Category Archives: The Writing Life

I Write For Money–Except When I Don’t

 

Money flows to the writer.

It’s a great rule, created to help new writers from being taken in by scam publishers who make their money by demanding payments from authors rather than from selling books to readers.

When I first began submitting my work, I made a deal with myself:  I was submitting only to markets that paid up front.  I wasn’t going to settle for “exposure in lieu of payment.”  If I wanted “exposure” I could post my stories on my tumblr.  I wanted to see cash up front.  And I wasn’t going to fill my garage with hundreds of copies of my books that would then be up to me to sell.

For the most part, this is a good rule and it’s served me well.  It’s a great feeling to be able to buy things and pay bills with the money I make from my writing.

But I’ve broken this rule a few times with short story anthologies, and I still feel good about it.  Here’s why.

 

Charity anthology 

I gave a short story to an anthology in support of animal welfare.  I give cash to the Humane Society, so I was also willing to give a story in lieu of cash, in support of a worthwhile cause.

Similarly, some of my writer friends have donated copies of their books or anthologies they are in from their stock (see below) to silent auctions and other fundraisers.  Although they’re out the cost of the book, they’ve increased visibility for their work and contributed to a good cause.

As with cash donations, writers need to strike a sustainable balance for giving away stories or hard copies.  You will need to decide for yourself how often you’re willing (or able) to give away your work for free.  If you’re gaining exposure in a way that counts–for example, appearing in a charity anthology with some big-name authors–or if you feel strongly about the cause you’re fundraising for, it’s worth doing this sometimes.

 

Payment in royalties

Payment in royalties is a gamble.  If the anthology sells well, I stand to make more than I might if I’d simply sold the story for a flat fee.  If it doesn’t, though, I risk seeing little if any return on those first publication rights.

The first time I took this gamble, I had a story that was shorter than my usual work.  It had been sitting on my hard drive for the better part of a year and I’d been having trouble thinking of where I might place it.  I finally found the perfect anthology call, but it paid only in royalties.  I decided to take the gamble.  It was accepted.  Currently, I’m still a little short of what I’d like to have sold it for, but the anthology is still in publication, meaning I will hopefully be seeing more royalties in the future.

Royalties are a lot more common when you’re writing in longer forms.   My first novella (written under a pseudonym) also pays entirely in royalties, so I’m waiting to see whether I get more, or less, than I would’ve gotten if I’d cut it down to anthology length and sold it to an anthology for a single up-front payment.

 

Stocking your work

On occasion I’ve paid more than I’ve earned getting extra copies of the anthologies my work appears in.  The first time, I looked at that box of books and my empty wallet and winced a little.  In the end, though, having a few copies on hand has proven to be worth the investment.

Earlier this year, I participated in an author launch and came away with cash in hand—even after giving copies to the event organizer, my fellow authors, and our fearless sales-table staffer.  I also attended Ad Astra convention in Toronto and sold enough books to pay for my food and travel expenses, making the con much more affordable.  The launch party and the convention gave me the ability to promote my work to a wider audience, something I couldn’t have done as easily without stock on hand to sell.

Another factor is when acquaintances, co-workers and party guests ask me:  oh, you’re a writer?  Can I see your work?  I’ve gotten my anthologies into a number of hands just by saying:  yes, I have some copies on hand, this one is $15…

So how much stock should you have?  I’ve had authors recommending five copies of each work as their ideal stock number.  Other factors to consider include how much money you can afford up front, how much space you have to store stock, how many anthologies you’re in, and how marketable each book is (for example, in-person I attend more sci-fi events than romance events, so I stock more of my sci-fi themed work.)  I also find that I get better shipping prices on 10-20 books than I do on 5; fortunately, I have family and friends who lay claim to most of the difference, which helps to keep my first stock shipment affordable.

 

Writing for fun

I enjoy online role playing, fan fiction, talking about themes in my favourite comics, and other kinds of writing that don’t pay me money.  I’ve scrutinized my hobbies to avoid wasting time I could spend on paying writing, and have decided that if I accomplish my professional writing goals, I am just as entitled to spend my relaxation time on role playing as on video games, crafts or any other form of entertainment.  Sometimes, when I’ve edited a story for the tenth time or a conclusion just isn’t coming together or I’ve received a disappointing rejection, I feel that I hate writing, and ask myself why I’m doing this.  And then I hammer out a goofy little fan-fic, fall in love with my craft all over again, and the next morning feel inspired when I return to my original work.

