Category: Fiction philosophy

5 ways my mom made me a writer

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Although my mom isn’t a writer, I owe a lot to her for making me one. She did this in five big ways:

She read to us

My mom reads like a fiend and she read to us all the time when we were little. Narnia, The Hobbit, The Just So Stories, A Wrinkle In Time, From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, and countless others. She taught us to love stories – I can still remember how excited I was when I got into first grade and found out I was going to learn to read for myself.

She took us to the library

Every two weeks in the summer, she’d drive us to the library – not the tiny one up the street, but the big one that was a little farther off. I’d make a b-line for the YA section and grab anything that looked interesting, and take home a whole stack of books I could only hope would last me two weeks.

She home-schooled us

Most kids spend six hours a day in class and still have homework in the evening. They’re so busy cramming their heads with facts, they don’t have time to experiment with hobbies and figure out what they really want to do. When you’re home-schooled, you have a certain amount of work to do per day or week, and once you’re done with it, you’re free. On a good day, I could get everything done bynoon.

 

She made us amuse ourselves

You’d think with all that free time, we’d get bored. Well, sometimes we did. But every time we complained to Mom about it, she would say “You could always clean out the garage” or something to that effect, which meant we quickly learned not to depend on her for entertainment. Instead, we learned to amuse ourselves – which naturally lead to reading, which itself naturally led to writing (for two out of three of us).

 

She never told us we couldn’t

Although we understood that we had to lead productive lives and make real money, neither she nor my dad ever told us we couldn’t become writers (or a singer, which was what I wanted to be for most of my childhood). However, we also didn’t ask them to spend vast amounts of money to feed our hobbies; we didn’t ask them to buy us fancy computers or send us to expensive writer’s camps. I guess the message behind that is, if your kid really wants to do it, he’ll find a way with or without a big stack of money.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Why do we care about stories?

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I walked in the door to find my neighbor tearing pages out of a paperback and throwing them on the floor.

Naturally, I was curious.

She was angry about the ending, about the decision the hero had made, which went against the moral framework that the author had been building throughout the story. Although I don’t think I could ever tear pages out of a book (it seems almost sacrilegious), I could relate with her rage.

And it got me thinking recently – why do fictional works draw such powerful emotions from us? Sad endings make us weep, happy endings make us walk around with grins on our faces, and wrong endings make us furious.

So why do we care so much about stories that never really happened, and people who never actually existed? Do we forget for a moment that they’re not real, or is it something else, something deeper?

I think it is. We are born with an innate sense of justice, both moral and poetic. Even small children know when a story ends the wrong way. The hero is supposed to defeat the villain and live happily ever after. (Those who prefer unhappy endings usually do so only because tragedy seems more realistic, not because they think tragedy is right.)

There’s a saying that “all stories are true – and some of them actually happened.” I believe this, but I would add a disclaimer: not all storytellers get it right. All stories are true because they are a reflection of an ultimate truth – the same truth we are born knowing. Right and Wrong. The anger readers have toward writers who get it Wrong is the same anger we humans have toward God when bad things happen to good people: If you’re in control, why can’t you get it right?

There are a couple of funny things about this. First, the author (often without even realizing it) determines the Right way to end a story in the way he writes the beginning and middle. He sets up the context that makes one decision Right and another Wrong. The difference between good stories and bad ones lies in whether or not the author follows those Right guidelines within the context he has created. Sometimes he doesn’t – he lets his own prejudices get in the way, while his readers, who have an outside perspective, recoil from the flaw as if it hurt them personally.

Second, the ending determines it all. The best stories have the worst injustices in the beginning and middle. But when, in the end, all is made Right – villains get their comeuppance or make amends, heroes overcome all obstacles and so on – it’s all worth it. Because we need to see how something as dark, or darker than, our own lives can turn out good in the end. It gives us hope for reality.

As to reality, well. It wouldn’t be fair to judge the author before we knew the ending.

What fiction genre sells the best?

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book store display

Image by Kriss

You’re going to be smart. Strategic. You’re going to look at the books readers are going crazy over right now and write one just like them – but better – and copies will sell like hotcakes because you’re giving the people what they want.

As you’ve probably figured out, it doesn’t work like that. You can look at the market now and see that Twilight* is popular and decide to write a novel about the forbidden romance between a vampire/werewolf hybrid and a dog lover who runs a blood bank. It’s going to be huge! The problem? It’s going to take you a few years to write and edit the book, another couple of years to find a literary agent to represent you, another couple of years for your agent to find a publisher willing to take a chance on you, and another year before it sees print. Next thing you know, a decade has gone by and paranormal romance is so blasé now. Steampunk zombies are the new hot topic.

Don’t write for the market; write for yourself. This sounds narcissistic at first, but when you really think about it, it’s quite the opposite. If you are writing for the market, what’s your motivation? You want to sell a million copies, become rich and famous, and be interviewed on Regis and Kelly. But if you write for yourself it’s because there’s a story you need to tell. You want to write the kind of book you’d enjoy reading, and you want to share a bit of your soul with the rest of the world.

