It’s been a busy few weeks. We’ll resume our regularly scheduled posts next Thursday. I have family stuff two Thursdays in a row and just couldn’t get anything written. I’ll try to get a surplus built up in the mean time. See you next week!
It’s been a busy few weeks. We’ll resume our regularly scheduled posts next Thursday. I have family stuff two Thursdays in a row and just couldn’t get anything written. I’ll try to get a surplus built up in the mean time. See you next week!
The revisions are coming along slowly, as revisions tend to do. If you haven’t guessed already, my novel is fantasy, and I’ve always had a spot in my heart for that genre. Fantasy has been my gateway to a host of other wonderful, weird genres. I’ve come to appreciate science fiction, horror, strange future dystopias (YA and otherwise), urban fantasy, magical realism, and uncategorized experiments that seem to float between genres. Some are meta-fictions, reflecting our world back to us with ‘what if’ scenarios. Others are tightly focused on one subject, deeply exploring the subject matter with little reference to anything outside its own universe. Some stories are fun, irreverent romps; others are serious examinations of the human condition. Many of these stories contain more significant material than they’re given credit for.
As if confirming this point, I read just yesterday that George Orwell’s famous novel about a future surveillance state, 1984, was/is at the top of Amazon’s sales list right now. People are reading the proverbial tea leaves and they’re seeing grim things. It’s natural for the bookish among them to seek answers in the pages of such a book. Though fiction, it is a dire warning of what can happen if the government gets too much control over the population it’s supposed to serve, if propaganda becomes the new gospel, if service to the state is the highest purpose in life.
Orwell’s prediction was off by a few decades, but very on point with the scenarios. And it’s scary. But that’s the power of a good story.
How does an author come up with something so prescient, or moving, or frighteningly possible, when they trade in the realm of fiction?
Ask: What if?
Einstein spent time on thought experiments when he came upon a physics problem he wanted to understand better. He would run the scenarios in his mind, finding what upheld the observable natural laws and what fell short. I think authors operate much the same way. They see the world, make observations about it, and then ask ‘what if’.
What if aliens landed in major cities all over the world tomorrow and no one knew they were coming?
What if a girl had strange powers in a world of strange events, and she stumbled on a secret at the very center of that world?
What if a boy was witness to a terrible act of violence, which triggered something in his personality he didn’t know was there?
I wrote those three questions with specific books in mind, but I’m sure each one would cover hundreds of stories. Many authors might have the same concerns on their minds—the same ‘what ifs’—but each brings their unique voice and experiences and particular historical moment or interests to the narrative as they begin writing. The readers get their pick of perspectives on any given topic.
This is great, but how do dragons or monsters or aliens help us see our world more clearly?
Let’s start with the idea of power. Power can be good. In the simplest of examples, electrical power can run a household. Lights turn on with a switch, outlets provide access to power for innumerable tools and devices. But if something goes wrong, if there’s a short circuit or a bad connection, an electrical fire can start or a painful shock can be inflicted. Electrical power can be used to kill. It’s a good thing we take for granted, but within it, due to abuse or neglect, there is the potential for great harm.
In fiction, power harbors the same duality, though it may manifest in different ways. There are so many cautionary tales out there that center on the use or misuse of power. Yet the good ones read like an adventure and the theme might not be so obvious. Sometimes it looks like the message is ‘good will always triumph over evil,’ when the real purpose is to show how power is such a double-edged sword.
There’s a famous line early in the 2002 film, Spider-Man, where Uncle Ben tells Peter Parker, “With great power comes great responsibility.” It’s a cautionary statement, meant to tell Peter there’s danger in having too much power, and any power he has must be used wisely—and Uncle Ben doesn’t even know he’s Spider-Man. That phrase rings through the rest of the film, and it rings true. We see Peter use his alter ego for good. His powers help him put the world to right. Norman Osborn, however, uses his new powers for evil, in the guise of the Green Goblin.
I don’t think that his new powers are the whole reason he turns to evil, though. He was already corrupted by the power of wealth and position. The extra powers brought by experimental mutation only made it easier to abuse his position or power and block any guilty conscience. It’s almost like a Jekyll and Hyde split, where the hubris of Dr. Jekyll releases the full evil potential of Mr. Hyde.
