Flogging the Quill

The writer's inner life

We writers are all the same, alone in the darks of our minds. And we're all very different in how we deal with that, and with the result. Being alone that way, we wonder if other writers are like us. If our experience is the norm, or weird, or. . .

What's your inner writing life like? We talk about craft, and we grow in that respect through shared knowledge, experience, failures and successes. But what's happing inside your skull. For example, how do you feel about first drafts?

Thou vomitous mss

I know novelists who think their first draft is vomit. I guess I can understand reasons for feeling that way, but I'm lucky -- I think my stuff is good as soon as it comes out of the box. I love it.

While that feels good, it does create a problem. If I thought of it as vomit, then any criticism that could make it better would be welcome. But what do you do about stuff you think is good? In my case, I've had to learn to tuck my own opinion way back and down deep and try to open my mind to the possibility of not-good.

I love the feeling when the whole thing is DONE, and I all I have left to do is a little polishing.

Yeah, right.

But, still. . .I remember, vividly, the rush I felt when I finished reading, for the first time, the first draft of my first novel as a whole and seeing that it was good. It was the real thing. Wow. And that rush, well. . .

Writing is sexy

When I was a scriptwriter and story editor with an animation studio in L.A., I had a great afternoon one particular day, writing hilarious comedic scenes. It was really good stuff, and I knew it -- I was laughing as I typed. When I reached a stopping point, I couldn't sit still. I had to walk. And, as I paced, I realized that I was, in a just-perceivable way, aroused. Nothing physical, but there was that sensation. . .

I paced my way into a writer buddy's office and asked him about it, and he agreed. He'd also had the experience that there was, sometimes, a sensual/sexual aspect to writing when you felt inspired. Sort of a creative orgasm. I've had that experience since.

What about you?

About that first novel that gave me such a rush -- it's been boiled down to its skeleton and then reborn through a gazillion rewrites. As Mr. Vonnegut says, "So it goes."

Keeping it going

One of the things I've had luck with is not getting down about rejections, either of a query by an agent or a manuscript by an editor. The reason is that I spend time imagining success. I sometimes find myself listening to All Things Considered on NPR and imagine myself being interviewed there about my book. And on Jon Stewart's Daily Show. And Good Morning America. And . . . well, you get it.

Foolish? Not if there's balance. My approach is to expect defeat and plan for success. The good thing about this is that if you expect defeat that only means that your writing life goes on pretty much as it has. But to plan for success, you have to imagine being successful. Whether it's interviews on NPR or buying a cabin deep in a forest and becoming a hermit, you have to imagine it. That's fun. And energizing. Carrots work a lot better than sticks.

Obsessive

My son was home from college on spring break, and a treat was that his Ultimate Frisbee team had a tournament nearby. We hosted the team, and went to the tournament. Great fun. Afterward, my son told me about how they would get together and talk Frisbee for hours and hours. Drawing up plays. Creating strategies. His team invented a variation on zone defense that drives opponents nuts. It's their obsession.

And writing is mine. The WIP is always with me. Simmering in a pot on a back burner. Popping up with a scene or line of dialogue when I'm driving or walking. I watch television in the evening with my laptop open on my lap, ready to go over recently written stuff during commercial breaks and boring spots.

Not only is thinking about it compulsive, but so is the need to finish it. I guess it has to be that way. Who in their right mind would decide that it's a good thing to sit down and write 80,000 words that tell a story, and to sweat over rewrites and polishing?

You and me, that's who. This week I finished a novel that I've been working on for close to three years. I even set it aside for about nine months when I felt the need (compulsion?) to rewrite another novel after input from an agent. Yet the story stayed with me, and even grew and enriched itself during fallow periods. Obsessive. Compulsive. Necessary.

What about you? Share your experience with me on these facets of the inner life, or others.

For what it's worth.

Ray

Free edit in exchange for posting permission. You send a sample that you have questions about and of which you'd like an edit. I won't post it without your permission. Please attach samples as documents to your email.

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© 2006 Ray Rhamey

Writing historical fiction

Occasionally I receive submissions by publicists of articles by authors they're promoting. When one looks like it might of help to you, I'm glad to pass it on. Here's one by author Elizabeth Crook.

