Confession time!

I totally use a thesaurus. Even while drafting. If I’m repeating a word too much and I just know there’s an easy synonym (it’s that tip-of-the-tongue syndrome!), words that are so quick and easy that they’re in the standard word processor thesaurus, I look them up. And if you’ve got a good thesaurus, it’s fun to gambol in the Word Nerd-ery sometimes.

But I’ve also seen thesaurus use gone bad, and I’ve learned the hard way that the thesaurus isn’t always your friend. (Seriously, scarred for life. I was like 11 and it’s so embarrassing, I still can’t share it.)

Thesauruses: the good, the bad and the ugly

With my affection for thesauruses, I was excited to read Arthur Plotnik’s Spunk & Bite [affiliate link] chapter reveling in thesauruses. He gives some excellent tips on using thesauruses wisely:

• Understand Roget’s’ possibilities. Use a thesaurus to
  • discover more fitting or more forceful words;
  • find those good words you can’t quite recall [hello!];
  • avoid repetition of words [oh yeah];
  • escape clichés and worn modifiers;
  • help describe the so-called indescribable;
  • refine your intended meanings (via related concepts); and
  • simply luxuriate in the plenitude of language.
• But understand Roget’s‘ limits
• Before embracing an unfamiliar word, look up its definition and usage in a good dictionary.
• Don’t fish in the categories, swim in them.
• Don’t grab all the words that fit.
• Search your brain as well. [He recommends flipping to a section that has nothing to do with the subject at hand, like describing light using words from the "Violence" section: savage, brutal, etc.]
• Use new and/or older editions.
• Take chances.

(77-78)

What’s my favorite thesaurus? I happened to find an Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus [affiliate link] at a local thrift store (I agonized over the $3, but it’s so worth it!). It’s got fun little asides by famous authors for some of the words, fantastic breadth—I love this thing.

Of course, we all know the difference between the right word and the wrong word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug—and thesauruses alone can’t tell us if a word is truly the right one. But relying on Plotnik’s tips is one good way to make sure we get a good start from thesauruses.

The Naming of Things
Plotnik also recommends another way to find the perfect word: finding the right name for things. Visual dictionaries and word lists are the best tools for these things, with terminology for very specific things arranged by subject. If you need to set a scene or use industry-specific terms, check out one of these resources that Plotnik recommends:

• Random House Webster’s Word Menu
• Descriptionary: A Thematic Dictionary
• The Describer’s Dictionary: A Treasury of Terms & Literary Quotations
• The Firefly Visual Dictionary

The “Right” Word
But as with thesauruses, just knowing the “right” word doesn’t necessary make it the right word (tautology FTW!). When we look up an obscure term for our research in our setting, it might be right in the sense that it describes it accurately—but even if it’s right in that sense, if your audience doesn’t know the term, it won’t help them visualize it. Then is it “right”?

In a day of instant information, readers really do put down books to look stuff up. I even documented a time I did that here on the blog: a novel I was reading named an obscure medical device, as if that would be enough for us to picture it being used as a weapon. It was not, I opined, the right word because I couldn’t visualize the pivotal weapon throughout the scene and, frustrated, put the book down to hop on the Internet. (And being me, it was some time before I got back to it, most likely.)

As a writer, I went through this with the word “inveigle” in one manuscript (okay, since we’re confessing: I’ve been through it a lot in pretty much every manuscript, but this is one of my stories). I found it in a thesaurus and the definition looked right.

I decided to ignore the fact that pretty much everyone I had read it—intelligent, college-educated people who really like me—tripped over that word and pointed it out. It was Capital-R-Right and nobody was going to convince me otherwise. After all, isn’t reading how we grow our vocabularies? Didn’t I see, like, one blog comment once where someone said they liked a book to teach them some new words??

If the logic sounds tenuous, it was. Finally, after yet another friend mentioned that word, I went on a hunt for that word in the wild. This is something you should always do with new words. (Google, how I love you.)