Fiction Faux Pas

A guest post by Marta Sprout.

You know the feeling. You, the writer of a magnificent novel, stare at yet another rejection notice, which you promptly shred into confetti and promise to use as tinder in your fireplace the next time the wind-chill sags below freezing.

So what’s wrong? Why can’t editors and agents see the brilliance of your story? The simple answer might be fiction faux pas. Here are a few of the red flags that make editors roll their eyes and grab for that nasty form letter faster than you type nope:

  • The overuse of names in dialog.
  • Dialog tags that go beyond said or asked.
  • Too many modifying adverbs.
  • Holy Moly! There be too many exclamation points here!!!!!!

You work hard to tell a ripping good tale and to present exciting dialog. Knowing what not to do is only part of the equation. What we need is to understand why something doesn’t work and how to fix it. Let’s take a look at what works and what doesn’t:

What would you think if you read a line of dialog that went something like this…

“Enough, Rebecca!!!” he yelled, angrily.

Oh good grief…Referee flags are flying like a brawl on the goal line. Let’s look closer.

There is nothing wrong with using names in dialog, unless you go overboard and make your characters sound stilted and awkward.

“Ben, I can’t stay here any longer.”

“Well, why not, Sarah?”

“Because, Ben, this is where it happened.” (Bum, bum, bum…bum)

The overuse of names can easily sound like newbie theater students trying to be uber-dramatic or like characters telling each other what they already know for the sake of the reader’s enlightenment.

“Well, Elizabeth. We’ve been married for twenty years and have three fine sons.”

(I’m thinking Lizzy already knows this.)

Another reason too many names don’t work is because they act like speed bumps and interrupt the flow of the conversation. Never interrupt dialog unless three guys with machine guns show up.

What about those modifying adverbs? On page 673 of Under the Dome Stephen King wrote:  “Glinda,” the girl said faintly.  If he can do it, why can’t you? Beyond the fact that he has sold over 350 million copies, even he uses modifying adverbs very sparingly. Verbal exchanges pop NOT when you tell the reader that she spoke angrily, boldly, emphatically, hesitantly, sadly, or joyously, but when you put the full force of those EMOTIONS into her words. Compare these lines:

  1. “You don’t listen,” she said angrily.
  2. “What is wrong with you? You never listen to me,” she said.
  3. Sarah smacked the silverware drawer shut. “What’s wrong with you? You never listen to me.”

In the first line, can you see how the character’s voice is so flat that the author has to tell us the character’s emotional state? The second line is better. We don’t need to be told that she’s hacked off because we can hear the anger rippling in her voice. In the third version, we are getting the emotion in her voice and we see and hear the snap of her gestures when she slams the drawer shut. The point here is that great dialog oozes action, emotions, and your characters’ own distinctive voices. Remember that in any conversation there are two expressions happening simultaneously: the verbal exchange and the body language, which can be even more telling. For example:

Richard launched out of his seat, towering over Sarah. “Do you love me?”

She stared at her lap and continued picking at her red nail polish.

“Answer the damned question.”

Sarah slouched in her seat and yawned. “Yeah,” she said without looking up.

Is Richard going to believe her? Not likely with that body language.

What about alternative dialog tags such as: he screamed, yelled, offered, replied, commented, snorted, bellowed, whimpered, etc? Here’s where the problem lies. Remember that some conventions in writing are done purely for the sake of clarification:

I love eating my dog and my grandmother (yuck) vs. I love eating, my dog, and my grandmother.

Like punctuation, dialog tags are purely for clarity and are meant to be invisible. They aren’t part of the dialog nor are they prose. To avoid repetition it makes sense that we’d be tempted to use something other than said. But trust me on this one, a reader’s eye will glide right over said and asked and remain focused right where you want it–on the conversation.

So, does that mean you will never see “he screamed” in the work of a bestselling author? Nope.

On page 180 of Tripwire, Lee Child wrote:  “Get down,” Reacher shouted. If Lee Child can use these type of tags, why can’t you? You can, just do it in moderation and only when nothing else will do. Hint: they work best when showing a voice’s volume.

Speaking of punctuation. Exclamation points work only in extreme situations of utter desperation. Not so much when they crop up in every other line of dialog! Sometimes in multiples!!!!! Unless you write wonderful comic books, use them like hot Sriracha sauce–only when the situation requires a fierce punch. Remember those editors, whom you are trying to impress? They see the liberal use of exclamation points as sure signs of an amateur, which you’re not.

