Tag: how to write a novel

Why no one is reading your work

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image by Proxy Indian

image by Proxy Indian

I was terrified. I was ecstatic. Sending my novel – my brainchild – out into the world for the first time. By “the world” I mean, to a few of my closest friends. My brother and best friend finished within a week. Probably due in part to a feeling of obligation. “It’s great!” they said, “Wouldn’t change a thing.”

Months went by. I checked in with my other best friend, who hadn’t gotten past chapter seven. “I’ve been busy,” she said. “That’s fine,” I said lightly, but felt hurt.

Years later, she (and the few others I sent that draft to) still haven’t finished reading it.

Oh, I was hurt for awhile. Angry. I distinctly remember telling some of them off in a forum message about eight months after that draft went out.

See, I had poured my soul out into that book. My soul. And my soul wasn’t interesting enough to even tempt the attention of my closest friends? I told myself the writing wasn’t the problem – after all, no one could tell me a thing that needed changing, aside from a typo or two. No, my friends just didn’t understand how important this was to me.

Awhile later, I realized chapter seven was possibly the worst combination of English words ever typed on paper, and I began a complete overhaul of the novel (one of countless overhauls). It occurred to me that the people close to me are naturally going to look at my book differently from one they’d pick up at Barnes & Noble – they’re not going to notice much wrong with it, specifically. But if they can’t finish it – that’s a sign it ain’t too good.

I started to realize that the problem was the writing, not my friends.

But I didn’t fully realize what that meant until a few years later, after I had been in marketing for awhile. You see, if an advertisement doesn’t get any attention, nobody blames the audience. It’s not a shortcoming of the product advertised, either – it’s a shortcoming of whoever created the ad.

If people aren’t reading your stuff, it’s not because your soul is boring.

It’s because your writing is boring.

There, I said it. Don’t get offended; I’m in the same boat.

It doesn’t mean we have to get depressed and self-deprecating. It just means we have to get better.

See, I discovered something copywriters use, that few aspiring novelist even think about.

Strategy.

An example: What do most novelists think about? Grammar. Punctuation. Plot. Character development. Poetic descriptions.

Copywriters, on the other hand, are asking: Who is the target audience? What part of my message will resonate with them on the deepest emotional level? What’s the quickest way I can convey that message? How can I grab their attention and keep their attention? How can I make them feel a certain way? How can I make them take action?

Funny how a lot of those questions could be applied to a novel, huh?

Oh, we’re told a lot of the same things copywriters are told. Show, don’t tell. Create relatable characters. Keep the action moving. But if you’re like me – if you’re experiencing the same kind of thing I described at the beginning of this post – you’re just not getting it. Not really.

So I propose this: we step back and look at our work from a different perspective. From a marketing perspective. In the next few weeks, I’ll share some of the things I’ve learned, some of the things I’m implementing in my own novel right now – all while digging deeper into how basic marketing principles can be applied to fiction. We’ll learn together.

You see, I want to write a novel that no one can put down.

Who’s with me?

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UPDATE: READ THE WHOLE SERIES

Attention

Interest

Desire

Action

4 Clever Ways to Write Around Curse Words

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Image by Scott Ogle

Image by Scott Ogle

Following last week’s post on limiting your use of curse words in fiction to get the most power out of them, here are a few examples of how to get around them.

In The Cardturner by Louis Sachar (the guy who wrote Holes, which you should read), the narrator, who is a seventeen-year-old boy, doesn’t include any strong language, but at one point explains:

I should tell you that so far, when I’ve recounted my conversations with Cliff, I’ve left out certain descriptive words. It’s not that we’re especially vulgar or crude. It’s just that those kinds of words seem worse in print than when we would just say them in an offhand way. I think I’ve been able to omit those words and still give you a fairly accurate account of what was said between us.

However, if I were to repeat what Cliff said when I asked him if he wanted to play bridge, I’d have to leave out every other word. Let’s just say he wasn’t overjoyed with the idea.

Still, he was my best friend, and when he realized I was serious (adverb deleted), and that it was important to me (adverb deleted), he agreed to play (adverb deleted).

This character gives us several similar asides throughout the book, so this totally works. It’s funny, and when he uses his little parenthetical deletions later on, we know why.

Podkayne of Mars, by Robert. A. Heinlein (the guy who wrote The Moon is a Harsh Mistress; you should read that, too) is another first person narrative – this time a teenage girl keeping a diary. The book is full of her personal editing style (you may remember I used it as an example of a strong voice), so it makes perfect sense when you get to this point:

“He certainly does mean it!” Clark said shrilly. “You illegal obscenity! I delete all over your censored!” And I knew he was really worked up, because Clark is contemptuous of vulgar idioms; he says they denote an inferior mind.

It cracks me up.

But what if your book has a much more serious tone?

The Outsiders, by S.E. Hinton (the same girl who wrote…a bunch of stuff that wasn’t good as The Outsiders), is narrated by a fourteen-year-old wrong-side-of-the-tracks boy who’s wanted in connection with a murder. He’s surrounded by people who swear like sailors, but only includes language (mild language at that) in the tensest moments. The rest of the time he does this:

I fought to get loose, and almost did for a second; then they tightened up on me and the one on my chest slugged me a couple times. So I lay still, swearing at them between gasps.

