All posts by Jordan

Technique

We all know what makes a good story

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So, on Monday, I killed my computer. On Tuesday, I spent 12 hours in airplanes and airports with my two children, ages 3 and 1, by myself.

It’s been a great week. 🙄

Yeah, so back to what I meant to talk about today. A few months ago, I picked up a storybook to read to my son. It was about 8 pages. It featured trucks, work, and friendships, and . . . well, it sucked.

A few days later, I let my husband read it to my daughter for bedtime. Once he finished, I waited for his reaction. He looked up and said, “That book sucked.”

We read a lot of board books, including baby books that are merely lists of items or colors or emotions. We read “I love you” books and song books and silly books all without complaint. So why did this book turn us both off?

It had no plot.

Now, it did have a series of events. Trucks did this, went there, said this. We don’t have a high literary standard for our children’s fare.

But if you’re going to tell a story, your plot has to have conflict. Even if you’re writing for three year olds. Even if you’re writing marketing shlock slapped onto a board book (which this was).

A counter example: we also read The Little Mouse, the Red Ripe Strawberry and the Big Hungry Bear . I’d guess it has somewhere around the same number of words, but the whole book is about the mouse trying to keep his strawberry from the bear.

Conflict. Even in a children’s book. And that one gets requested a lot more than the truck book.

What do you think? Is conflict something we all inherently want in a book?

(If you’re wondering, traveling wasn’t really that bad. They’re pretty good kids. I might even keep them.)

Photo credit: Lawrence Whittemore

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Uncategorized

To MFA or not to MFA? (Is that the question?)

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I. Love. Learning. I loved college, too, and since my husband and I only live about 20 minutes from our alma mater, once or twice a year we head down there to torture ourselves reminisce.

We’ve only been out of school for a few years, so most of campus looks basically the same. But every time we go there, every flier, every display at the library, every student reminds us that the same vibrant, interesting, exciting life is continuing there without us (never mind that it was also exhausting, grueling, and mentally strenuous. Nostalgia.). It seems so easy to step back into that life and learn and grow again. Granted, it won’t be quite the same the second time around, but if I had my druthers, I’d go get a grad degree (somewhere, not necessarily my alma mater).

But . . . in what? Most of the areas I’m interested in pretty much lead only to research or academic career paths (both of which can be fiercely competitive in these fields). And then there’s writing. The best I could get locally was an MFA with an hour commute (each way) or an MA with a vaguely creative emphasis—but last week I found out my alma mater added an MFA program last fall.

So now the question is—do I want it? Yes, of course—and no, of course not.

From what I understand (as I was told by professors), nearly all MFA programs create a certain type of writer—a literary one. Though I would like to style myself as a literary writer, right now my passions lie in genre fiction, and rare is the program where genre fiction (from romance and mystery to YA to scifi) is not at least stigmatized, if not denigrated. And leaving aside the fact that literary fiction is difficult to write and harder to sell, by no means does an MFA guarantee publication—or even publishable writing.

At its heart, any program is only as good as your instructors—and if it’s a workshop setting (which much of the critiquing is in most MFA programs), your classmates are your instructors. While I’m sure that only the best applicants are accepted to the program, that doesn’t automatically make their advice to other writers good (especially if you’re writing genre fiction and no one else is). And though it would be great to get that amount of feedback—I’m not sure my ego can handle two to three years of criticism (even if it is intended to make you better). Finally, it certainly sounds like literary agents are only half-joking when they say that they’ll “try to overlook” an MFA listed as a writing credit.

But still . . . I want those three little letters.

What do you think? Does an MFA appeal to you? Why or why not?

Update: I really like what Eric of Pimp My Novel (he works in the sales department of a large publisher) had to say about MFAs:

So, basically, my view is: if you’re doing literary work, you think you might want to teach college, and you don’t already have a decent job, go for the MFA. Otherwise, you might want to think twice. No one needs a license to be an author, and if you’re considering pursuing the degree purely for some perceived recognition or sense of legitimacy as a writer, you might want to find a new line of work.

Photos: Harold B. Lee Library—Jeremy Stanley; diplomas—Chris Lawrence

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Technique

Write what you know

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Ah yes, the first writing platitude we all learned: write what you know. According to an article I came across from the New Yorker, that was the prevailing mantra in writing instruction in the 1940s and ’50s (and for the next two decades, it was the also-well-intentioned-but-equally-misguided “show, don’t tell“).

One of the primary evidences people usually give against this rule is the fact that only writing what you know—or, as it seems to say, what you’ve experienced—reduces all writing to autobiography. Unless you have some sort of mental disorder (or live a very different life from me!), this rule leaves no room for fantasy, science fiction, paranormal (well, I suppose that one’s debatable). There would be no Shakespeare or Twain (well, a lot less Twain, anyway) or . . . fiction, when it comes down to it.