Seven Rules for Writing Historical Fiction

By Elizabeth Crook

Author of The Night Journal: A Novel

We grow up being told to write what we "know", but history is the unknown. You have to learn almost everything about a period and the social customs just to get your characters out of their beds, (or off of their skins,) and feed them breakfast.

Rule #1: Sweat the Small Stuff.
The authenticity of historical fiction depends on your knowledge and use of historical detail. It is not enough to say a character walked down the street. The reader has to be able to see the street, see the conveyances; he has to smell the smoke from the factories or the sewage in the gutter. If there are street vendors, he has to know what they're selling. This is a new world: the reader can't fathom it unless you give him images. These should be accurate and not recycled from old movies.

Two suggestions:

1. Find experts on the topics you need to learn about. It's easier to track down someone who knows about sheep ranching in the 1890s and call them up when you need to know about scabies than it is to find, in documents or on the internet, the answer to every question that comes up in the course of writing a book. If you're going to write a scene involving a train wreck in 1891, get books on train wrecks, read enough to know what you're talking about, Google the authors and find out where they work. Call and see if they'll talk to you. Latch on to the friendly ones. "What about the couplers?" you can ask, having read enough to know that faulty couplers were a major factor in train wrecks.

I once needed to know about Mormons in Mexico. I Googled "Mormons in Mexico," found a woman who had written a dissertation on a Mormon settlement near Juarez and found her through the school. She spent two hours on the phone with me, describing vividly the Mormon settlement that my characters needed to visit.

2. If your story takes place after catalogs were in use, get hold of reprints of old catalogs. I have an 1895 Montgomery Ward Catalog that has descriptions of, and prices for, almost every personal item used by people of that time: hardware, books, stationery, toys, guns, toiletries, wallpaper, stoves, laundry equipment, harnesses and saddlery - the list goes on and on. It represents the lifestyle of that decade.

Rule #2: Dump the Ballast.
In order to write authentic historical fiction you must know a period of time well enough to disappear daily through a wormhole to the past. There you must understand the customs and use the manners perfectly enough to be accepted by people walking the streets (if there are streets) and to dress yourself, and make a living. This said, the major trick of writing good historical fiction is not in compiling research or knowing the details, but in knowing which details to leave out.

Avoid overwriting. Keep perspective on what will interest the reader. Historical fiction writers tend to be overly conscientious and excited by minutia: if you succumb to excess, and put in too much detail, then go back and take some of it out. Think of your novel as a boat that is about to sink from having too much weight on board: some loved items will have to go. Toss them over with impunity! If a rare, surprising statistic, or a moving anecdote, or an obscure reference you saw to an interesting thing that happened in the county adjacent to the one where your story takes place, does not advance your plot or provide your reader with important information about your characters, then it is irrelevant to your story and must go.

The care and time it took to assemble all that you have just thrown out has not been wasted. It was necessary to gather these facts and assess their worth in order to know which ones to save.

Rule # 3: Keep Your Conscience Clean.
If your characters are based on real people and you are using their names, be reasonably responsible to the originals. You are probably going to have to fill in a lot of gaps in the historical record: you may know from the record what a person did and when he did it, but not why. It's the "why" that defines his character. Ask yourself: Am I getting this close to right? Am I doing this person a disservice?

Rule #4: Resist Judging Your Characters.
We live in the 21st century with certain shared values: our society disapproves of prejudice and chauvinism and provincialism. But your characters are people of their times; allow them to be bigoted or politically backwards. Don't pass judgment on them, don't apologize for their mistakes, and don't attempt to make them all into free thinkers who are ahead of their times. You have to be able to see the story from their perspective, even if it offends you. If you judge your characters, you will date your book. Years from now when your own moral sensibilities are antiquated, your book will be too.

Rule #5: Watch Out for First Person.
I put down three books recently because I was annoyed with the first person viewpoint, which came across as self-absorbed. Unless you're writing in the form of letters or journals, make sure any first-person character has a good reason to be telling his story. People tend not to like people who notice themselves too much or describe themselves or seem overly aware of how others perceive them. Anyone relating a story about himself -- what he said, what he was wearing, what inflection he had in his voice or what gesture he made as he spoke some pronouncement -- we dismiss as annoying and self-important. We feel the same about characters. There are many beautiful books written in first person, but know the challenge of this before you start out.

