have written your piece, cut twenty percent of it and see what you are left with.
On your marks, get set...
The setting of a story can be crucial. It's certainly never incidental and you shouldn't underestimate the importance of it. Apparently writer Catherine Czerkawska discovered to her dismay that publishers wouldn't take a gamble on her lovely novel The Amber Heart in spite of her established track record because it was set in Poland!
When you are framing a story in your head, don't consider the setting in purely commercial terms, either. A well-handled location can add immeasurably to a reader's enjoyment of a book: would we remember Wuthering Heights if it weren't for the wild beauty of the Yorkshire moors? Would Thomas Hardy's Wessex Novels be so memorable without -- well -- Wessex? You should give setting at least as much importance as a minor character in your story.
When you are working on place, it is important to be authentic and accurate -- even if the location exists only in your head, you need to be consistent. As with the use of any kind of detail, less is more, so aim for quality rather than quantity when you are bringing the landscape of your narrative to life -- brevity is the soul of everything, not just wit.
If you want some practice - a little writing exercise - try describing the picture below.
On your marks, get set...
Wednesday, 15 August 2012
An Alphabet of Better Writing # R
R is for...Research
Write about what you know, they tell you, write about what you know. Even if you follow this sage advice (which, incidentally, I think means write within your emotional, rather than your actual experience) let's face it, you're not going to know everything and are always going to need to find out more.
This is where research comes in. When I'm starting on a writing project, I read around of my subject as much as possible. If I'm writing about the Second World War, I read as many books about it -- fiction and nonfiction -- as I can lay my hands on.
Cue book shop picture...
I suspect that some people think reading what others have written will taint of the wellspring of their own idea, but if this idea is robust enough and you are really committed to it, there shouldn't be a problem. There are two benefits to reading widely: the first is that it will increase your store of knowledge, the second, more pertinent one is that it will show you what gaps there are in the existing cannon waiting for you to fill.
Once you have done the bulk of your reading (although you will probably continue with it during the writing process), you may find it helpful to visit the places where your story is set. Even if you know them well, some fresh detail may spring out at you and fire your thinking further. During this phase you might need to visit museums, talk to experts in the field; you will certainly have questions which need answering.
Remember, what will help you most is the telling detail. You don't need screeds and screeds of background information - the means to an end, not an end in itself -- but the vivid and selected use of detail will bring your story to life and give it added authenticity.
Once you have harvested all this information, the best thing you can do is to set it to one side. The process of writing a story is essentially reimagining your research - a strange alchemy by which time and imagination work on fact and turn it into fictional gold.
Write about what you know, they tell you, write about what you know. Even if you follow this sage advice (which, incidentally, I think means write within your emotional, rather than your actual experience) let's face it, you're not going to know everything and are always going to need to find out more.
This is where research comes in. When I'm starting on a writing project, I read around of my subject as much as possible. If I'm writing about the Second World War, I read as many books about it -- fiction and nonfiction -- as I can lay my hands on.
Cue book shop picture...
I suspect that some people think reading what others have written will taint of the wellspring of their own idea, but if this idea is robust enough and you are really committed to it, there shouldn't be a problem. There are two benefits to reading widely: the first is that it will increase your store of knowledge, the second, more pertinent one is that it will show you what gaps there are in the existing cannon waiting for you to fill.
Once you have done the bulk of your reading (although you will probably continue with it during the writing process), you may find it helpful to visit the places where your story is set. Even if you know them well, some fresh detail may spring out at you and fire your thinking further. During this phase you might need to visit museums, talk to experts in the field; you will certainly have questions which need answering.
Remember, what will help you most is the telling detail. You don't need screeds and screeds of background information - the means to an end, not an end in itself -- but the vivid and selected use of detail will bring your story to life and give it added authenticity.
Once you have harvested all this information, the best thing you can do is to set it to one side. The process of writing a story is essentially reimagining your research - a strange alchemy by which time and imagination work on fact and turn it into fictional gold.