Or this:

“They’re running!” I heard a voice yell joyfully. “Look at the dirty ——- run!”

This can work in third-person narratives as well.

There’s one part in The Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien (who also wrote…wait, you don’t know who Tolkien is? What’s wrong with you???), where tragedy actually transcends words, as Treebeard comes upon a field of his fallen friends, and says:

“There is no curse in Elvish, Entish, or the tongues of Men bad enough for this treachery.”

Granted, we can’t copy this, or risk turning it into a cliché, but it demonstrates a certain genius we should all try to learn from. I’m sure Tolkien was capable of crafting a fantasy-world cuss word that would sound perfectly abhorrent, but his choice here was much more powerful. He has turned a moment, which by last week’s argument would have required a curse word, and raised the level of emotion above the curse.

This is the kind of art we should be striving for. Not necessarily to avoid certain words – but to avoid depending on them. Reach for something deeper. Reach for a kind of hurt so gut-wrenching that an f-bomb seems, not inappropriate, but inadequate. 

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How to Start Writing a Novel in Three Easy Steps

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Don't fear the blank page - photo by D. Sharon Pruitt

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We talk a lot on here about various stages of the writing process, but a quick glance at the Internet reveals several people who want to write books but have no idea how to get started. Well, my friends, here’s how.

1. Getting the Idea

You’ve got to start with an idea. This can be any number of things. It can be a character (“cheesemaker who loves books and has an ugly dog named Ahab”). It can be a partial plot (“bored millionaire attempts to take over the world”). It can be a setting (“a space station 500 years in the past”). Or a single scene (“faun with umbrella under lamppost in snowy wood”).

What’s your favorite kind of book to read? What do you daydream about? Typically, if a storyline or setting is interesting enough for you to daydream about it multiple times, it’s a good thing to start writing about.

While you’re waiting for that idea, try writing some short fiction (prompts here weekly, folks). That’ll get you some practice, and you may even stumble on an idea with enough legs to become a novel.

2. Plotting

If you don’t know where the story is going, you’re likely to get bored with it fast. But don’t worry about planning every detail at first—most of it is likely to change as you do the actual writing. A quick list of major events in the story, in chronological order, is a good start.

3. Facing the Blank Page

Now comes the part so many writers seem to fear. Actually writing. Let me help you with this:

Your first draft is going to be terrible.

It’s supposed to be terrible.

The point of the first draft is to get down everything you know about the story, as fast as possible. It’s to get you started. So quit worrying about finding the perfect words or structuring the perfect sentence. Quit worrying about being eloquent or poetic. Just get some ink on paper. Because before you perfect the story, you have to discover it, and to discover it, you have to dive in and write it.

Reassure yourself that no one else will ever read this draft. Give yourself the freedom to write badly, honestly, and with vulnerability. I guarantee you the final draft will look nothing like the first draft. But I also guarantee that you can’t write the final, glorious draft until you write the first, terrible draft.

And while it’s okay to edit a tiny bit as you write, restrain yourself—don’t spend hours rearranging a paragraph you’ll just end up cutting later (there’s a 99% chance* you will cut it later).

A Final Warning

Writing a novel is will be the hardest thing you’ll ever do. You will deal with constant discouragement, from the beginning stages to getting published and beyond—if you get published—and I’ll tell you right now, your chances aren’t good. Nobody’s are. But you know what?

It’s still worth it. 100%.

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What’s keeping you from starting a book?

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*Yes, I pulled this number out of thin air. It’s true, nonetheless.

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Begin your story at the beginning – but when is that?

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This decision could be the difference between readers turning the pages and shutting the cover:

Where in the timeline does the “once upon a time” fall?

Here’s a little guide to help you decide.

Beginning at the beginning

Take the Chronicles of Narnia as an example. Lewis first wrote The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (LWW), in which a little girl finds her way into a magical land through a wardrobe.

Huh?

We need a bit more background to give us our bearings. Where is the wardrobe? In a large, mysterious house. Why is the little girl in the house? She traveled there with her brothers and sister to escape theLondonair-raids during the war.

Oh, so the story really starts with “Hitler invaded Poland.” But if you’re going back that far, why not go back to the little girl’s birth, or even to God created the heavens and the earth?

Because it would take forever.

Choose a beginning somewhere in between. Lewis briefly summarizes the children’s reason for being at the house. Dialogue begins on page 2, and we step through the wardrobe by page 5.

The takeaway: start early enough to give your readers a bit of orientation, but don’t start so far back that you have to give whole paragraphs of background exposition.

Beginning at the middle

What’s that? Your story’s more complicated than that? There’s far more background to explain?

Well, LWW is more complicated than it sounds. Where did the magical land come from, and how does an old wardrobe grant access to it? But Lewis doesn’t explain this in this book, and he doesn’t have to. The mystery gets pushed back in the face of more pressing matters. Evil witch. Captive brother. Etc.