Rule #6: Don't Get Bogged Down by Back-story.
It is easy to be overly dutiful and bore your readers with too much background information delivered too soon. There is no surer way to lose your reader than to answer every question before he wonders about it. Instead, let your story unfold dramatically. The trick is to delay telling backstory for as long as possible. You will find that most of it is never needed. It percolates up through the real story when the real story gets going.

Rule#7: Anticipate a Long Process.
Historical novels usually take several years to write, as they require research at every turn. You won't always be able to anticipate what you'll need to know for a scene, and will constantly have to return to your references. This is entirely different from writing contemporary fiction.

Take, for example, a trip from Austin, Texas to the nearby town of San Marcos. If you are going to write a present-day scene, you simply need to put your character into a vehicle -- a pickup, or a Volvo -- and head him south for forty minutes on the flat terrain of interstate 35, passing strip malls and fields and the town of Buda. He will then take the exit marked "Wonder World", named for a local cave and visitor's center, and arrive in San Marcos. The only research needed to write this scene will be to drive the route yourself.

But if your character takes this journey in 1906, you will have to learn a few things before starting him out, and learn more things along the way.

First of all, you need to know where the road is, and what's on either side of it, and what kind of conveyance your character is driving. If it's a flatbed wagon, what's pulling it -- a horse, a half-lame mule, two mules? How often do mules need water? How much traffic will there be? Any cars? What kind of food or luggage do you have along? And what if a wheel breaks, and you have to fix it, and you cut your self with a rusty tool -- how do you disinfect the cut? Do you even know about disinfection? When did people figure out where tetanus came from? And -- assuming that you eventually make it to San Marcos, what's in San Marcos, anyway? As for the Wonder World exit -- when was the cave called "Wonder Cave" actually discovered?

But here is where the magic comes in: you begin to think, "Wow. The discovery of Wonder Cave. Now that would make a scene . . ." And then suddenly you have a story, and a book to write. The only problem, of course, is that you will soon find out that Wonder Cave was discovered in 1898 instead of 1906, so you will have to move your story back eight years and find out what sort of vehicles they drove in 1898 and along what road, and the rest of it, or else joggle the facts and sacrifice credibility in the name of literary license. Or ditch Wonder Cave.

Writing historical fiction is like trying to get to San Marcos when you have no car, you don't know where the road is, and you have never in your life harnessed a half-lame mule to a flatbed wagon. Assume it is going to be a while before you arrive.

None of these rules, obviously, is iron-clad. I'm sure there is a Brilliant counter-example somewhere for each and every one of them. I hope you find them useful. Good luck! Happy Travels! God's speed.

Elizabeth

For what it's worth.

Ray

Free edit in exchange for posting permission. You send a sample that you have questions about and of which you'd like an edit. I won't post it without your permission. Please attach samples as documents to your email.

ARCHIVES .

© 2006 Ray Rhamey

Edit: repetition buries this dialogue and opening scene

Bill sent his prologue and first chapter, and I fear that Bill isn't going to care for my reaction. It may well be that what he's written just isn't my cup of novel, and thus can disregard my opinions. For opinion is all that it is, of course, as with any reader or editor. You be the judge.

First, Bill, I would delete the prologue. It's all backstory and foreshadowing, with very little happening. Which is what many beginning writers use prologues for. Which is the reason I and, I've read, a number of agents skip them. Miss Snark, for example, is as anti-prologue as I am. A prologue can work if it's an intense scene with conflict and action -- but if it is, why not make it chapter one and then do a time transition? In this case, there wasn't that. Here's how Bill's chapter one opens:

Jon sat up and dropped his papers on the desk. It was almost four and he was tired and bored, so let his phone continue, savoring the legitimate interruption of his routine and suspending his faculties in a little panorama of perspective. On the third ring he plucked the receiver from the cradle and swivelled his chair about to gaze out over the skyline of Manhattan.

"Hello?"

"Jon?"

He recognized Liz's voice and his face softened. "Hello."

"Jon? Something awful has happened."

"What's the matter?" His wife was no stranger to catastrophe. No doubt the ring had come off the bathtub stopper again.

"It's my mother." Her voice began a quaver, then straightened.

"I thought your mother went home this morning."

