Category Archives: The Writing Life

A Crash Course on the Best and Worst Elements of Writing

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What an enlightening month November has been! If you ever wanted a crash course in what makes writing the best or the worst, this was it.

There is so much to learn about writing craft and storytelling from the masters yet we can learn equally from writing that doesn’t engage us. Deciding on the ‘best’ means we need to understand why we like what we do and what constitutes the best for each of us (Kristin Luna). It also means not disregarding other forms of fiction because the best stories use elements of both literary and commercial fiction and knowing how each works makes us better skilled writers (Susan Forest).

Elements in the best writing includes:
precision of word choice, great imagery and detail plus an author who gets right into his character’s heads (Clancy); a grasp on multi-sensory prose which like a dream, makes the fantastical normal and lifts the reader to a place of wonder (Brenda Sawatsky); cliffhangers and when multiple story lines crash together in a maelstrom of calamity at the end of a book (Evan); well executed diverse fiction that helps the reader understand the world we live in and cultivates respect (Kim May); story matters and being a good storyteller with proper pacing and resolutions is key, but before telling the story, think about how much you can tell us by each word, each sentence, and the beauty you strive for in bringing them together (Colette); it’s not just about the protagonist against the antagonist but about how every character interacts with every other character (Jace Sanders); heroes aren’t heroes all the time. They are just humans with something about them that is extraordinary, and the more flawed a character is, the more human they seem (Leigh Galbreath); the best writing has characters who strive for themselves along with sentences that soar on their own (James Van Pelt); successful prologues convey information without being an info dump and they promise a story/writing style upon which they deliver (Ace Jordyn); a consistent background which functions almost as another character, widening the options for the protagonist’s conflict along with psychological realism where characters behave consistently (Al Onia); the key to the ‘best’ has less to do with perfect prose, and more to do with story impact when what we’re writing matters, emotions rise up, and the reader can feel it (Adria Laycraft).

What constitutes the worst writing includes:
meandering prose that loses the reader and is boring and there’s no beginning, middle or end and no characters to invest in (Clancy); it’s a bad idea to mislead readers about what kind of story you are telling readers for pick up books because they’re hoping for a certain type of experience. (Mary); when writers grab hold of a culture’s cool elements—Samurai swords, martial arts, ninjas—and throw the rest out the window because the history, philosophy, sociology, and traditions are so intertwined and influential on the cool elements that you can’t separate the two and do it justice. (Kim May); it’s not possible to root for a guy who seems like a walking pity party or if the main character lacks any sense of wonder (James Van Pelt); prologues don’t work if they create expectations that the book doesn’t meet either in story content or style, if they’re an info dump or if they are used to foreshadow or tease (Ace Jordyn); when writers betray the promises set in the beginning of the book and shatter the reader’s bond with the story (Frank).

So how can we judge how we each measure up at being the best? We can compare our work to those we admire and like to read or, as Nathan Barra observed, we can learn by comparing our earlier works to our current ones and being motivated by that.

In case you want to follow up on any of the excellent points I’ve summarized, here is a list of November’s blogs. Just click on the title and the link will get you there.

Happy reading and writing!

Lee Child vs the Boring Clancy
Not What I Signed Up For Mary
The Dreamer Brenda Sawatzky
In Loving Appreciation of the Story Swirl Evan Braun
The Emperor and the Impostor Kim May
Kneeling in the Silver Light Mary
The Importance of Word Choice Colette
Learning from the Masters Jace Sanders
A Tale of Two Readers; or, Everybody Wins Kristin Luna
The Not So likeable Hero Leigh Galbreath
Pluck, Pity Parties and Prose – What I Like Best and What Doesn’t Work James Van Pelt
SSWS Writing Scholarship: Should YOU Apply?  Colette
Clive Cussler, Guy Gavriel Kay and DJ McIntosh are Masters at … Ace Jordyn
Writing What I Like to Read Al Onia
Writing Stories that Matter Adria Laycraft
Looking for Progress in a Mirror Nathan Barra
Don’t Break Your Promises Frank
Using the Tools of Both Literary and Commercial Fiction Susan Forest

 

 

 

 

Using the Tools of Both Literary and Commercial Fiction

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A guest post by Susan Forest.

Have you noticed that readers and writers different genres of fiction can sometimes have very different approaches to story? At times readers and writers of literary fiction, and readers and writers of commercial fiction can seem to exist in very separate worlds, each knowing little about the other. As a writer who approaches my work from a commercial sensibility, I have been wrestling with this dichotomy, and over the past few years have come up with a framework that helps me with this struggle.