Monday, 13 August 2012
An Alphabet of Better Writing # Q
Q is for...Questions
There are loads of questions which, as a writer, you might ask yourself -- not least, what on earth am I doing this for? However, questions can be an extremely useful tool in helping you to tease out an idea and then fashion some kind of structure so you can turn it into a story.
Here's my list of twenty questions which might just get you started:
There are loads of questions which, as a writer, you might ask yourself -- not least, what on earth am I doing this for? However, questions can be an extremely useful tool in helping you to tease out an idea and then fashion some kind of structure so you can turn it into a story.
Here's my list of twenty questions which might just get you started:
- What is it about this idea that interests me?
- Why does it interest me?
- Does it interest me enough for me to want to spend years of my writing life working on it?
- Where can I find out information about my idea -- will it be easy to research?
- Do I have sufficient personal experience to draw upon to do justice to my idea?
- Is there a market for what I want to write?
- What genre will my book fall into?
- Has the idea had been done to death by other people?
- What can I bring to this idea that nobody else will have thought of?
- Will my protagonist be male or female?
- Will I tell the story in the first person or the third?
- Where will the story start?
- How much back story do I need and how do I introduce it?
- When is the story set?
- Am I going to use a past tense or the continuous present?
- Where is the story set?
- How much of the plot do I need to nail down in advance?
- Will I be able to cope if my story is rejected?
- Will I be able to cope if my story is accepted?
- And the really big question: what font shall I use?
Friday, 10 August 2012
An Alphabet Of Better Writing # P
P is for...Past
William Faulkner offers this brilliant thought about the past: "The past is never dead. It is not even past."
Wow! When my brother sent me this (thanks Tom) it set all kinds of trip wires firing in my brain: how it is impossible to dissociate yourself from what has happened to you, how your experience shapes and informs the person that you are, how enriched the present moment is by the archaeology of what has gone before. The past is already an incredibly fertile terrain for a writer, but the notion that it is a living, breathing entity which closely shadows the present opens up new possibilities; it seems to do so for me, at least.
Without getting too metaphysical, the literary potential of viewing the past as an alternative version of the here and now is intriguing, not least because it makes the use of flashback less of a convenient plotting device and more or a narrative trajectory in its own right. Breathing life into the past, into memory, is akin to breathing life into the imagination itself. Does the past not die because we are for ever condemned to repeat the mistakes we made in it? Is it difficult to extinguish the past because we are unable to obliterate love that we have felt before? Is it a blessing or a curse that the past is such a potent force? Is it a blessing and a curse? Would you want to be free of your past if you could? Thinking about the proximity of the past makes me ask all of these questions, and I suspect that each and any one of them would be an excellent starting point for a novel, and used in combination, might lead to a rich and complex storyline.
In your writing life, be sure to think of ways in which what has gone before can add lustre and resonance to what is happening now; listen out for echoes. I think you'll find that the shadows cast by the past will add definition and texture to the bright light of the present-day.
William Faulkner offers this brilliant thought about the past: "The past is never dead. It is not even past."
Wow! When my brother sent me this (thanks Tom) it set all kinds of trip wires firing in my brain: how it is impossible to dissociate yourself from what has happened to you, how your experience shapes and informs the person that you are, how enriched the present moment is by the archaeology of what has gone before. The past is already an incredibly fertile terrain for a writer, but the notion that it is a living, breathing entity which closely shadows the present opens up new possibilities; it seems to do so for me, at least.
Without getting too metaphysical, the literary potential of viewing the past as an alternative version of the here and now is intriguing, not least because it makes the use of flashback less of a convenient plotting device and more or a narrative trajectory in its own right. Breathing life into the past, into memory, is akin to breathing life into the imagination itself. Does the past not die because we are for ever condemned to repeat the mistakes we made in it? Is it difficult to extinguish the past because we are unable to obliterate love that we have felt before? Is it a blessing or a curse that the past is such a potent force? Is it a blessing and a curse? Would you want to be free of your past if you could? Thinking about the proximity of the past makes me ask all of these questions, and I suspect that each and any one of them would be an excellent starting point for a novel, and used in combination, might lead to a rich and complex storyline.