"She did. But she came back awhile ago saying she's dying. I don't know what to do. I'm frightened." Her voice caught on a sob and disintegrated as she burst out crying.

Jon sat silent a moment, gathering the impact of his wife's words. "Here," he said, drawing out his sentence in a Midwestern drawl. "There's no use crying. Of course she's dying. We all are."

But this philosophic levity did not stop the sobs. "I don't know what to do," she choked.

Jon frowned. "Liz, stop." He waited, then spoke more sharply. "Liz! Stop it. I can't talk to you when you're like that!"

Presently the sobs abated.

"What makes her think she's dying?"

"She's been to see the doctor."

"When you phoned this morning you said she was going to see the doctor and then going home."

"I know. She left. But she came back here instead. She walked in and said `I'm dying!' Just like that. `I'm dying!' Can you come home?"

"Sweetheart! I'm at the office. I'm at my job. I have to work."

"Jon, I'm frightened."

"I'm sure you are. But you've got to pull yourself together. Tell me what happened."

"What do you want to know?" asked Liz, with a sniffle.

"Well, apparently she's not bleeding to death on the living room floor."

"No. It's not like that."

"Is she there now?"

"Yes."

"Can she hear what you're saying?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"All right. Your mother says she's dying?"

"Yes. That's what she says."

Jon paused, chagrined, and stymied. He raised his hand to smooth the longish hair at the back of his head. He didn't actually know how to handle this. "She left this morning saying she was going to the doctor, then home, but came back to the apartment?"

"Yes."

"What doctor?"

"I don't know." Her voice faded as she queried her mother. "Buchsbaum."

"The one at Columbia-Presbyterian?"

"Yes. And then she came in saying, `I'm dying! I'm dying!' Just like that. `I'm dying! I'm...'"

"OK, OK. What did the doctor say is the matter with her?"

"That's just it. He didn't say exactly. But it's the same as before. And the same that makes her talk that way."

"You mean that word...from that Sunday? Amyotrophia?" The thought of it annoyed him.

"Yes."

"Well, ask her again." He had the feeling he could get worked up and then find it all a misunderstanding. "If she knows she's dying, she must know what she's dying of."

(removed 635 words of backstory)

"She says she doesn't know," said Liz, coming back on the line. "They didn't tell her. But they want her to come back next week."

Refusing to name the ailment did not seem plausible to Jon. But lately she had also complained of a peculiar weakness in her hands and arms, and with the conjunction of all these difficulties decided to seek serious help. For the last month or two she had resigned herself to near-weekly appointments at the outpatient clinic of Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital, and during that week, while the schools were closed for Easter, her doctor there had wanted her to stay overnight in the clinic for observation. She refused of course, since the stay would have entailed an additional bed fee, but she had consented to an extra visit and come in to Manhattan to spend the weekend with Jon and Liz so she would be handy to the clinic for her appointment Monday morning.

"Well, does she know when she's dying?"

Another garbled exchange.

"She's not sure. But the doctor says she has only two or three years left. Whatever, it's incurable."

"But she doesn't know what it is?"

"No."

"Does the doctor know what it is?"

Another exchange.

"Yes. But she doesn't. And he doesn't know what causes it."

"Christ! And she doesn't even know when except for `two or three years'?"

"That's what she says." Suddenly Liz was away, talking to her mother. Then she was back. "Two or three, or three or four. Maybe even one. She's not sure."

"There has to be a mistake. Doctors just don't tell people they're dying. Even if they think it, they don't say it. That's just television junk!"

"I thought it might be a mistake," said Liz. She stopped, then began again. "Well, we talked about that once." Suddenly she was not making sense.

"What?"

"Yes, that could be. What was that?"

"Are you trying to tell me something without having your mother hear it?" asked Jon, suspiciously.

"Yes."

"Are you talking about the senility?"

"Yes."

Okay, we've read 885 words, 1,500 if I'd included the flashback, and what has happened? And how effective is this opening in hooking this reader? But first, some editorial notes:

Jon sat up and dropped his papers on the desk. It was almost four and he was tired and bored, so he let his phone continue, savoring the legitimate interruption of his routine and suspending his faculties in a little panorama of perspective. On the third ring he plucked the receiver from the cradle and swivelledswiveled his chair about to gaze out over the skyline of Manhattan.

