Tag: creative writing

6 steps to judging your own writing

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When the pages are closing in on you. [image by Thanakrit Du]

When the pages are closing in on you. [image by Thanakrit Du]

You’ve been working on your novel for so long, you no longer know what’s good and what’s bad. You can’t tell whether the tone is right, the pacing is fast enough, or the characters are believable. All you can see is a swarm of words.

You either think it’s all wonderful (you’re wrong) or it’s all terrible (you’re wrong).

And when it comes to editing, with or without beta readers, you’ll have to make your own decisions at some point.

So is it possible to look at your own work with complete impartiality?

Well, no. But with the right preparation, you can get close.

  1. Step away from the novel. Don’t even look at it for at least a month. Work on something different (NOT the sequel).
  1. Feed the machine. In that same month, read some classics and award-winners. Avoid the “guilty pleasure” books that are horribly written but that you love anyway – those are for another time. Get your brain used to the good stuff so it can recognize the bad stuff (like eating McDonald’s after months of home-cooked meals, it stays with you in a nasty way).
  1. Feed the machine some more. Also re-watch some of your favorite movies – being shorter than books, they more clearly show the plot as a whole. Note how each story is structured. How does it open? How does the tension escalate? How does the hero reach his lowest point? What ultimate decision does he make?
  1. Review. Read good books and/or movie reviews, especially ones that point out plot faults. This will help you identify problems in your own work. For instance:
    1. David’s amazingly insightful reviews at Twilight’s Warden
    2. The hilarious animated video series How It Should Have Ended
    3. The brilliant (though horribly crass, so be warned) reviews at Red Letter Media (I’ve only watched the Star Wars ones)
  1. Tell your ego to shut up. We writers have a tendency to waver between extremes of pretentiousness (“They just don’t understand my brilliance!”) and anxiety (“They’re going to think I’m an idiot.”). Tune out both these voices. Neither is truthful.
  • For the pretentious voice: Let go of the things you refused to change before. Pretty paragraphs you refused to delete. Lovable characters you refused to kill. Look at those “non-negotiables” and ask why? If you don’t have a real reason (e.g., “to be edgy” is not a real reason to be gratuitous), then change it. There are many ways a story can play out, and there’s probably a much more exciting and meaningful way yours can.
  • For the anxious voice: Every good writer is scared when he releases something new into the world. That’s normal. But ask yourself: does a certain part scare you—a certain phrase or scene? Does it scare you because it sounds juvenile, or because it exposes a piece of you? If the former, change it. If the latter, have the courage to leave it.
  1. Create a deleted scenes file. You know you should cut something—but it’s also pretty good writing; what if you need it somewhere else later? Don’t be paralyzed by uncertainty. Simply copy, cut and paste any major deletions into a new file. Soon you’ll have a much cleaner manuscript and a whole list of ideas to fall back on should you ever need it.

What part of self-editing gives you the most trouble?

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Archives for the Holidays: Show, don’t tell: what it means

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I’m feeling better for the first time in five days! How are you?

To stay on top of the Christmas cheer, I’m posting some of my favorite posts from the archives. This one was originally posted on October 7, 2011.

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It’s the first rule of writing. We hear it all the time. In fact, it’s almost all we hear. Over and over again, they tell us…

Show, don’t tell.

Show; don’t tell.

Show! Don’t tell!

In the name of all that’s good, what the heck does that mean???

Find out >>

Holiday Blog Schedule – also, I need your help!

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So…News!
I’m taking a semi-break. From now through the end of the year, I won’t be writing any new Friday posts – instead I’ll be re-posting some of the best articles from the archives. Don’t worry: Inspiration Monday will continue as usual!
I’m just taking this soft sabbatical to keep up with Thanksgiving and Christmas activities (I am determined to watch more Christmas movies and bake at least one batch of gingerbread men this year. Also, I have to fold 100+ origami cranes for a project.), get a little more novel-writing done, and recharge my blogging battery.
You see, I feel a bit wrung out, idea-wise. That’s why I need your help.

Photo by Rennett Stowe

What do you want to read about in 2013?

Do you want to start a community discussion about character development, story morals, suspension of disbelief?
Do you want to learn more about  novel-writing, copywriting/marketing, blogging?
Do you want to ask me about my favorite books and movies? My opinions on the Oxford comma? My ukulele?
Ultimately, what about writing keeps you up at night?
Please, tell me in the comments!
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The most important sentence in your book

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crying boy

Photo by David Shankbone

You know the feeling. The book you’ve spent the last couple of weeks reading has become a dear friend. You must keep reading it, but the more you do, the closer you get to the end…and suddenly it’s over. It is no longer a companion, but a memory. You enter into mourning.

Sequels aside, only one thing can ease pain of the ending of a great book:

A great last sentence.