There you have it. A superhero movie can be a lesson on the dangers of hubris and the failure of people with power to use it wisely. It’s a fun action movie with a little bit of romance and a lot of special effects, but it also teaches something valuable, if you look closely.
Writers know that words are power, too. So, figure out how to use your story, not just to tell a compelling story with well-written characters (although that’s important), but as a force for good.
What’s important to you? What do you see in the world that’s alarming?
You don’t have to write overtly political stuff to get your message across either. But make sure a message is there. I’m not sure you’ll even know what the message should be until the first draft is done, but if your story matters to you and you’re writing the best book you can, one will emerge.
Is love stronger than hate?
How do you stand for equality and human dignity in the face of tribulation?
What impact will disregard for the natural world have on those who depend on its resources?
How can observing the past save us from future disaster?
Pick your banner and wave it high. Write a darn good story, one that has twist and turns and characters the reader gets connected to. Ask tough questions. Offer some answers, if you can. Tell not just what matters, but why it matters.
As Julie Andrews once sang, “Let’s start at the very beginning. It’s a very good place to start.”I’m elbow deep in the rewrites for my novel, and the first chapter is making me think about beginnings. I see advice time and again that the opening sentence of a novel needs to hook the reader. The beginning should incite curiosity, instill excitement, or otherwise capture the reader’s imagination.
Great. Makes sense. Let’s see what my opening looks like:
Good grief. And I even rewrote it before the first draft was done. (Do not, I repeat, do not make that rookie mistake. It causes a pileup of issues later on. Leave changes to the rewrites. Just make a note and move on during the first draft.) I know I put more than the first sentence, and I’m sure you can see why. Now let’s explore why, in my head, this fails to hook the reader (no matter what my mom says to the contrary ). Some questions come to mind, like: Who’s Tobias? Why should I care about his dream? Answers aren’t given until the second paragraph, and they’re only answers to the first question, following an info dump about his surroundings and lifestyle. Hardly riveting reading. The second question is part of a mystery that unfolds throughout the rest of the book, only it’s lack luster in presentation here. Although the dream sequence is an important detail, and part of a plot point that drives the narrative, I succeeded in making it impersonal here. While it scares Tobias through visions of violence, it is in no way connected to his present circumstances. Why should the reader care if the character doesn’t give it a second thought?
I’m going to leave my self-assessment where it is for now and offer some examples of excellent opening scenes. By examining what works in books I enjoy, I can come closer to achieving the same effect in my own opening sequence.
I researched some iconic openings for this post, to make sure I got a broad perspective and to refresh my memory for books I borrowed or no longer own. However, one classic came to mind, and actually propelled this idea forward when I first started considering opening lines.
On top of all the other exciting things going on in these two simple lines, I love the extra little bit of information tucked into the chapter heading (but I’ll leave incidental details like that for a future post). The simplicity of these sentences is deceptive. They’re conversational in tone, yet Tolkien packs in a lot of information. And he prompts a few questions that serve to hook, rather than confuse, the reader. We don’t even get the hobbit’s name until much further down the page, but by then we have a clear picture of what he’s like, which will help us understand why he’s so perturbed by his strange guests later in the chapter. Then, it helps us see the extraordinary change he undergoes throughout his long adventure, prompting him to actions he never would’ve considered possible before the story begins. The first sentence is one step in building the narrative—the first step.
The first sentence makes the reader take notice: What is a hobbit? The second tells us a hobbit is a clean, sensible creature who enjoys the steady predictability of the day to day—for what greater comfort is there for someone who lives in a hole in the ground? Knowing that the story is only begun means we can expect this hobbit will be pulled out of his comfort zone and into excitement in short order, even if Bilbo doesn’t.
Another aspect of this beginning is the speed with which it drops the reader into the story. Tolkien gives us a hole and tells us it’s a home. Then he shows what it’s like by telling us what it’s not like. He goes on in the next paragraphs to fill in the space and give it shape until it’s possible for the reader to develop a clear picture of the home, and the surrounding hill, in the mind’s eye. This also serves to tell us what kind of person lives in such a home. I think it’s beautifully done and operates well within the bounds of the story. I’d consider this a ‘slow build’ opening. Still, this is certainly not the only way to begin a story.
