Tag Archives: Tools

Git Er Dun: Using the Vernacular

One potentially powerful and useful tool to have in your toolbox is the ability to write in a certain vernacular that makes your characters memorable. Stylistic voicing has been successfully used by some great authors. Let’s take a look at those, and why they were successful.

 

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

One of the most memorable characters I can think of is Holden Caulfield. The Catcher in the Rye is a staple for coming-of-age readers. It’s my favorite book, in fact. Why? Why did this book resonate with me so much? No, it’s not because I’m

Well, are you?

a sociopath, as many critical readers think of Holden. I loved the book because it was real.

We understand that this is the first time Holden has ever truly spoken his mind, consequences be damned. And we get a front row seat! His raw vernacular often includes calling people “phonies” and using “goddamn” as a consistent adjective. This usage of stylistic voicing achieved a certain authenticity. Whether Holden was right or wrong about the other characters being phonies, we never question for a minute that Holden is completely convinced that they are.

 

Room by Emma Donoghue

The book Room is told by a 5-year-old boy, Jack, whose main education is the television. Why? Because he is a captive, along with his mother, locked in a shed for years. Jack’s stylistic voicing is so convincing, so well constructed, that the reader is completely enveloped into Jack’s world, where he has only known the Room. He has never been outside. He hasn’t received any sort of education, apart from the one his mother tries to give him, which makes his sentence construction short and plain. He only describes what he sees, not knowing exactly what certain things mean. But you, the reader, know exactly what it means. And it makes your stomach churn and your heart ache.

You may want to pick up Room to see an excellent example of emotional transport with a stylistic narrative voice. It should also be noted that some readers simply could not get past the stylistic voicing. That is one of the risks you take when choosing a stylistic narration, but the rewards can be BIG. Room won Emma Donoghue over ten prestigious awards for her effort and risk.

 

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain

Perhaps the most well-known example of using stylistic voice is Huck Finn. It was, in fact, the very first novel published to use American vernacular, or more specifically, regional dialect (an example:“Sometimes you gwyne to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you’s gwyne to git well agin.”). Huck is described as a pariah, son of the town drunk, and the other children wish they dared to be like him.  That’s one hellova introduction. If Samuel Clemens decided to write The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in third person, I venture to say everyone would hate Huck.  A bratty little kid, running around causing havoc. What Twain did so brilliantly was deciding to tell the story from Huck’s perspective, showing us the charm and charisma Huck has to offer, so we can’t help but love the little shit. Using stylistic voicing, Twain made us relate to an otherwise potentially annoying character.

 

You may have noticed that I chose all first-person novels, as well as young narrators. Can you think of any examples of stylistic voice using adults, told in third person? Was it as effective as a first-person stylistic voice?

If you’re on the edge about whether or not to write a character’s unique voicing, take heart. Mark Twain had never seen it before, but did it anyway. Emma Donoghue received some unkind reviews of Room because of her style choice, and probably cries about it in front of her wall full of awards. Just kidding. She doesn’t. And Holden Caulfield wouldn’t be one of the most notorious voices in literature if Salinger hadn’t let him. Tell your character’s story in the most authentic way possible, even if that includes letting him or her speak for him/herself.

 

Write a Short Story? I’d Rather Floss a Chicken’s Teeth!

Write a short story? I’d rather floss a chicken’s teeth! That’d be much easier.chicken3-240x240

I found myself facing that problem after writing six novels. I couldn’t wrap my head around a shorter piece of work. Everything I tried I sounded like an outline for a novel.

Books on outlining didn’t help. Workshops provided little insight. Critique groups, well, I could help someone to better tell their story, heck, I’d even edited an acclaimed anthology, but I couldn’t tell one myself.

How could I overcome this block?

The problem was, I needed a break from novel writing and I really wanted to know what eluded me about this form. I followed this four step process and I learned how to write a short story:

1) Read short stories, not novels. By reading short stories I learned what forms and genres I really liked and disliked. There’s no point in trying to write in a genre or with a style that doesn’t speak to you.

2) Choose a genre which speaks to you. For example, I love some literary style authors and I love science fiction stories. Literary style I can read but I can’t figure out the voice. With science fiction I understand the voice and the genre, but I’m not as adept as I’d like to be with the science. Hence, I don’t have the confidence to write it. How did I learn this about myself? Check out point number three …

3) Retell the stories that interest you. Be aware of style, plot, character and tropes common to the genre. That’s how I figured out if I had the desire, the passion to write certain stories. When I retold a story, I paid close attention to the plot and how it unfolded. I had to be aware of the tropes. Most importantly, I had to feel the voice and I had to feel the passion for the genre. Once you’ve discovered what stories energize and excite you, the final step is easy.

4) Now, write an original story in the genre and voice that excites you.

That’s it. It’s that easy.

Should you publish or submit a retold story? That’s another matter. Issues of public domain arise and rightly so. Some stories I deleted because my intent was only to learn from them. Others, even if there are no public domain issues, may be published in the future but with full disclosure as to the source of inspiration.

Where did I finally find my voice? With fables and fairy tales and people’s stories of old. I love it. The most curious thing I learned was that it wasn’t about setting for me for I’ve set my stories in worlds of fantasy, science fiction, and yes, there’s even a literary one or two! My real journey was to find my story telling voice.

The cheat of the matter was this: later on, I recognized that my writing voice had always been with me. I had heard it, felt it even and I had tried to squeeze it into forms and stories that didn’t suit it. That was the heart of the problem. That is the heart of this journey – to hear the voice within you and to find the form that fits it.

A Crash Course on the Best and Worst Elements of Writing

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

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.