We already talked about the second most important sentence in the book – the first sentence. The first sentence gets them to read the book; but the last sentence makes them glad they did. It is the punchline to the joke. The splash at the end of a water slide. The cheers and kisses at the end of the New Year’s countdown.

The last sentence means the difference between the reader feeling the story was cut short, cheated with an early death – or feeling the story lived a good long life and made its imprint on the world.

Last words with a deathbed level of importance.

A great last sentence will do one or more of the following:

  • Refer back to a theme present throughout the book. Bonus points if it mirrors the first sentence.
  • Evoke a sense of victory and/or hope.
  • Show the purpose of the story and/or the meaning behind the title

Here’s a poor last sentence from an otherwise great book, Pride & Prejudice (Austen):

With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.

Why it’s lame: The Gardiners were not a major theme in the story: this is more of an amusing side note than last words. The sentence (er, sentences) could fit anywhere else in the chapter – rather disappointing in a book with one of the most famous first sentences ever. Let’s compare to some great last sentences:

The Book of Lost Things (Connolly):

And in the darkness David closed his eyes, as all that was lost was found again.

Why it’s brilliant: In a book whose first sentence relates the loss of David’s mother, and whose successive chapters speak of many other losses, this sentence, capping an ending full of reunions, is poetry.

The Outsiders (Hinton):

[We learn in the final chapter the character is writing a school paper on a personal experience.]

And I finally began like this: When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home…

Why it’s brilliant: Everything after that first colon is a copy of the first line of the book. We suddenly realize the book we have been reading is that school paper – and that he is writing about his tragedy to tell the world to keep it from happening again.

A Tale of Two Cities (Dickens):

It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.

Why it’s brilliant: The character speaking, who has till now lived a pointless life, has just done something heroic. We feel victory knowing he has risen above, and hope in the peace he will have.

The Book Thief (Zusak):

I am haunted by humans.

Why it’s brilliant: It’s ironic, as the book is narrated by Death, who is supposed to haunt us. It’s also a play on words: he doesn’t mean he fears humans, but that the stories of our lives touch him. And that’s the whole point of the book.

The Last Battle (Lewis):

All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.

Why it’s brilliant: It’s the last book in one of the best loved series of all time; that’s a hard thing to say goodbye to. Lewis does it by transforming a death into a birth – for both the series and our own souls.

 

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What’s your favorite last sentence? Why is it brilliant?

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Should you write for yourself, or for other people?

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Image by AntToeKnee. Check out his profile to read his hilarious bio.

When you sit down to write, who are you writing for? Are you writing only for your own amusement (or catharsis?), or to entertain other people? And which is right?

If you write only to please yourself, you’re in danger of contracting Ugly Baby Syndrome—thinking your creation is perfect no matter what anyone else says. If they don’t like it, you are personally offended. If they say pages full of poetic scenic description are boring, you say they are uncultured swine. You throw a little pity party because nobody understands your unique method of expression.

Well, you’re right. Nobody understands you because you’re not explaining yourself well.

Here’s the tough truth: being unique doesn’t make you good. You may be expressing yourself, but you are refusing to express yourself in a language anyone else understands. You are being selfish. If you want to be understood, you have to speak to them in their language first. Start where you have common ground. That means putting the story—its integrity, pace, and structure—above your pretty-words ego.

If you write only to please people, well, you’ll become a people-pleaser. A sellout.The irony is that this is another form of selfishness. You’re really writing for the attention, the prestige, the money. As soon as you find something most people seem to like, you’ll just keep writing that same story over and over again—change the names and the settings, but the same plot every time. You don’t dare to be different. You don’t dare to write the truth about your own life and struggles and the hard things you’ve learned. You turn into a formula fiction factory. On your new book cover, your name is larger than the title because people already know what’s in any story you write. You’ve stopped being an artist. You have ceased to express yourself. You are not telling the world anything it doesn’t already know.

So what’s the answer?

Write for yourself. Edit for your audience.

Maggie pointed this out in the comments of this post.

When you pour out that first and second draft, write what you enjoy. Write the kind of story you love to read. Write who you are in the grittiest, nakedest way. Write what you want to say to the world.

The ironic result is that a lot of other people probably love what you love. A lot of them have felt what you have felt. What you write could appeal to them on a deep level.

When you move on into the rewriting and editing stages, have them first in mind. You expressed yourself. Now, translate that expression. Help your audience understand you, and help them have a good time of it. Put the story above your ego. That means showing truth, not preaching it. It means cutting out extraneous drabble; letting go of your sentimental attachments if they don’t support the story. If you are in love with an unnecessary character, or you adore a setting that hinders the plot, or you’re attached to a line of dialogue a character would never say, cut it out!

Your writing ability should serve the story, not the other way around. First the truth-telling. Then the truth-translating.

That’s how to create something both you and your audience will love.

 

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 What sentimental attachments do you have to detrimental elements of your work? What truths are you afraid might offend people?

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