Review all the information you think your readers need. Cut out anything they don’t need right away and save it for later in the story. Readers can typically suspend disbelief long enough to enjoy the wonder of the current story by itself—a wardrobe opening up to a snowy wood, a faun in a red scarf carrying an umbrella—without asking too many questions about How It All Got There. They will trust you to answer such things in time (hang a lantern on it if necessary).

Is there anything readers truly need to know right away? Work that in gradually, showing, not telling, like this.

Back to the stuff you set aside for later. Possibly a whole book’s worth of background information. You have two choices:

1. Work it into the current story at intervals (Louis Sachar does this brilliantly in Holes)

2. Write a prequel later—which is what Lewis did with The Magician’s Nephew.

In either sense, you’re starting in the middle of the story. The advantage: When you finally do explain How It All Got There, readers get double the amusement in putting all the pieces together—how the magical world came into being and how the wardrobe is connected to it—as if they’ve just solved a clever riddle. It’s an advantage you lose if you start with The Magician’s Nephew.

The takeaway: don’t let oodles of background force you to start too early. Work it in gradually, or save it for later.

Beginning at the end

There’s an episode of Firefly that opens with the ship’s captain sitting alone in the desert, naked.

“That went well,” he says to himself.

Cut to opening theme.

Meanwhile, we’re all dying to know how he got there.

You probably won’t really be starting at the end—just at the climax. At your hero’s lowest point. Show your readers just enough to make them go “huh?” then before they get confused enough to be frustrated, pause, rewind, and spend the rest of the book showing them how your hero got there.

The takeaway: if you start by showing your readers an intriguing glimpse of the future, you can create enough curiosity to propel them through the rest of the story.

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What type of beginning makes you keep reading?

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How to edit your novel: 5 more practical tips that really work

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 Continued from last week’s Part One: The Forest

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photo by David Mellis

Now we move in for a close up, a focus more on the words and sentence structures than on the story itself. But let’s say you’ve got the grammar stuff down. How else do you clean up your prose?

Part Two: The Trees

Clarity and Flow

1. Compare sentence and paragraph lengths.* Take a sample chunk of your manuscript—say, one to two pages—and, highlight each sentence in alternating colors. The first sentence blue, the second red, the third blue again and so on. Then, take a step back and look at it. There should be a variety of long and short sentences: if all your sentences are about the same length, that’s a sign of bad flow, and you’ll need to do some tweaking.

Bonus tip: Different parts of the story may require different types of flow. Intensify action scenes, like fights or chases, by using more short sentences.

Then, take a sample chapter and do the same thing, but highlighting paragraphs this time. There should be a variety of paragraph lengths.

2. Compare sentence starts.* Using the same samples outlined in #1, highlight the first word of every sentence and then compare them. This helps you ensure a variety of sentence structures. Be on the lookout for pronouns and names. I’ve often had four or five sentences in a row beginning with “She did such-and-such.” Yuck. It makes the prose choppy and repetitive. Rearrange a few of these sentences to improve flow.

3. Search and replace words you use too much. Create a word cloud of your manuscript on wordle.net. ** The biggest words are the ones you use the most (Wordle automatically filters out naturally common words like the and and). Your main character’s names will unavoidably be huge, but look out for others. My most recent test revealed “like” to be pretty big—a sign I may have too many similes. There’s no magic number for how many is too many, but try taking the two or three biggest words in your word cloud, and then searching your manuscript for them (the “Find” feature in MS Word). If you see a pattern emerging, work on editing out at least half.

4. Read aloud. This is what critique partners and writing groups or for: an excuse to read chunks of your writing out loud. Bonus if you can get one of them (who is good at reading aloud) to read it for you while you stand by with a red pen. This way you can make sure an objective reader will:

  • Emphasize the right words. If not, try restructuring the sentence, altering punctuation, or italicizing the words that need to be emphasized.
  • Pause in the right places. If not, you need to add punctuation—commas, semicolons, periods, etc.
  • Doesn’t stumble too much. Passages that are tricky on the tongue can be tricky on the brain, too.
  • Doesn’t repeat the same words too close together. The same adjective, for instance, should not appear twice on the same page.
  • Doesn’t rhyme. Unintentional rhymes sound awful and interrupt flow.

5. Commit to cutting words. You may be horrified at the idea of slicing phrases out of your so carefully crafted masterpiece. Don’t be. Force yourself to cut, say, 100 words per chapter. This doesn’t necessarily mean cutting whole paragraphs, or even whole sentences. Get crafty. See if you can find a word here or there that you can cut without sacrificing meaning. Here’s what will happen as a result:

  • You’ll start to recognize patterns of superfluity and be able to avoid it in the future.
  • You’ll start to recognize when to cut bigger passages that are dragging the story.
  • Your writing will tighten up: it will be clearer, more powerful, and easier to read; which means readers will keep reading.

If all that doesn’t convince you, I’ll appeal to Strunk & White to back me up: rule #17: Omit needless words. Here are examples of words you can cut.

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What editing tips have you picked up? Tell me in the comments!

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* I owe these two tips to my first writing teacher, Miss Judy. Thanks, Miss Judy, wherever you are!

** I owe this tip to Jubilare—pay her a visit; she’s got a new blog!