There’s always the initial mystery and disorientation of starting a book, as a reader, before the ‘who,’ ‘where,’ and ‘what’s happening’ are revealed. Sometimes an opening sentence or two are designed to be jarring because the rest of the narrative is meant to leave the ready uneasy.
He’s a prime example of an opening setting the mood rather than setting a scene:
Already there are obvious differences between this passage and the last. Vonnegut wrote his story in first person (for the first chapter, at least), bringing an intimacy to the storytelling. The reader is dropped directly into the narrator’s head, scattered thoughts and all. To top it all off, the narrator claims credibility in a way that actually creates doubt. This serves to prepare the reader for a strange trip. The narrator remains the same (more or less) throughout the rest of the book, but that’s the only consistency. And that’s the point, really. Even the first few lines demonstrate that nothing in the world is guaranteed, (except, maybe, the horrors of war), not the reliability of the narrator, or our fates.
Instead of Tolkien’s approach of easing the reader into the world of the story, Vonnegut unsettles the reader, making him or her question the world as they’re led through it. Each method of opening serves it’s story in a specific way.
A third way to start a story, and one that introduces and intriguing mystery from the first words, is the ‘preview and rewind.’ The story starts with a moment drawn from later in the narrative, a tantalizing glimpse of the conflict to come. The author then moves back in time to take the reader through the events leading up to that point. The cause of the conflict is examined in detail.
Two examples of this come to mind. Each utilizes this method in a distinct way.
Here, the setting and one of the main characters are introduced immediately, however the circumstances are unusual. A miracle is forecast, but not revealed. Isabel is on a remote island. Why else would a cross—a grave marker—be made of driftwood? Why else would the burial be on the edge of the cliff? Further along in the passage, more information is given about the isolated island and its inhabitants. The event, the supposed miracle, is also described, only at that point it seems more like a mystery, or tragedy. The next chapter begins with a scene eight years earlier and thousands of miles away. The narrative unfolds chronologically from there, outlining how the characters got to the event touched on in the first pages. The miraculous nature of that event is clarified—as well as its tragic nature—and the reader is rewarded for paying attention to the details, revealed like clues up front.
In a different iteration of what I’ll call the ‘preview/rewind’ style, the mystery isn’t so much ‘what happened’ as ‘why it happened at all.’ And this time, the narrator is first person the whole way through the story.
The reader is presented with a body right away, along with a narrator who appears to know what happened. Not much detail is given as to how everyone got there, only that it was a life-haunting event for the as-yet-unknown narrator. There’s the strange sense that he doesn’t feel guilt over the death. Maybe he only feels regret that things turned out the way they did. The thing with first person narrators is that the reader never truly knows what the character is thinking unless he or she tells you. And they don’t have to because that’s how a first person account of things works. It adds to the suspense in this example.
After this brief snapshot of things to come, the story starts back about a year or so prior (although the narrator is only recalling these events from a distance of years in the future). He recounts everything that leads to his involvement in the body found at the bottom of the ravine.
In both cases of ‘preview/rewind,’ the mystery of the story isn’t the event that is the climax of the story. That’s given away up front. Instead, the journey—how the characters got to that point, and what happens after—is the big draw. The small peek at a future portion of the story, a crucial moment, is the hook that draws the reader in. It’s the promise of drama. It’s the possibility of tracing a path through an unlikely sequence of events until the satisfaction of the reveal is reached.
These beginnings can be tricky to pull off, but they’re wonderfully effective when done right. I’ve seen writing advice cautioning against the use of two devices employed by both authors right in their openings: prologues and time jumps. I’d like to explore a little about why each is problematic and how these authors overcame the obstacles to create effective openings using both literary devices.
The case against prologues makes sense, for the most part. It could be tempting to use the prologue as a way to fit in exposition. When handled clumsily it could turn into an info dump rather than a foretaste of the beating heart of the story.