In your writing life, be sure to think of ways in which what has gone before can add lustre and resonance to what is happening now; listen out for echoes. I think you'll find that the shadows cast by the past will add definition and texture to the bright light of the present-day.
Wednesday, 8 August 2012
An Alphabet of Better Writing # O
O is for...Originality
Some people claim that there are only seven basic plots, or four, or that all the great stories have been written and that the novel is dead in any case. If you listen to all of that, you may as well put your pencil back in its case/shut down your computer right now. All is not lost, however: in the words of jazz musicians Melvyn Oliver and James Young, it ain't what you say, it's the way that you say it...
It's easy to tie yourself into literary knots in the quest for originality, straining after increasingly fantastical stories and more fractured and convoluted ways of telling them, but I suspect the answer may be simpler than that. What makes your work original is that it is written by you (this is also a potent argument against plagiarism -- just don't go there, unless you stringently and respectfully acknowledge your sources). What marks it out from the work of any other writer, is that you will have brought your own experience and vision of the world to bear upon the writing of it. French winemakers have a word for it: terroir. This is the effect that climate and geology have upon their precious grapes -- a pinot noir grown on one slope will be immeasurably different from one grown a little further down the field.
It's the same with writers. You will bring your experience of love, loss, betrayal, redemption, or any of the endlessly engrossing themes of literature to bear upon the story you are telling. Your insight into the workings of jealousy will be different from mine, the story you will write about it will be a world apart from the one I might attempt.
If originality is something which exercises you, then rather than groping for new stories to tell, you could use your time much more productively in developing your own voice. This is a process of distillation that involves drafting and redrafting -- an Olympian authorial fitness plan of editing, reading, listening and thinking. There's plenty of precedent for telling old stories in a new way -- think Chaucer, think Shakespeare, get writing...
Some people claim that there are only seven basic plots, or four, or that all the great stories have been written and that the novel is dead in any case. If you listen to all of that, you may as well put your pencil back in its case/shut down your computer right now. All is not lost, however: in the words of jazz musicians Melvyn Oliver and James Young, it ain't what you say, it's the way that you say it...
It's easy to tie yourself into literary knots in the quest for originality, straining after increasingly fantastical stories and more fractured and convoluted ways of telling them, but I suspect the answer may be simpler than that. What makes your work original is that it is written by you (this is also a potent argument against plagiarism -- just don't go there, unless you stringently and respectfully acknowledge your sources). What marks it out from the work of any other writer, is that you will have brought your own experience and vision of the world to bear upon the writing of it. French winemakers have a word for it: terroir. This is the effect that climate and geology have upon their precious grapes -- a pinot noir grown on one slope will be immeasurably different from one grown a little further down the field.
It's the same with writers. You will bring your experience of love, loss, betrayal, redemption, or any of the endlessly engrossing themes of literature to bear upon the story you are telling. Your insight into the workings of jealousy will be different from mine, the story you will write about it will be a world apart from the one I might attempt.
If originality is something which exercises you, then rather than groping for new stories to tell, you could use your time much more productively in developing your own voice. This is a process of distillation that involves drafting and redrafting -- an Olympian authorial fitness plan of editing, reading, listening and thinking. There's plenty of precedent for telling old stories in a new way -- think Chaucer, think Shakespeare, get writing...
Monday, 6 August 2012
An Alphabet of Better Writing # N
N is for...Nemesis
In ancient Greece the goddess Nemesis got the brief for dishing out justifiable punishment. If lesser mortals started showing signs of arrogance (hubris), she'd be on their case delivering retribution before you could say lightning bolt ( Usain! Usain! 9.63 seconds, OMG).
As readers, we certainly like to see villains getting their comeuppance. In order to be sure of our place in the world we need to feel that, generally speaking, justice is meted out, the good get rewarded and the bad are punished. It makes us feel secure and, perish the thought, sometimes self-righteous (which would bring about nemesis -- round and round and round we go.)