And that’s true. If we were completely limited to only writing about our experiences, the literary world would be a bleak and boring place, rife with . . . well, check out exhibit A at right. Most of us lead very boring lives (and would have no hope of ever receiving a publishing contract). We might be able to fashion some part of our life story into a working narrative, but at most we’d only be able to squeeze out a couple short novels from the whole of our mortal existence.

But that doesn’t mean we should just completely dismiss the “write what you know” rule. It comes, like so many stupid writing rules, from sound principles: know your subject and check your facts. But I think it goes deeper than that, too, and can apply in a way that’s still as relevant to us as it was to Shakespeare, Twain, et al.—and in fact, it’s a reason why their writing is still so powerful and resonant today.

You have to write what you know—and you have to know people. To create compelling characters and thus compelling stories, as writers, we have to intimately know and understand human behavior and emotions. A story where the protagonist does something that seems stupid, self-contradictory or flat-out foreign all the time is frustrating to a reader.

So we need to know—and continue to study and get to know—people. We have to strive to understand human behavior and motivations, how we can get our characters to act in ways we need them to (or how they’d really act and change our story accordingly 😉 ). We have to understand our characters’ and our readers’ emotions and how to express and appeal to them. (And Larry Brooks agrees!)

And while our lives are likely too narrow and boring to make a good story most of the time, we all understand many of the universal feelings that motivate people—from greed to love to jealousy to anger to joy to grief to heartbreak, we’ve been there in some form. Understanding and remembering our own experiences with these emotions—things that we know—is at the root of creating powerful experiences for the reader.

So do write what you know—but don’t be afraid to make up the rest!

What do you think? In what other ways do you think it’s important to “write what you know”?

Photo by bobcat rock

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Technique, Works

How did you do in 2009?

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I didn’t set a ton of goals (or resolutions) last year (they’re on my personal blog, if you’d like to see all of them). In writing, here’s what I wanted to accomplish in 2009:

Write tons a reasonable amount. I’m nearing completion on the first draft of my latest manuscript . . . . I’d like to get through the first draft of two more this year—and finish those accursed, beautiful revisions on last year’s two manuscripts.

I did most of that. I finished the MS in question and drafted two more. I revised and polished that first MS (and I’m getting ready to do it again). I didn’t go back to the first MS of 2007; if I ever do, it will require heavy re-conceptualizing.

I’m not sure, however, that three manuscripts in a year is “a reasonable amount.” I know it depends on how fast you write and how much time you “make” to write (and especially on whether or not you have an idea that sets you on fire)—but when you’re the primary caregiver to your two young children 24/7, that’s a lot. And creatively speaking, it’s a lot, too—at times, enough to burn me out.

And yet the only goals I’ve even begun to consider for the coming year are almost the same—repolish and rerevise the same MS and continue the submission rounds with it, draft two more manuscripts, and polish one of those. (This may be subject to change, of course; I may end up going back to one of the MS from last year to polish first. Who knows?)

Beyond that, I haven’t really thought about goals in most areas. I know I want to work on increasing the tension in the first half of that manuscript and look at the techniques required to do that. I’m also thinking of doing a series on tension, suspense and foreshadowing.

What do you want to accomplish and learn in 2010? Any requests for writing series?

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Technique, Works

Writing in the New Year

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Happy New Year!

It’s a time for making resolutions (for those things that sound good but we won’t really do) or setting goals (for those things that we actually want to do).

So here’s my favorite advice on setting goals. (It’s from me, but I had to get it somewhere at some point, right?) A goal you really want to achieve should be:

Written down
It’s even better to put them in a place where you can find them, see them often, and hopefully be reminded of them often. (Maybe next to those pieces of praise you’re going to tape to your wall 😉 .)

Specific
“Get better at writing” is too vague—if you finally learn the less/fewer rule tomorrow, are you done? We all always want to improve our skills, but a better goal would be to pick a specific skill to work on—to study techniques to create more vivid characters, for example. (It’s still a little vague, of course, but this may be the nature of the beast in this area.)

Use numbers or dates where they make sense: the number of words you write or edit, the amount of time you spend writing, the number of queries and submissions you send out.

Measurable
Whether the measurement is quantitative (like time spent) or qualitative (like more vivid characters), make sure it’s something you can see a difference in. This will probably involve reading something you wrote last year and objectively comparing your writing now. (If you can enlist a willing helper, outside opinion can be helpful—unless they give bad advice.)

Also useful here is to set a deadline for your goals: I want to study these skills by March 1, finish a first draft of my next WIP in 30 days, etc.

Personal
Just because someone else is setting a goal to write two hours a day doesn’t mean you have to. Keep in mind where you are in your writing and your life, and set goals that are suited to you.

Achievable
Aim high—but don’t literally aim for the stars (unless you a.) are an astronaut slated for flight or b.) like falling short). Choose something that you can achieve, but something you’ll have to work for.

Also in this area, it’s important to recognize when your goal isn’t completely (or at all) within your control: unless you also run a publishing company, it’s not your choice whether something gets published. So if you set more than one goal, be sure to include at least one goal that you have control over. On the other hand, don’t set more goals than you can handle or remember.