The time jump is a bit more complicated. Most of the arguments caution against flashbacks specifically. Again, the danger is in using them for expositional info dumping. At the start of a novel though, we see a flash forward, but any time jump can become a crutch if used incorrectly. If too much of the future event is revealed, why read the rest of the book? If the event is shrouded in too much mystery it may confuse the reader, especially if on reaching the referenced event as it appears later on, the reader doesn’t recognize it. The time jump also loses power if it’s overused.
In the two examples above, the technique is the reserve of one special place in the narrative, and that place is indicated by also being the prologue, while the rest proceeds chronologically.
So we have four opening scenes and four(ish) methods for making them work. Let’s go back to my personal example and see if my rewrites look better than the first draft. Spoiler alert: most of them don’t.
That one might be worse as far as hooking the reader. It barely gives a feel for Tobias’s personality and only asks ‘Why is he hiding in the barn?’
Blah, blah, blah. I pulled back too far for this beginning. Borders can be explained later. That’s why fantasy novels come with maps, amiright? A little further down, I wrote ‘Tobias neither knew nor cared about any of those things,’ and neither will the reader.
Egads! It’s getting worse, and we’re not done yet.
More of the same. But the addition of that first sentence means I’m getting somewhere. It reveals something about one of the issues at the heart of the novel.
And so we reach the part I labeled ‘And Now: One More Time, With Feeling!’
This is where all those false starts finally came together. I’m much happier with this version. It could stand some polishing, but it doesn’t need a total overhaul anymore. Now that these are all together, I can examine the issues I had to work through to come to the last try.
The first example, from way at the top of this post, is excusable since I had only a vague idea of the focus and theme of the whole thing. (We’ll explore theme in a later post.) Once I finished the entire first draft of the novel, I had a much better idea of where I wanted the story to go, and so I had a better idea of how and where to start.
Being a fantasy novel, I took a cue from The Hobbit for my opening sequence. I use the first sentence to make a blanket statement about the state of magic in the world of the novel. The rest of the paragraph explores the protagonist’s relationship to, and attitudes about, magic in his world. It also introduces the protagonist, Tobias, to the reader.
There are almost as many ways of opening a novel as there are novels, and not every way will resonate with the reader. But the writer can take some things into consideration to help craft the best opening for their particular novel.
Here’s my unofficial questionnaire I used as I reviewed my rough draft and prepared to revise the opening:
Hopefully this has given you some encouragement and direction as you get to your own revisions and first line rewrites. I actually enjoyed mapping the evolution of my first lines. And I thought it would be embarrassing.
Good luck and get writing!
I’ve been neglecting this space for some months now. I don’t think anyone noticed yet, so let’s pretend this is a brand new project. Just ignore those old posts; they were written by an entirely different person.
So, hello. I’m Rachel, and I’m throwing words into the cyber ether with the hope some of them will filter through to your eyeballs. Maybe they’ll be useful to you.
In the past I’ve tried to do too many different things in this space, and I’ve failed to keep up with them. Now is the time to change that. I want to talk about writing, what struggles I’m having, and what I see out there that I admire. That’s it.
It’s a potentially broad focus, but that’s what I’ll be looking at. I intend to read considerably more in the coming year, too, in order to learn, and grow, and see what’s going on out there.
I tried to get back to this blogging routine with the start of NaNoWriMo, but that fell off my radar fast. I continued to plug away at my NaNo novel though. I wrote every day—a first. I lost anyway—not a first. I have half a novel, 30,000 words, and the rest planned out in detail (at least for me it’s detail). I put that project on hold after November 30th. It needs more research before I can go on.
I also had a rough situation going on at work, which only resolved in time for the chaos of the holidays. Then I got sick. Looming over all of this personal mayhem has been the specter of the election and its results, as well as the continuing train of public icons passing away. I try to remain philosophical about the deaths of the famous, but this year’s deaths hit hard and were unrelenting. It’s been a rough year for many people. Things have since settled down in my life, so here I am: new year, new goals, new direction.
I’ve been in my head too long. It’s time to get out.