And what did I find? It seemed to have a connotation I definitely didn’t want there. It hurt, but I cut that word—because it wasn’t as right as I thought. And since then, I’ve cut a few more words that might send readers running for their dictionaries—because I don’t want to pull them out of the story, but mostly because they weren’t in the characters’ voices anyway.

I’m getting better about this: in my current WIP, the characters use a tombolo to get to the final confrontation spot. Oddly enough, tombolo is one of the examples of obscure, precise terms that Plotnik uses in the visual dictionary chapter of Spunk & Bite (page 210). I felt pretty chuffed to know the term already (and was even able to list an example!).

And that’s one of the dangers of using these kinds of terms. If you know this secret, fancy argot, you get to sound smart and feel self-satisfied. Otherwise, you’re probably thinking: A whatsiwhato? Plotnik defines the term in his book, but most novelists don’t send their characters running for a dictionary or factual lesson/as-you-know-Bob in mid-story. (And aren’t you glad?)

And you’re probably still not sure what a tombolo is, huh? If you’ve gotten annoyed enough to go look it up—well, thanks for coming back. That’s more than most readers would probably do, especially on the Internet.

A tombolo is a sandbar that connects a former island to the mainland. Yes, it’s one word that can elegantly replace a somewhat awkward, 9-word explanation. But when that one word doesn’t illustrate, only obfuscates, your meaning, is it “right”?

(I should note that I’m definitely not fully cured: I’m looking forward to bringing out a high-falutin’ voice in a 19th century character in my current WIP. )

Naturally, you can go too far with this. My best friend was critiqued in a college class and one member of the class took issue with a word he didn’t know in her manuscript. This critiquer was convinced she should take it out because that word took him out of the story and frustrated him as he read. The word? Betrothed.

Not exactly an astrophysics term. Similarly, I’ve had readers have a problem with “C.I.” (confidential informant, used in a police procedural mystery), “frosted” referring to highlighted hair, and the adjectival drawn. I think they’re fairly transparent. We don’t have to write for the lowest common denominator—as long as we don’t write over the average readers’ heads. (As for determining who’s average in your audience . . . sorry, that’s up to you!)

To sum up, the right word:

• has the right definition (denotation)
• is as vivid, powerful and succinct as the context needs
• carries the right connotation
• is right for the character’s voice
• is right for the general reader

You can get away with breaking maaaybe one of those axioms with a word, and even then, you shouldn’t do that too frequently—so choose carefully. And remember that every time your reader has to set your book down to look up an obscure term to try to picture what you’re writing, there’s a better and better chance that he won’t pick it up again, frustrated that you keep talking over his head and make it impossible for him to visualize your story.

What do you think? What does it take to make the “right” word Right?

Photos by Harry, noricum, and Greeblie, respectively

And I don’t mean getting published

This time of year is ideal for thinking of our resolutions. But we’re not the only ones who should be working (or autopiloting) toward a goal: in fiction, characters should have a goal, too. Characters’ goals affect their stories from beginning to end, on multiple levels.

Sometimes, we hear “goals” harped on so much that it gives us a complex. I had one: I used to think my characters didn’t have good enough goals. Beyond the scope of the plot, I couldn’t think of what their goals might be.

Plot-level goals
I used to think that characters had to have goals in their lives aside from the ones that get thrust upon them at the beginning of the story. While that’s true, I doubt the hero’s goal of retiring in Hawaii or the heroine’s dream of owning a bed and breakfast in twenty years plays heavily into their story. (It can help to make the characters richer, of course, but that’s just not what Goal-Motivation-Character is all about.)

Finally, I realized because of the types of stories I write, the plot did contain the characters’ goals, and that was okay. In romance, the characters’ goals often are to find someone. In mysteries, the characters’ goals are to find the killer/perpetrator and bring him/her to justice. There’s something wrong in the world (the character is alone; someone has been killed, etc.), and it’s their job to right it. And that’s OKAY.