Now this soul bit you create may or may not be a huge commercial bestseller. It may or may not sell at all. But it will be honest, and it will be a good story, and because of that, it will be more likely to succeed than any produced-for-the-market book would ever be. When you like your own story, you put more tender loving care into it. You take the time to get it right, and your readers can tell.

With that being said, you must also be conscious of your responsibility to your audience. Writing talent is a privilege, having your work read by others is an honor, and in exchange for these things you owe honesty, quality and completeness. So write from the gut, rewrite like a critic, and be sure to tie up all your loose ends.

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*If you’re curious, I’m team TARDIS.

book store window

Should you be writing a different genre?

Lemony Snicket: four victories and one epic fail

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A Series of Unfortunate Events. Even the title is enough to spark interest for its sheer cleverness. First, because of the play on the word “series,” and second, because “unfortunate events” is simultaneously charming and intriguing – a word which here means “makes you long to pick it up and peruse its pages.”

And Lemony Snicket’s thirteen-volume series does not disappoint. Except in one important respect.

Mr. Snicket, as stated, does not lack charm. His whimsical wit is reminiscent of Lewis Carroll and Douglas Adams, but with melancholy overtones. A chapter titled “Déjà vu” opens with a description of the stated phenomenon. We read to the end of the page, turn that page – and find ourselves reading the same page again. And this is only one in a long list of amusing devices.

Mr. Snicket uses reverse psychology to make his writing irresistible. He opens Chapter One of Book the First with:

“If you are interested in stories with happy endings, you would be better off reading some other book. In this book, not only is there no happy ending, there is no happy beginning and very few happy things in the middle.”

Mr. Snicket does not forget that his narrator is also a character. From starting each volume with a mysterious dedication to “Beatrice,” to slipping in snippets of his own sad story at intervals, to confiding in his audience that he often visits bookstores so he can find copies of his books and put them on the highest shelves where they won’t be found, Mr. Snicket carefully paints a picture of his baffling, utterly depressed self.

Mr. Snicket keeps us interested by feeding us tidbits of information that we know are important. We begin to desperately wonder what happened  to Beatrice, whether or not the Baudelaire parents are actually dead, and what in the world is in the sugar bowl. We devour each chapter, bookmarking every few pages – everywhere we see a clue. As we near The End, the mysteries are piling up, we are holding our breaths, we—

And this is where Mr. Snicket fails us.

Granted, he warned us there would be no happy ending. Granted, he did everything he could to persuade us not to read on. But we still expected different. We expected the ending to be happy after all because no matter how vehemently the author denied it in every printed line, we could read the truth printed on the white spaces in between. Or so we thought. But even if we took his words at face value, we at least expected answers. Every problem promises a solution, remember? Every mystery promises an explanation.

But all we are left with at the end are broken promises and a sugar bowl that will remain eternally shut.

And hours of amusement. Yes, even though I am grievously disappointed in the ending, I would still highly recommend the series. Such is the dark art of Lemony Snicket.

Ghostwriting: lame or legit?

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A ghostwriter is a professional writer hired by someone to write a book that will feature the employer’s byline (for instance, Bob Jones would hire John Smith, a ghostwriter, to write a book. John would do most of the work, but the published book would say “by Bob Jones”).

Basically, a legal form of plagiarism. The way I see it, there are two types of ghostwriting – one is permissible, and one is not.

Celebrities
Society has an obsession with actors, musicians, politicians, etc., and they all have stories to tell. Very few of them have the skills to write those stories, but they all seem to be coming out with books anyway. This is thanks to ghostwriters, and it is a sensible way to fill a need. I object, however, to calling the celebrity an “author” and allowing the byline to include their name only. It should be classified as a co-authorship, and the ghostwriter’s name should appear beside the celebrity’s on the cover.

Famous authors
Sometimes an author of series fiction gets tired of writing one series, but the publisher thinks there is still money to be had. So they outsource future books to a ghostwriter, providing a basic plot structure the ghostwriter should follow (hence “formula fiction”). While the celebrity situation is acceptable, for an author to do this is disgusting. It goes against everything I believe in. The author is cheating his readers by paying others to do what he should do himself. He can’t put his soul into it because he is not writing it, and the ghostwriter cannot put his soul into it, because he is writing under someone else’s name. Inevitably, then, the book will have no soul. It will be a thin, runny, concoction of words without real feeling. It’s just empty entertainment.

This is no insult to the ghostwriter’s skills. As a copywriter, I have experience writing things for other people, and skill has nothing to do with soul. I work hard to make it good, but it is still not mine – it is the client’s. It will look and sound how the client wants it to, and do what the client wants it to. This is expected from advertising copy. But in novel form, it is the cheap fiction we read as children, the Nancy Drews* and the Babysitter’s Clubs, which we remember with vague fondness, but wouldn’t pick up again – whereas other children’s fiction, the Narnias and Borrowers and Winnie the Poohs, we gladly pick up again, because their authors actually wrote them, instead of farming the work out to be stamped with cookie-cutters.

What’s your take? Is ghostwriting a despicable cheat, or a legitimate business arrangement?

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*Nancy Drew wasn’t technically ghostwritten; it was written by a group of writers sharing a collective pen name. It is still, however, formula fiction.