"Hello?"

"Jon?" These first two lines are useless. Get to it. Condense. You could start with the next sentence.

He recognized Liz's voice and his face softened. "Hello." "His face softened" is a point-of-view slip: he can't see his face and what it does. Maybe better to give him an emotional response, something like: He recognized Liz's voice and it warmed the way her smile did. "Hello."

"Jon? Something awful has happened." Why does she repeat his name? She called his number and expected to get him. Overwriting. Also, if she's so upset, shy doesn't she go ahead and tell him?

"What's the matter?" His wife was no stranger to catastrophe. No doubt the ring had come off the bathtub stopper again. Nice use of sarcastic thought to characterize him and their relationship. But the dialogue doesn't contribute anything.

"It's my mother." Her voice began a quaver, then straightened. This is where I'd go as soon as he recognizes her voice and says hello. Cut straight to "It's my mother."

"I thought your mother went home this morning."

"She did. But she came back awhile a while ago saying she's dying. I don't know what to do. I'm frightened." Her voice caught on a sob and disintegrated as she burst out crying.

Jon sat silent a moment, gathering the impact of his wife's words. "Here," he said, drawing out his sentence in a Midwestern drawl. "There's no use crying. Of course she's dying. We all are." The reference to drawling/Midwestern drawl is another pov slip. He can't hear how he says things, and surely wouldn't be consciously thinking about how he was speaking. Suggest delete.

But this philosophic levity did not stop the sobs. "I don't know what to do," she choked. I wouldn't used "she choked" as a dialogue tag. Just use said. You can't really choke words. You can do something such as: She sounded choked. "I don't know what to do." However, she has already told him that she doesn't know what to do, so this is totally repetitions. Suggest delete the first reference to not knowing what to do.

Jon frowned. "Liz, stop." He waited, then spoke more sharply. "Liz! Stop it. I can't talk to you when you're like that!" "then spoke more sharply" is telling, and a pov slip. The exclamation point and repetition tells the reader a lot about his delivery. If you add action and emotion, "sharply" isn't needed. Thought-starter: He waited, but she kept on. Christ, couldn't the woman control her emotions? "Liz! Stop it…"

 Presently the sobs abated.

 "What makes her think she's dying?"

 "She's been to see the doctor."

 "When you phoned this morning you said she was going to see the doctor and then going home." Overwriting and repetitious. We have to read “to see the doctor” again, and we already know that. Her phoning that morning isn’t relevant. This could be handled with something such as: “You said she was going home after that.” (Note: later narrative reveals that she went to the doctor after spending the weekend with Jon and Liz for that express purpose, so Jon should already know all this at the time of the conversation.)

 "I know. She left. But she came back here instead. She walked in and said `I'm dying!' Just like that. `I'm dying!' Can you come home?"

 "Sweetheart! I'm at the office. I'm at my job. I have to work."

 "Jon, I'm frightened." This is the second time she’s told him that she is frightened, using the same words. I don’t see how this repetition is helping, and I believe that readers will find the repetitive nature of this conversation wearing.

 "I'm sure you are. But you've got to pull yourself together. Tell me what happened." Strikes me as a not-very-sharp question—she has already told him what happened.

 "What do you want to know?" asked Liz, with a sniffle.

 "Well, apparently she's not bleeding to death on the living room floor."

 "No. It's not like that."

 "Is she there now?"

 "Yes."

 "Can she hear what you're saying?"

 "Yes, I guess so."

 "All right. Your mother says she's dying?" This is the third time we’ve heard this, why is it being repeated? Perhaps “real” people would wander around and repeat like this in a conversation, but dialogue in a novel has to MOVE.

 "Yes. That's what she says." Repetitious. We know that, so does Jon.

 Jon paused, chagrined, and stymied. He raised his hand to smooth the longish hair at the back of his head. He didn't actually know how to handle this. "She left this morning saying she was going to the doctor, then home, but came back to the apartment?" Now you’re telling us again what we’ve just been told. I found this to be irritating.

 "Yes."

 "What doctor?" As mentioned, he should already know this. And why is it relevant?

 "I don't know." Her voice faded as she queried her mother. "Buchsbaum." Why is it relevant?

 "The one at Columbia-Presbyterian?" He already knows this, so why is he asking?