The character’s plot-level goal is controlled by the story question. In a romance, it’s “Will they get together?” In a mystery, it’s “Will they catch the bad guy?” In other genres of fiction, of course, the variety of questions might be wider, but it might be “Will Jenny find healing?” or “Will Harry triumph over his awful, lonely roots?”

The answer to all of those story questions is yes. (You could phrase them other ways to get a no, like “Will the murderer get away with it?” or “Will Jenny’s past ultimately defeat her?”) The characters’ external, plot level goals relate directly to these questions. In a romance, with “Will they get together?”, the characters’ goals are to not be alone, to be with someone who understands them, to find someone who will love them in spite or even because of their peculiarities. (These might double as internal goals, too.) In a mystery, the characters’ goals are to serve justice.

Plot level goals are SIMPLE. I worked myself up overthinking this level of goals, worrying that my characters had to have a grand life plan in place and they were on step 27-B section ii-c when suddenly STORY CRISIS comes along. Not necessarily. What does your character get in the end? Is the story about the character’s journey to get that? There’s your goal. (And if your story isn’t about your character’s goal, take another look at your story.)

Internal goals
It was much harder for me to identify characters’ internal goals: until I looked closer at their internal conflicts. Just like the external plot conflict, I found the characters had goals inherent in their conflicts already. I just hadn’t fully expressed those goals to myself. And when I did, I was able to tweak their character arcs ever so slightly to make the characters even stronger.

For example, let’s say your character struggles with being disrespected. (Kind of external, but we’ll go with it.) The story follows their internal journey, from disrespected to respected, or maybe from disrespected/low self-esteem to high self-esteem. Their internal goal is right there, inherent in that starting point: gain respect.

To find internal goals, look at the character’s arc. Where does she start from, emotionally? What does she gain or how does he change in the course of the story? Voila.

Internal conflict adds a necessary dimension to characters. Making sure that internal conflict is clear and expressed in a character arc adds a necessary dimension to good fiction.

Scene-level goals
Characters have even smaller goals, of course, than living happily ever after or ridding the world of the threat. Characters should have goals in (almost) every scene. In fact, in Scene & Structure, Jack Bickham says that our POV characters should state their goals for that scene fairly early on.

The prototypical scene begins with the most important character—invariably the viewpoint character—walking into a simulation with a definite, clear-cut, specific goal which appears to be immediately attainable. This goal represents an important step in the character’s game plan—something to be obtained or achieved which will move him one big step closer to the attainment of his major story goal. . . . (24)

The scene begins with a stated, clear-cut goal. (25)

Scene goals are fantastic for structuring fiction at this level because they tell us, the writers, what needs to happen. Our character arrives at the car dealership with the mission to buy a car/talk to his ex-girlfriend/flirt with the new salesguy. (It sets up the “scene question,” if you will: will s/he get this goal?) The character works toward that goal, until the disaster, as Bickham calls it. We answer the scene question with, most likely, a “no” or a “yes, but [complication].” (Just plain yesses should be reserved for false victories, lulling characters into a sense of security, and, of course, the finale.)

But scene goals aren’t just for the beginning and end of scenes. You can use them to keep the tension high in a scene. By reminding the readers what the character is after—and showing the growing disparity between her goal and reality—we can draw the reader along through the scene. As always, we don’t want to harp on anything too much or be repetitive.

Scene-level goals drive the story forward through each scene. Keeping those goals clear helps to keep our characters—and our readers—oriented in the story.

Occasionally, we’ll have something unexpected befall a character in a scene. The POV character may not always have a goal at the beginning of a scene like this—but try to use this technique sparingly, or your characters might seem directionless and as though they’re not taking charge in their life.

Goals and character sympathy
Another role that goals can play in fiction is to help develop character sympathy. How? When readers support a character’s goal, they want the character to succeed. They care.