Here’s my plan:
1. Read a lot in 2017.
Not only read a lot, but read with discernment. I have a BA in English Literature, might as well flex my literary criticism muscles and really analyze those books. I want to focus on phrasing, word choice, what works and what falls short.
2. Write a lot.
I have a stack of unfinished stories haunting me. I looked through it and some have real potential. I need to finish what I start.
3. Edit the suck out of my first novel.
I actually finished writing one thing, but I’m far from done with it. There’s a reason the first draft is often called the ‘rough draft.’
4. Explore other formats of sharing.
I’m bad at social media, bad at adhering to a set blogging schedule, and hesitant to interact online. I run sarcastic and dry humor just doesn’t translate well into 140 characters. I need to work on my people skills. That’s where the stories are, out with people.
I’m also considering some self improvement goals. I want to get in shape. Exercise quiets my mind so I can get work done on my writing. I’m also looking at my options for further schooling. Not that I think an MFA or other master’s degree is the Holy Grail of artistic achievement. (Publication seems closer to that.) I only got my undergrad degree after much wailing and gnashing of teeth and fighting my own demons of Stupidity and Selfishness. I’d like to try doing school again, for myself, this time with a firm understanding of the requirements and my own weaknesses. I want to do it right, and I have the focus and drive I lacked the first time around. Probably, this won’t happen as my GPA works against me, but I can try. I won’t talk about school much on here, if I get accepted, except in relation to writing projects. I just wanted to get my goals out there. Accountability, you know.
So that’s a quick look back at 2016 and a long plan forward into 2017.
Care to join me?
P.S. My first task is to finish the books I started in 2016 and carried over, unfinished, into the new year. After that I plan to be more deliberate in both my selections and my analyses. Not sure yet what form that will take. I might vlog on Youtube. I’m using BookRiot’s 2017 Read Harder Challenge guidelines. I’ll be setting up a separate page devoted to tracking my progress.
Full disclosure: I’m not a sprinter.
My first sport, first competitive, team building, organized sport, was cross country. It’s not glamorous, it’s frequently muddy, and it’s often lonely. I know, I just said above that it was a team building sport. Here’s the thing, it is a team sport built on individual accomplishments. I’m built for the long haul races, and I used to be in shape for them too. Same goes for writing.
Yes, running is an apt metaphor for the work that goes into producing a book. I can mull over and tinker with a book idea, characters, plot, etc. for years, writing scene after scene, outlining and reworking, never quite satisfied with the results, but always learning and always getting better at the craft. That’s the cross country race of writing. Sometimes I’m slogging up a steep hill, once in a while I hit a boggy patch and nearly lose a shoe, often I feel like I’m the only one on the course as it winds through the woods. I wonder what I’m doing there, but I go on. I bet this sounds familiar. But this November, I’m settling into the blocks for the quick sprint of NaNoWriMo. It’s the 100 meter dash of writing challenges.
I’m no sprinter, as I said, and I’m a slow writer too. Come November 1, however, I’m going to lace up my running shoes and go for it. I’ll put away the *mountains* of research material, the distractions, the Pinterest boards of inspiration, and get down to the pen and the blank page. I’ll bring my outlines too; those are my course maps. It may be a sprint, but it’s a twisty one. Outlines help keep me on track.
I’ll also lock my inner editor away for the month. Here I’ll end the running metaphor and move on to a literary reference. Remember the chokey from Matilda? Put your inner editor in there for a month. It’ll be good for her. So, next month I aim to write every day, I aim to finish a crappy first draft of a new book, and I aim to have fun and learn some things along the way.
I’m also going to try and work in some exercise. It’s good for your brain as well as your body.
If you’re interested in running, I recommend checking out my sister’s blog: Sarah Runs Again. She’s a good writer and her posts are inspiring and often funny.
Go forth, Wrimos! Run that race and kick some butt on the way. I wish you all luck reaching your personal best.