 "Yes. And then she came in saying, `I'm dying! I'm dying!' Just like that. `I'm dying! I'm...'" Lordy, this is the FOURTH time we’ve been told this.

 "OK, OK. What did the doctor say is the matter with her?" I’d plug this in instead of the earlier “Tell me what happened.” And cut out all the stuff between that point and here. The reader wants to know, so help her out.

 "That's just it. He didn't say exactly. But it's the same as before. And the same that makes her talk that way."

 "You mean that word...from that Sunday? Amyotrophia?" The thought of it annoyed him. <Why does this thought annoy him?

 "Yes."

 "Well, ask her again." He had the feeling he could get worked up and then find it all a misunderstanding. "If she knows she's dying, she must know what she's dying of."

 (removed: 635 words of backstory) There was a chunk of history that stopped the dialogue dead in its tracks. While it did give information on the mother-in-law, it wasn’t necessary to understand what was going on in this scene. I’d cut it all.

 "She says she doesn't know," said  When, coming she came back on the line, she said, "They didn’t tell her. But they want her to come back next week."

 Refusing to name the ailment did not seem plausible to Jon. But lately she had also complained of a peculiar weakness in her hands and arms, and with the conjunction of all these difficulties decided to seek serious help. For the last month or two she had resigned herself to near-weekly appointments at the outpatient clinic of Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital, and during that week, while the schools were closed for Easter, her doctor there had wanted her to stay overnight in the clinic for observation. She refused of course, since the stay would have entailed an additional bed fee, but she had consented to an extra visit and come in to Manhattan to spend the weekend with Jon and Liz so she would be handy to the clinic for her appointment Monday morning. This big chunk of backstory slows things down for me. I’d delete it. This would avoid repetition of stuff that has already been revealed in the dialogue.

"Well, does she know when she's dying?"

 Another garbled exchange.

 "She's not sure. But tThe doctor says she has only two or three years left. Whatever, it's incurable."

 "But she doesn't know what it is?" We already know this. Why repeat it?

 "No." We already know this. Why repeat it?

 "Does the doctor know what it is?"

 Another exchange.

 "Yes. But she doesn't. And he doesn’t know what causes it."  “But she doesn’t” is telling us again something we’ve heard 3 times already.

 "Christ! And she doesn't even know when except for `two or three years'?"

 "That's what she says.” Suddenly Liz was away, talking to her mother. Then she was back. "Two or three, or three or four. Maybe even one. She's not sure." More repetition of what has already been revealed. You tell us three times running that she has two or three years.

 "There has to be a mistake. Doctors just don't tell people they're dying. Even if they think it, they don't say it. That's just television junk!"

 "I thought it might be a mistake," said Liz. She stopped, then began again. "Well, we talked about that once." Suddenly she was not making sense. This is “telling.” You show it with the following dialogue.

 "What?"

 "Yes, that could be. What was that?"

 "Are you trying to tell me something without having your mother hear it?" asked Jon, suspiciously. I like what he says here, deducing what his wife is saying. Don’t need to say “asked”—note the question mark at the end of the sentence. The adverb doesn’t add anything, the dialogue does the work, as it should.

 "Yes."

 "Are you talking about the senility?"

 "Yes." At last, something new.

There were 3600 words in Bill’s 1^st chapter, 16 pages, and it consisted of just this conversation and backstory, and it ended with Jon dialing the doctor to ask what was wrong with the mother-in-law. In answer to what happened in these 16 pages, we learned that Jon’s mother-in-law is dying, his wife is upset, and Jon is sarcastic. Not much of a hook to get a novel started, in my way of looking at things.

I’m guessing that, with his dialogue approach, Bill is going for some verisimilitude regarding the way people might really speak in a tense situation. But, the way I see it, dialogue in fiction should not be real. It needs to move the story forward. Having characters saying the same thing over and over has the opposite effect.

In my view, for any writer to break in the first few pages have to be compelling. Make that COMPELLING. Bill started out with a prologue that, while nicely written, was not a scene, had no conflict or tension to speak of, was mostly backstory, and was about 15 pages long. I would wager the price of an edit that no agent would read all of it. More than one literary agent blogger has said she skips prologues.