However, it needn't be just the villains who have to face their nemesis. When you are breathing life into your protagonist and constructing a plot that will thoroughly test their mettle, remember that in classical literature every hero had a tragic flaw, something which contributed to their downfall. While you may not want to punish your hero in the way in the way that Sophocles punished Oedipus, you might find that putting them through the mill, setting them off on a steep learning curve so that they emerge at the end of the story wiser and more rounded, can be a satisfying experience for all concerned.
So, don't neglect nemesis when you are planning your work - make sure that the villains get their just deserts, but don't be afraid of twisting the knife into the good guy too, just a little, because as the great Kahlil Gibran observed, pain is the shell that encloses understanding...
It's Monday morning, Team GB is third in the Olympics medal table, it must be time for another door...
In ancient Greece the goddess Nemesis got the brief for dishing out justifiable punishment. If lesser mortals started showing signs of arrogance (hubris), she'd be on their case delivering retribution before you could say lightning bolt ( Usain! Usain! 9.63 seconds, OMG).
As readers, we certainly like to see villains getting their comeuppance. In order to be sure of our place in the world we need to feel that, generally speaking, justice is meted out, the good get rewarded and the bad are punished. It makes us feel secure and, perish the thought, sometimes self-righteous (which would bring about nemesis -- round and round and round we go.)
However, it needn't be just the villains who have to face their nemesis. When you are breathing life into your protagonist and constructing a plot that will thoroughly test their mettle, remember that in classical literature every hero had a tragic flaw, something which contributed to their downfall. While you may not want to punish your hero in the way in the way that Sophocles punished Oedipus, you might find that putting them through the mill, setting them off on a steep learning curve so that they emerge at the end of the story wiser and more rounded, can be a satisfying experience for all concerned.
So, don't neglect nemesis when you are planning your work - make sure that the villains get their just deserts, but don't be afraid of twisting the knife into the good guy too, just a little, because as the great Kahlil Gibran observed, pain is the shell that encloses understanding...
It's Monday morning, Team GB is third in the Olympics medal table, it must be time for another door...
Friday, 3 August 2012
An Alphabet of Better Writing # M
M is for...Message
As a writer, your first obligation to your reader is to tell them a cracking story, of course it is, and for many writers -- and readers -- that is sufficient in itself. Focusing on the events of the narrative: this happened and then crikey! this happened as well, will make your reader want to devour your story, but the overall experience will be closer to eating fast food than a beautifully prepared three course meal. You run the risk that your book may be scoffed (or worse still, scoffed at) and then discarded.
There are a number of things that you can do to make your reader want to linger a little longer. You can add various layers and textures to your work by thinking not just about what you write but how you write it, making sure that your prose is equal to your plot and to your protagonists. But in this world of added value, it might be an idea to think about the overall message you want to convey as well.
For example, a novel might explore the scenario whereby a man sleeps with his brother's wife, dwelling on the process of seduction, the act of infidelity, the aftermath, and no doubt it would make an interesting read, but if you don't, as a writer, at least reflect on the nature of loyalty and its opposite, betrayal; if you don't delve into the seething insecurities of sibling rivalry, in fact, if you don't have something to say about the nature of love, be it sexual or fraternal, then your work may ultimately seem inconsequential and unsatisfying.
As a writer, I know the subjects which interest me: the ambivalent undercurrents of family life, how people's actions fall short of their aspirations, the nature of reconciliation and forgiveness, and I'm constantly on the lookout for interesting situations that will give me scope to examine them further. In other words, what I want to write about always comes first, the novel is, in part a vehicle for ideas. If I were teaching maths, I'd put it something like this:
How quadratic is that??
As a writer, your first obligation to your reader is to tell them a cracking story, of course it is, and for many writers -- and readers -- that is sufficient in itself. Focusing on the events of the narrative: this happened and then crikey! this happened as well, will make your reader want to devour your story, but the overall experience will be closer to eating fast food than a beautifully prepared three course meal. You run the risk that your book may be scoffed (or worse still, scoffed at) and then discarded.