What does it take to get our readers on board? According to James N. Frey, it takes a noble goal. They can be a really detestable person (Frey’s example is of a convict who wants to break out of prison), but giving them a goal that we can all believe in helps us to believe in the character, too (Frey’s example, IIRC, is that the convict wants to get out of prison to help a family member). And this really works: I felt it happen to me while watching a game show.

What’s noble? Something that’s self-sacrificing, something that benefits another person more than it does the main character, something that helps the general populace (but that can be too vague: helping one concrete person, such as the character’s child, can actually be more effective as a character goal than trying to better the whole world).

Goals and characterization
Our characters sometimes do have life goals other than the plot-level story goals—goals that may or not play into our story, and goals that may or may not be fulfilled in the course of the story. The bed-and-breakfast, a job at the FBI, the private island in the Bahamas.

While these might not really influence the plot, they can still have a great effect on the story: adding layers to your characters. Like real people, our characters can have life goals and dreams. These goals help demonstrate the character’s depth, to round them out.

These goals can manifest in little ways: the FBI job is one of my character’s ultimate goals that doesn’t play into the plot of the story. That goal manifests in her hobbies: spy movies and spy novels. They can also come in handy when they play into the character’s motivations. (I’ll spare you the convoluted explanation of how this happens in my story.)

The biggest caution here: make sure this goal doesn’t upstage the main plot. We’ll see how this works out in edits, but I’ve had a little mixed feedback about my character’s dream. Some readers think it’s so important it needs to be mentioned in the very first chapter. And even though that chapter won the contest, at least one judge complained that the very same character didn’t have any dreams or aspirations. (Why, exactly, they thought she needed to think about those dreams and aspirations when dealing with the murder of her priest, I’m not sure.)

However, adding that to the first chapter might make readers think it’s an important part of the plot. It’s not part of the story question for this book. Our first chapter offers a promise of things to come, not a synopsis of the characters’ lives. If we make a promise of this character’s dream, and especially if it’s not fulfilled in this book, we’re setting our readers up for disappointment.

Instead, use goals and dreams to add depth to the characters and the story—from the hobby on up.

How can you better use goals in your writing?

Photo credits: climbing the mountain—Ben Rohrs;
my life in 10 years—lululemon athletica; grab the brass ring—Foxytocin

I’ve seen this technique a few times on television shows, and I’d love to think about how to apply it in my fiction.

My kids love the cartoon Phineas and Ferb. The main characters’ older sister, Candace, always tries to get her brothers in trouble for their crazy inventions. She is also 15 and majorly boy crazy, especially for a boy named Jeremy.

Whenever the writers need Candace to do something or go somewhere that she might not otherwise, all they have to do is bring Jeremy into it, even indirectly. Whether she’s shopping for a gift for him, trying to impress him or going to see him, he’s one sure way to motivate Candace.

Jeremy is also great for her internal conflict. She often has to choose between her two biggest goals—be with Jeremy or bust her brothers.

Another example I’ve noticed recently is in Psych. Shawn runs a psychic detective agency with help from his best friend, Gus. However, Gus has another full time job: he’s a pharmaceutical sales rep. His car—the only transportation they have—is a company car (which is comical in its own right). Gus’s job and using the company car are both stock conflicts in the series. If the writers need to add more conflict in the scene or between the main character and his best friend, Gus’s job is their go-to choice (and girls, when they’re both single).

Naturally, in a series (book or TV), you have more opportunities to develop and use these stock conflicts, but I think they can be useful in standalone novels—as long as you keep the conflict fresh.

What do you think? How have you used “stock conflicts” in your work?

Some links I’ve come across lately that have made me think:

So I worked in search engine optimization (SEO) and Internet marketing for several years, and I know Google can be daunting. Rick Daley has a good guest post on using SEO for authors. My favorite tips are that you need to go beyond your name and book title. You should be ranking for those anyway! Think about what people who are looking for a book like yours might type in to search. You can use tools from search engines to see if people really are using those keywords or similar ones.