Two of my biggest inspirations in this struggle are Nancy Kress and Donald Maass. Nancy points out that work in any genre can be written in a more literary style or a more commercial style–or anywhere in between. For instance, although one tends to think of the genre of science fiction as primarily commercial, Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake has a literary sensibility. In his 2012 book, Writing 21st Century Fiction, Donald Maass points out that the most successful books have elements typical of both commercial and literary fiction.

Neither style is better: it is the reader’s expectation that determines whether a book will be successful in its market. If a book is written from a more commercial sensibility, a reader who prefers a literary style may find the book confusing, exhausting and too focussed on external conflicts; If a book is written from a more literary sensibility, and reader who prefers a commercial style may find the book boring and too focussed on internal conflicts. Knowing some of the hallmarks of each style can help a writer to select those techniques that suit his or her purposes.

Commercial fiction, at least in the current market, often is centred on the character’s voice; in literary fiction, there is more room for the author’s voice to be heard. Commercial fiction is often fast-paced: the page-turning novel. Literary fiction may take more time to linger in beautiful imagery, to set place and era, or to develop background.

Commercial stories rely on characters who are active agents: who are impelled to take action to resolve their problems, and who are often sympathetic to the reader–or at least have human qualities that allow the reader to understand him or her, and therefore develop the desire to follow him or her. Literary characters may have more freedom to be reactive to their environments, or to have very complex and not always appealing qualities.

The point of view in a commercial story is frequently either first or third person, limited, with changes of point of view occurring only at scene or chapter breaks; readers of literary fiction are often more tolerant toward the omniscient narrator, and even to “hopping” from head to head within a scene.

Commercial fiction is usually written in scenic form, much like a movie unfolding in real time with scene breaks that indicate jump-shifts in time and/or place. There is more room in literary fiction for narration.

Commercial stories often begin in media res: in the action of the story; whereas, literary stories might take the time to set the scene before launching into the story problem.

Readers of commercial fiction may expect certain conventions to be followed in a story, such as the try/fail cycle. A murder mystery without a murder, a romance without a love story, or a fantasy without magic would be a disappointment. Literary fiction can tolerate more experimental structures that do not rely as heavily on conventions.

On the whole, stories written for a commercial audience typically resolve the conflict at the end: the hero may win or lose, but the resolution of the story’s problem is clear. In literary fiction, resolution may not be the point: an opportunity for the reader to grapple with big questions and allow big ideas to resonate in his or her psyche might be the goal instead. An example is Hemingway’s short story, “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.” Here, a young waiter becomes impatient waiting for an old man to finish his wine and leave, because the waiter wants to go home and make love to his wife. The middle-aged waiter cautions the younger waiter to be patient. Eventually, the old man finishes his wine and leaves; the young waiter goes home and makes love to his wife; and the middle-aged waiter goes to a bar and thinks about life. The end. This ending clearly lacks resolution, but resolution was never the point. As Nancy Kress so eloquently said: the story is about death, and even Hemingway, with his ego, could not resolve, or have the final word, on death. Neither approach–resolution or resonance–is right or wrong, but the author’s choice depends on the reader’s expectations.

Naturally, there is no such thing as a “purely” literary story that has no action, resolution, driven characters, and so on; or a “purely” commercial story that has no internal conflict, authorial voice, unexpected twists, etc. All stories fall somewhere on the continuum between these extremes. Donald Maass would suggest that the best stories use elements of both. Understanding these elements and consciously choosing to include–or not–specific commercial and literary techniques in one’s story is part of the professional writer’s bag of tools.

Susan3Three-time Prix Aurora Award finalist, Susan Forest is a writer of science fiction, fantasy and horror, and a fiction editor for Edge Press. Her stories have appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Analog Science Fiction and Fact, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, OnSPEC Magazine, and The Urban Green Man, among others, and her collection of short fiction, Immunity to Strange Tales. Susan edits for Edge Press, teaches creative writing at the Alexandra Centre, and has appeared at numerous local and international writing conventions. Check her website at: www.speculative-fiction.ca.

Don’t Break Your Promises

Author's Perspective Craft & Skills Frank Morin Reflection Storyline The Writing Life 1 Comment

Break PromisesAs authors, we make lots of promises to our readers.  What genre is this book?  Is it going to be a fast-paced adventure or a slow, character-focused drama?  Is it funny, horrific, or simply entertaining?  We set the tone in the opening of the book and the reader picks up on those hints and sets certain expectations for what to expect.

Betraying those expectations shatters a reader’s bond with a story and leaves an angry residue, no matter how good other aspects of the story might have been.  This happens both in books and in movies.  Sometimes false expectations are set in movie trailers or book jackets as a marketing ploy to suck in a wider audience, but any short-term gains will be lost in the long run as people realize the trick.