Back in February I posted about the revision process and my doubts going into it. I made the mistake of going back to look at earlier chapters while I was still writing the end parts of my first book. In my defense I took an overly long break between periods of writing, so I needed to refresh myself on my story. But when I went back I saw with horror that some of what I had written didn’t belong in the story anymore. I ripped it out, despite loving those few chapters. It was painful but necessary. Now I have a complete first draft (it’s still awful ) and I’m revising it into a slightly better second draft. There’s so much that needs to be done before it can go into line edits and be ready for anyone else to see it. I want to share some of the ups and downs of this process. It’s my first time through it and I’m finding some interesting things about the whole process.
As I began, I asked myself: What does it mean to revise? I pulled out an ancient dictionary and looked it up. (If you go back to 1997 and find fourth grader me, I’ll most likely be found lying on the floor with an open dictionary, learning new words.)
revise: [<Fr. <L.<re-, back + visere, to survey, freq. of videre, to see] 1. to read (a manuscript, etc.) over carefully and correct and improve it 2. to change or amend*
*Webster’s New World Dictionary of the American Languange, 2nd Concise Ed., 1978
There you have it. Revision is the act of surveying what’s been written and changing it for the better. To review, to re-see the story with new eyes. That’s why many writers recommend putting the first draft away for a while before revising. It’s easier to make brutal changes with distance from the creative part of the process. So here I am, fixing what’s gone wrong, tightening the focus of the narrative and otherwise wreaking havoc on what I’ve written. I left those two chapters out that I cut in February. That turned out to be the right decision. It also left a knocked down domino trail of narrative scraps for me to find and clean up. I’m approaching this challenge as a scavenger hunt, looking for all the weird loose ends removing those two chapters left. I found that pulling those chapters out made two characters that exist in other chapters entirely unnecessary, so I pulled them out too. Now I have another series of changes to make to the narrative. It’s challenging, but I can feel the story getting cleaner and tighter, the characters that matter have more room to move and develop, I eliminated some points-of-view (who has time to keep track, honestly?), and everything makes more sense. I have to rework quite a few scenes, but most were awkward, and now the root cause of that unease is taken care of. Things should smooth out.
I’ll save the things I removed. They can be put to use in other stories, maybe. A character name, a personality, a scene, tension, or conflict, anything in the discard pile is fair game for use later. What matters now is revising this current story into its optimal form. It won’t be perfect, that’s impossible, but it will be better. Maybe it will be good enough to share with others, maybe not. But I will have learned more about writing and revising and the work and care it takes. So far, I’m enjoying the journey. I think I’d like to do it again sometime.
Landing is the part that gets me,
Gravity exercising final control.
We must always come back down.
My brain abandons all logic on final approach,
Dredging up all the images of Icarus,
Wings spread, hands up, head back,
Dropping like a chiseled stone from the sun drenched skies above
Mediterranean waters. Daedalus, often forgotten
In the picture, off canvas, watching horrified,
His son, saved from the minotaur to be eaten by sharks.
Hearing the sick slap of flesh on unyielding waves,
Bones snapping, skin bruising black from the force,
Consciousness switched off—a mercy—as the young man,
Wax wings, disfigured from flight and folly and fall, breaking and spreading,
Sinks under the serene summer blue of the sea.
I have no problem with heights.
Takeoff. Flight. Physics is a solid comfort,
Predictable, law abiding. Landing follows suit,
But variables are all I consider.
It’s a silly fear. I had carefree days when I truly believed
A blanket cape made me Superman. But even he started out
Only leaping buildings. Drop him from the edge of space
I bet he’d have a bad time, too. Likely it would be a broken wrist.
What happened to Billy?
Oh, he jumped off the roof with a blanket around his neck.
He’s lucky he only needed one bone set.
What happened, Clark?
Skydiving accident. Needed a cast.
Sure, sure, I still expect those articles on my desk tomorrow.
Falling is the problem here. The joke is that the instant deceleration,
That’s what kills you. I’ve fallen from a few heights.
I still climb; the view is often worth it. Trees, slides, trees, again.
Hitting land is no problem, sometimes survivable, always some evidence.
And I have falling nightmares, and drowning nightmares, sometimes sequentially.
Maybe I fear Icarus’s fate.
I fear falling from too great a height to be lost in the unplumbed depths.
Unrecoverable. Lost. Forgotten.