Want to really up your productivity? Check out how one author quintupled her daily output. (via @LuisaPerkins via @AnnetteLyon) I’m trying these methods out and I have to say I really like the idea of making all those tiny little decisions BEFORE rather than DURING the actual writing process.

I’m having a lot of conversations with one of my critique partners about setting lately (it’s something we’re both working on), so when I saw this article on active vs. passive backstory/description tweeted, I had to click. Great examples from published novels, too. (Sorry, I couldn’t find who’d tweeted this in my stream .)

Edittorrent blogged about Dean Wesley Smith’s latest article on the history of literary agents and whether we need them today. The comments on Smith’s article lead me to Laura Resnick’s website and her three-part series on agents as well as her article on experiences with the agent-author business model. OTOH, I know lots and lots of people who really like working with their agents—people who are getting big book deals, too. I think the biggest thing I’ve learned is that I’m so glad I don’t have to make this choice right now.

What links are making you think right now?

So, how was your November? I didn’t want to report on Nano yesterday because I didn’t want to put pressure on the people rushing for the finish line. I hope you made it, too!

As for me, I pretty much beasted Nano. I was actually trying to do Candace Havens’s Fast Draft method, with 5000 words a day, but I was too chicken to admit it publicly. I’d only ever written that much in a day once before.

But, with help from 27,000 words at a writers’ retreat the first weekend of November, I hit 50,000 words on November 8 and kept write right on typing until I reached 78,000+ and THE END on November 14. That’s an average of over 6000 words a day—and I took Sundays off. So that November 30 finish line didn’t mean as much to me this year as it did last year for my Half-no (25,000 words on a WIP).

Now, how was the experience? It would seem like writing that much in a day is insane, awful, grueling, leaving time for nothing else. Candace Havens actually addresses these concerns—you should see the list of all the things she did while pumping out 5000 words a day. Raising three kids five and under, fixing dinner every night and keeping us all in clean underwear doesn’t sound like quite the challenge.

The purpose of fast drafting is to tap into your subconscious understanding of the characters, to get the story on the page, to let the storytelling and character-creating part of your brain take over and run as fast as it can. And in that respect—and the respect of churning out a first draft in two weeks—I’d have to say this was a rousing success.

In fact, this is the most fun I can remember having in a first draft since . . . the book that will be my first published novel. I see a lot of parallels between the two writing experiences. The novels themselves are quite different (though I did manage to bring in an aspect of forbidden love again) but I can see that many of the things I had to work on and revise with that manuscript are the things I’ll have to work on with this one. Which is convenient, since I’ve got experience fixing those!

However, some things fell a part just a little bit too much in my real life—apparently, in November, it’s advisable to wear more than just underwear (okay, that’s advisable year-round), and my children need more face time with me. At this point in my life, the balance can’t go quite this far to writing for very long. I’d be plenty happy with a first draft in three weeks or a month—since my record before this was about two months—especially if it wasn’t quite so stressful on my family.

Oddly enough, though, I got up by about seven and to bed by about midnight every day I fast drafted, but since then—nuh uh. That I could do with a bit more of. I worked very hard to maintain some semblance of structure and routine in the house, and I’m thinking I might get back to that, even though I kind of hated it.

Aaand then there’s the book. It was a fairly decent first draft—easier not to leave too many loose ends when you only wrote the beginning two weeks ago—until I thought “Hm… my heroine’s inner conflict over X is kinda weak, and I’ve always wanted to have a character with X^4 conflict—waaaait a minute, that would work!” And I rewrote the confront-the-conflict scene at about the 5/8ths point . . . but the rest of the book doesn’t reflect that now, and there’s ZIP transition and resolution from that. I know this new conflict is right for the character—I just have to make the rest of the book reflect that. And also fix the boring parts, the confusing parts, the underdeveloped parts . . .

What? Oh, yeah. That’s called revision.

But, hey. I’m ending the month with a publisher, a completed first draft and a ton of fun in the interim. I’m WAY more than okay with that.

Now it’s your turn: tell me, how did your November goals go?