One movie that did this to me was Cowboys vs Aliens.  The trailer made it look like an action comedy and I entered the theater with that expectation.  Some parts of the story were well done, but I kept waiting for the punchline that never came.  It wasn’t an action comedy.  It was more like an action horror movie.  Despite some quality acting and a halfway decent plotline, I left the theater feeling betrayed.

Another movie tried the same ploy.  The trailer showed a hilarious scene that made it clear, this movie was a comedy.  It wasn’t.  It was a terrible flick with no redeeming qualities.  Unlike some of those dumb comedies I remember fondly only because they made me laugh, this one was just dumb.  Another betrayal.

Books are worse though, because we invest so much more time in them.  A couple examples jump to mind.  One novel, by a well-known author, started as a very interesting fantasy adventure with high stakes and a hero in deep trouble.  I read on, drawn by the intrigue of how this hero could ever escape the predicament.  I was looking forward to being amazed by the character’s wit and cleverness in escaping certain death.

What a huge disappointment when the climactic showdown resolve itself without any of that.  The ‘magic’ saved them, the same magic that had been blocked in a thoroughly explained way that prevented it from coming to the rescue.  The lame excuse offered by the author was that the hero just figured it out and boom – the magic solved all their issues.

I’m a fan of great magic systems.  I read and write all types of fantasy, so magic is an integral part of many stories I love.  But this was a cop-out, a deception, a betrayal of the contract the author made with me as a reader.  Since then, I only ever started one other book by that author.  In that one too, I picked up on a different deception.  I put that book down unfinished, and that author lost me as a reader forever.

Is that harsh?  Maybe.  But it’s reality.

When we set expectations, we have to fulfill them.  We can’t take the easy way out.  If we set up our heroes with seemingly insurmountable obstacles, we’d better have an equally awesome solution.  The hero has to figure it out, often in a split-second flash of understanding as they put all the pieces together we’ve worked into the script.  We have as long as we need to figure it out and craft that moment so that readers exclaim in wonder at the hero’s creativity and then think, “Yeah, I can see how they figured that out, but that’s clever.  I get it now.”

If we can do that, we’ve got a winner and readers will come back to us again and again.

Because they know they can trust us to entertain.

Looking for Progress in a Mirror

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It is human nature to compare oneself to others, no matter how unfair that comparison is. I know that I have neither the productivity of Kevin J. Anderson, nor the skill to write the poetic prose of Guy Gavriel Kay, nor the ability to manage massive story lines and milieu like Brandon Sanderson. However, they are all professional writers with many years more experience than I have. Their skills represent goals, markers of achievement that I aspire to. Even looking to my friends who are closer in experience to myself isn’t an apt comparison. We are all different people and very different writers. Ultimately, their skills and successes have no direct impact on my own abilities. They are simply further down the road than I am. I have found that self-comparison is the only reliable and reasonable metric of progress.

As a writer advances through his/her career, growth occurs with every word and work written. I have often heard writers bemoan their old stories, talking about how they would do things differently given the chance. Though, I have written plenty of prose that has made me cringe later, I am more pleased than disgusted by the discovery. My ability to recognize flaws in my old work shows me better than any other metric my own growth as a storyteller.

The original introduction of my first completed novel is a perfect example. Because I largely discovery wrote that book, it took me two full years to complete. Now, I prefer to work in a more focused and deliberate manner, but that initial experience taught me a lot about my own style and craft. Naturally, my skill and tastes grew in that time. My more experienced eyes were able to see that a passage I had thought was filled with compelling characterization and evocative metaphors was little better than navel gazing. I redrafted that particular introduction half a dozen times, and each version was able to leverage my new skills and perspective. By comparing the initial and final drafts, I am able to clearly plot my own growth.

Though there have been times where I have made notes in a manuscript to rewrite or rework a passage during editing, I would not release a story into the wider world until it represented my best work. I have found that it is generally a good assumption that other writers have the same philosophy. What most non-writers have a hard time understanding is that it is almost impossible to track down and eliminate every error in a manuscript, especially since it passes through so many hands during the publishing process.

The way I see it, if I can recognize that some aspect of my old work is garbage, I must have come a long way from the time that I wrote it. Bonus points if I now understand why it is bad and how to fix it. Therefore, my own terrible prose is a marker of my progress as a writer. For me, that’s very motivating. Being a professional writer isn’t a game for those looking for short term benefit. Rather, writers must be continuously growing and learning. After a while, the trajectory of your skill matters more than the absolute value at any particular moment in your career.