Writing is much more than a list of rules. It’s an art form. You can write anything–if it works.  Language is fluid. Ever-changing. There was a time when we didn’t use punctuation or standardized spelling.  Word usage evolves. If I had called you nice in 1285, you would have slapped me for calling you stupid. Back in the day of movies such as The Sound of Music, gay meant light-hearted or carefree. Lite is commonly used for the word light. Any form of written language from novels to nonfiction, blurbs to bumper stickers will BTW continue to change. The trick for a novelist is to tell a story that people will remember.

Good luck and keep writing.

 

About Marta Sprout:martasprout

Marta Sprout is an award-winning author. The Saturday Evening Post published her short story, The Latte Alliance, in their anthology “Best Short Stories of 2014 from The Great American Fiction Contest.” Her essays and articles have been published in newspapers and major magazines such as Antiques Magazine. Known for her thrillers, Marta writes full time, assists the Corpus Christi Police Department on crime-scene scenarios, and enjoys kiteboarding, scuba diving, and snow skiing.

Info-dumping

A guest post by Doug Dandridge.

Rule of Writing:  Thou Shalt Avoid Info-dumps.

I remember when I first started writing and saw this rule, along with some gut busting examples, such as the “As you know” cliché.  You know, the conversation between people who both know what the information is, like “as you know, Fred, the matter-antimatter engines work when the two substances annihilate each other, releasing energy.”  This conversation is on the face of it nothing more than an attempt to let the reader know how the engines create energy, and is a dialogue that would never really occur between two engineers.  The suggested method was to work the information into the story, such as:

“We’re getting an energy spike,” said Fred.  “Turn down the antimatter feed.”

The rule works well in most cases, as you can get the background out there without boring or unrealistic conversations, or, even worse in the perception of the rule makers, the long essay that interrupts the story. But is it always necessary to do such?  Why not just put it out there?

Not to name names, but there are successful writers out there who info-dump throughout their stories, and they sell lots of stories to lots of fans, in bestselling numbers.  I have heard it said of one of these writers that he can get away with it because he is, well, who he is. I tend to agree to that, to a point.

In the first four books of my Exodus series I took great pains to avoid info-dumps, working in scenes that really had little purpose but to get information about background or tech out there for the reader.  With book five I started doing some info-dumps of my own, only a short paragraph here and there, and heard nothing negative back from my fans.

Now, as a military science fiction writer, I have many scenes in my books that are narrative only, though filled with action. Missiles flying through space don’t have viewpoints. It seems to make more sense writing in narrative in these circumstances, maybe interspersing some viewpoints of the people on-board to get the emotional impact.

As I have continued developing I have actually expanded my info-dumps, though I still try to keep them in the here and now.  For example, from my latest book:

 

The heightened luminosity of the star, millions of times normal, would continue to shine through the system for months, first increasing over several weeks, then dropping off.  The remaining mass of the stellar body, still over five times that of Sol, first moved out with the explosion, then fell back in as gravity re-exerted its force.  It heated up to millions of degrees as the pressure increased to almost unbelievable levels, slowing the collapse.  But collapse was inevitable, and the matter continued to press inward, first turning the five Sol mass into a ball of neutrons that would normally be the ultimate fate of matter, there being no space between the particles to speak of.  This mass was fated to an even more bizarre end, as it crushed past the neutron stage and continued to collapse, gravity rising to the point where even light no longer possessed the velocity to escape.  The mass pinched off from the universe into a self-contained bubble of space-time, and a new black hole was born.

 

Another way to info-dump is with an opening passage.  In my story, Goliath, which appeared in Kevin J Anderson’s Five By Five Three, I open the story (at the suggestion of Kevin) with a long passage filling in the details of the conflict the story takes place in.  One reviewer commented that it seemed like the opening of a Star Wars movie (just as Kevin said), and was effective in that it made way for the rest of the story to concentrate on the action.

Like most rules of writing, eschewing info-dumps should be taken as a suggestion, not as an absolute. I, too, get bored as hell reading three complete pages about some kind of industry that leads into yet another info-dump about some related topic. I turn into a skimmer at that point, trying to fight through the passage to get back to the enjoyment. But they still have their place, if done properly. Which means not in page after page of basically technical babble, but judicious narrative that fills in the informational gaps in the story. Too many stories devolve into bouts of pure confusion as action takes place and conversation advances, and no reader has enough background information to guess what is actually going on. The story becomes an author-written intelligence test, seeking to prove the puzzle solving ability of the reader. At that point the story had ceased to be enjoyment, ceased to become escape. And those are the stories that people don’t want to spend their time and money on.