There are a number of things that you can do to make your reader want to linger a little longer. You can add various layers and textures to your work by thinking not just about what you write but how you write it, making sure that your prose is equal to your plot and to your protagonists. But in this world of added value, it might be an idea to think about the overall message you want to convey as well.
For example, a novel might explore the scenario whereby a man sleeps with his brother's wife, dwelling on the process of seduction, the act of infidelity, the aftermath, and no doubt it would make an interesting read, but if you don't, as a writer, at least reflect on the nature of loyalty and its opposite, betrayal; if you don't delve into the seething insecurities of sibling rivalry, in fact, if you don't have something to say about the nature of love, be it sexual or fraternal, then your work may ultimately seem inconsequential and unsatisfying.
As a writer, I know the subjects which interest me: the ambivalent undercurrents of family life, how people's actions fall short of their aspirations, the nature of reconciliation and forgiveness, and I'm constantly on the lookout for interesting situations that will give me scope to examine them further. In other words, what I want to write about always comes first, the novel is, in part a vehicle for ideas. If I were teaching maths, I'd put it something like this:
theme > situation > plot + character = starting point.
How quadratic is that??
Wednesday, 1 August 2012
An Alphabet of Better Writing # L
L is for....Length
Length for length's sake is a dreadful indulgence in a fiction writer-- if you are wodging out your work to arrive at a notional number of words, be it eight hundred or eighty thousand, then you may be putting on unnecessary fat, when it is muscle that you are after. (It's easy to become hung up on word counts, like standing on the scales every day to check your weight. Try not to, not too often anyway, as you may end up with quantity rather than quality.)
Most books seem to have their own ideal mass -- if you do justice to the story, teasing out the nuances of the plot, conveying your themes in all their complexity, breathing sufficient life into the characters so that they function almost autonomously, then the length should more or less take care of itself. The notion that a thick book is better value for money, even if it persuades some publishers, seems crass to me -- think of the irresistible slenderness of Paul Gallico's novella The Snow Goose.
Having said all that, a while ago I bought an abridged copy of Les Miserables by Victor Hugo, feeling it was something I really should get round to reading, but lacking a little literary stamina. I didn't get past page twenty. I wasn't interested in the characters, I thought the narrative seemed thin and flat, I didn't want to waste my time. Then, seeing it free on Kindle, I bought the whole e-tome and I haven't been able to put it down since. I'm up to my neck in its lusciousness, its assurance, its humanity. It is written on a generous, expansive scale and all the words and scenes the abridger culled are more than worth the work involved in reading them.
The moral here? Write the story you want to write, to the best of your ability: size isn't everything.
Length for length's sake is a dreadful indulgence in a fiction writer-- if you are wodging out your work to arrive at a notional number of words, be it eight hundred or eighty thousand, then you may be putting on unnecessary fat, when it is muscle that you are after. (It's easy to become hung up on word counts, like standing on the scales every day to check your weight. Try not to, not too often anyway, as you may end up with quantity rather than quality.)
Most books seem to have their own ideal mass -- if you do justice to the story, teasing out the nuances of the plot, conveying your themes in all their complexity, breathing sufficient life into the characters so that they function almost autonomously, then the length should more or less take care of itself. The notion that a thick book is better value for money, even if it persuades some publishers, seems crass to me -- think of the irresistible slenderness of Paul Gallico's novella The Snow Goose.
Having said all that, a while ago I bought an abridged copy of Les Miserables by Victor Hugo, feeling it was something I really should get round to reading, but lacking a little literary stamina. I didn't get past page twenty. I wasn't interested in the characters, I thought the narrative seemed thin and flat, I didn't want to waste my time. Then, seeing it free on Kindle, I bought the whole e-tome and I haven't been able to put it down since. I'm up to my neck in its lusciousness, its assurance, its humanity. It is written on a generous, expansive scale and all the words and scenes the abridger culled are more than worth the work involved in reading them.
The moral here? Write the story you want to write, to the best of your ability: size isn't everything.
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