Broken down
I don’t mean literally broken—I mean that your goals, especially your big goals, should be broken down into specific steps. “Write better” is already kind of broken down if you go with more specific things like creating more vivid characters. But even that can be broken down: read such-and-such a book (by Feb 15), take notes; discuss these techniques with/at X; brainstorm application; spend two weeks going through manuscript to apply notes, etc.

So, what are your writing goals for 2009? Feel free to share them in the comments—or, if you’ve blogged them, put the link into the URL box.

Photo credits: Nobel Prize—Tim Ereneta; writing list—Hannah Swithinbank

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News & Contests

Happy New Year!

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Happy New Year! I got to finish out my year with a much-needed pat on the back from one of the fantastic members of our community:

top 9 of 2009_thumb[2]

Andrew named this blog as one of his top 9 writing blogs of 2009 for content, community and the “it” factor—you know, me 😉 . Aside from including me, I can vouch for the quality of his list: I already read more than half of those ranked, and have learned so much from them this last year.

As kind of a post-script to our series on bad advice, I also want to point out a little good advice, such as highlighted on Romance University this week.

We’ll talk about setting goals on Monday. For now, just enjoy the novelty of the year and the long weekend! Feel free to share the best writing advice you’ve received—but I have big plans for that topic later in the year.

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Technique

Moving on from bad advice

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This entry is part 5 of 6 in the series bad advice

For some reason, the bad advice—from the mean-spirited to the what-the-crap?!—seems to stay with us so much longer than the good advice. It’s seldom the encouragement or praise that comes ringing back to us in the dark, still hours of the night.

Add to this the fact that I have an obsessive personality, and I’ve taken dwelling on bad advice to a whole new level. Even for stuff that’s flat-out all wrong for my story, I think about it for months on end before I can finally move on and maybe even laugh at how terrible it (and I) was.

For the stuff that’s just off-base, it’s annoying. But for the things that come with that extra note of spite, it’s even harder. This is why I’ve come up with my coping mechanisms—if two other people agree with me, if I can just laugh at it sooner (and laugh at myself), then maybe I can move on faster, right?

Yeah, it’s not so much working—though sometimes when my mind wanders back into the Forest of Remember How Much You Suck?, I can smile.

And then I read the praise-filled emails from my biggest fan/critique partner that I have taped on my wall. (No, seriously—I highly recommend doing this! It’s like getting a big hug every time you read them!)

So, in the spirit of the year dying in the night, how can we let our criticism-fed insecurities (or just the memories of the criticism) fade with it?

Photo credit: Omar

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Technique

Reacting to bad advice

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This entry is part 4 of 6 in the series bad advice

I doubt any of us need to be told how to react to bad advice. But the best thing to do is ridicule it.

I’m kidding.

Kind of.

Read over your work again

Is there something there that led this person to say this? Really take a good look at just the words on the page—and try not to think about everything else you know about the story and the characters. Did you convey everything you needed to to make this clear, without the reader having to dig and read between the lines?

Of course, it’s possible that this reader just wasn’t paying attention. I’ve had (very nice!) critique partners suddenly realize a what year the story was set in chapter 7 or so, and say I should weave it in sooner—unless, of course, she’d just missed it (which, she acknowledged, was possible). (I’ve had people miss way more than that, and even start inventing stuff to fill in the blanks—to the extent where I seriously thought they were half-reading what I’d written and half-imagining something else entirely.)

Ask for feedback (from someone else)

If you think there might be some merit to some advice (somewhere), or if you’re worried you’re the one with the case of the crazies, turn to someone you trust (especially someone who’s read the story).

Failing that, look at other critiques—do they all have similar notes? Is this the only person who feels that way? Or do they all say different things? (Great . . .)

Now is a good time to remember: you can’t please everyone.

Okay, now ridicule. If you must.

And oh, I must. I’m really trying to grow out of this one, but sometimes the only thing that makes me feel better about this is to rewrite the “offending” passage in a completely ridiculous way—following their advice to its ill-fated, (il)logical conclusion.

I’ve shown you one of these before, where a contest judge marked the sentence “Sighing, Margaux pulled her hairpins from her hair” with “SHOW us the sigh.”

Sure thing:

Margaux’s thoracic diaphragm contracted, expanding her thoracic cavity and creating a vacuum in her lungs. Air at atmospheric pressure rushed in to fill her lungs. Once they were at optimal capacity, and a good proportion of the oxygen content had transpired into her bloodstream, Margaux reached the full depth of her frustration with her disheveled coif. She contracted her external intercostal muscles, audibly forcing a stream of air through her nostrils, and pulled the hairpins from her hair.

Warning: don’t do this in front of them, and don’t go back and look for an opportunity to sock it to them, or parody their writing, even if there’s a really great opening. That’s just not cool.

How do you cope with bad advice?

Photo credit: Eric Kilby

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