 

11022903_860155284027899_98329783_n About Doug Dandridge:

Doug Dandridge is a Florida native, Army veteran and ex-professional college student who spent way too much time in the halls of academia.  He has worked as a psychotherapist, drug counselor, and, most recently, for the Florida Department of Children and Families.  An early reader of Heinlein, Howard, Moorcock and Asimov, he has always had a love for the fantastic in books ad movies.  Doug started submitting science fiction and fantasy in 1997 and collected over fur hundred rejection letters.  In December of 2011 he put up his first self-publishing efforts online.  Since then he had sold over 100,000 copies of his work, and has ranked in the top five on Amazon Space Opera and Military Science Fiction multiple times.  He quit his day job in March 2013, and has since made a successful career as a self-published author.

Shifting Tense

Bakker_EyeConsistency is one of the great universally desirable qualities. Think how many times in your life you’ve heard a variant on the phrase “pick an approach and be consistent.” Your leadership style at work? Be consistent. Parenting? Be consistent. In your wacky fantasy world where swords use people as weapons in duels? Hey, as long as it’s internally consistent, you can probably make it work.

And there’s one law of writing consistency few will challenge, the consistency of tense within a given story. Whether an author prefers third or first person, multiple protagonists or just one, they will generally pick either present or past tense and stick with it. And it makes sense to do so. The story’s tense is one of those bedrock elements of a story, so integral that people won’t even notice when it is done properly. But have you ever seen a piece of writing, maybe at work, where the author had trouble sticking to one tense? It’s jarring, right? It screams “bad writing” at you in every way.

But there are ways to make a tense switch work, particularly when your goal is highlighting the inner world of a character. Sometimes you might want to jar the reader and force them to notice the scaffolding of words the story is built upon.

R. Scott Bakker writes primarily epic fantasy in the “grimdark” model. His major work, The Second Apocalypse, is made up of a pair of trilogies, The Prince of Nothing and The Aspect Emperor. Early in The Judging Eye, volume one of The Aspect Emperor, a character named Mimara is introduced as a major POV. Mimara shares major POV duties with three other characters. But while the rest of the POVs (and all the POVs in the first trilogy) are told in past tense, Mimara’s sections are relayed exclusively in present tense.

It’s incredibly jarring the first time you encounter it, and I’ll be honest when I say that I didn’t like the choice initially. It made Mimara’s sections seem as if they came from a different book entirely, which is the big danger in switching tense.

But the further into the series I’ve read, the more I like the decision. While all of Bakker’s characters are haunted by tragic pasts, Mimara’s story is singularly tragic. Sold into slavery as a child, Mimara spent most of her life utterly devoid of hope. Finally free from that slavery in the time of the books, she now does everything she can not to dwell in the past she’s left behind. When I got to thinking about it that way, she was a character who’d never had a future and who dares not dwell in her past. Writing her in the present tense started to seem like the only thing that would make sense.

The choice gives Mimara’s sections an immediacy the other POVs lack. She possesses a lifetime of hard-won instincts attuned to detect the slightest hints of danger, so she is constantly on the lookout for threats to her freedom. Present tense also serves to highlight the mental scarring her past has left her, giving her inner voice a frenzied quality lacked by the other POVs with their more stately past tense voice. Lastly, the choice serves to underline her inherent isolation. For when it turns out she possesses an ability unique in the series else she becomes a character even more apart from the world she lives in.

Whether or not all this was the author’s mindset when he made the choice to go with present tense, I can’t say. But it made me think more about the character and what he was trying to say about her, and so I would call the experiment a success.

It helps that the tense shift was used in a controlled fashion. There is no shifting of tense within the same Mimara’s sections, and since the books are written in third-person limited, there is no shifting of POV within the same section. That’s the internal consistency thing I mentioned back at the top of the post. This demonstrates to the reader that “hey, I’m not doing this because I don’t know how to write, I’m doing this deliberately so maybe you should stop and consider why.”

This example remains the exception and not the rule, and that’s all to the good I think. Shifting tenses within stories remains a technique that should be approached with extreme care. There are more ways to do it wrong than right. But, handled properly, the shocking nature of the shift itself can be used to powerful effect.