And then the phone-call chapter. For me—remember, this is all subjective—the repetition in the dialogue was laborious, and I would have put the manuscript aside after a page or so if I were an agent or an acquisition editor. The reason: it’s a clear clue to the pace that I can expect, and it was wayyyy too slow for me.

What if the opening went like this instead:

 Jon had smiled when he recognized Liz’s voice on the phone, but he sat up and dropped his papers on the desk when his wife said, “It’s my mother. She’s dying.”

 He forgot about the Manhattan skyline outside his office window and said, "The doctor told her that?"

 Her voice caught on a sob and disintegrated as she burst out crying. “I'm frightened."

 Jon sat silent a moment, gathering the impact of his wife's words. "Here," he said. "There's no use crying. Of course she's dying. We all are."

 But philosophic levity did not stop the sobs. "I don't know what to do."

 "OK, OK. What did the doctor say is the matter with her?"

 "That's just it. He didn't say exactly. But it's the same as before. And the same that makes her talk that way."

 "You mean that. . .amyotrophia?" He still didn’t know what that word meant.

 "Yes. The doctor says she has only two or three years left."

 "There has to be a mistake. Doctors just don't tell people they're dying. Even if they think it, they don't say it. That's just television junk!"

 "I thought it might be a mistake," said Liz. She stopped, then began again. "Well, we talked about that once."

 "What?"

 "Yes, that could be it. "

 "Are you trying to tell me something without having your mother hear it?"

 "Yes."

 "The senility?"

 "Yes."

Now this is a quick look at a rewrite, but don't you think this 232 words does much the same job as the previous 885? But with more tension? Bill may have an interesting story, but I felt the pace was so slow and the repetition such a struggle that I don’t think I’d ever get to it. I think he needs to concentrate on creating tension and building movement for his first pages and forget about all the backstory. Use dialogue to characterize and to show the reader what they need to know.

 Bill’s language was clean and the writing often good. But there was, in my view, just too much of it. His manuscript word count is 168,000 words, and I think I know why.

 Many thanks, Bill, for sharing your work with me. Your writing is sound, and I hope you keep at it, and that this post has been helpful.

 For what it’s worth.

 Questions? Comments?

 Ray

Free edit in exchange for posting permission. You send a sample that you have questions about and of which you'd like an edit. I won't post it without your permission. Please attach samples as documents to your email.

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© 2006 Ray Rhamey

Distance in point of view

Janine writes this:

"Question - what if the writer wants to use a more middle to distant 3rd person POV for the express reason of being able to say -

"He's a hunk, she thought, leaning her elbow on the bar and twirling the olive in her martini.

"Is this also permissible? Is it more important to stay in one consistent POV (close or distant) OR to just get in close and stay close?"

First, what I think is important: maintaining a consistent point of view within a scene, whether close or distant or in between. There's no problem with changing point of view within a chapter, as long as it's done consistently, and with clear transitions. Here's an example from my WIP. I'm going to truncate it for simplicity.

I mount the flight of steps that rises to the Institute doors and come upon a narrow man in a black overcoat who aims a small video camera my way. I see his lips move, and the wind carries his words to my ear.

He says, "I think I got one."

Curious, I pause and look behind me. No one is there, no thing of interest. Shielding my face with my scarf, I shift my gaze to the man, and he jerks the camera away to pan across the front of the Institute. I believe he seeks to conceal his purpose from me.

But what does it matter? It can have nothing to do with me.

* * *

"Lieutenant!" The whispered word shivers in KB Volmer's earpiece. "I think I got one."

Oh, damn, not now! Not right in the middle of --

"Lieutenant, where are you?"

KB isn't about to tell him she's enthroned on the john. "Ah, lower level, Michigan Avenue side." Her voice sounds too high, and she wonders if he'll figure out why it echoes.

The whisper comes again. "Damn, it's looking at me."

Her mind snaps into focus. There's only one thing he can be talking about.

Okay, that deals with shifting point of view within a chapter. As you see, in addition to an "action transition" and echoing a line of dialogue, I used a line break with three centered asterisks to signal the reader. This seems to work well.

I should add this: Janine asks about what is "permissible." I think it's important to keep in mind that there are no rules. Everything is permissible. You do what you feel you need to do to give the reader the experience you're trying to achieve. While there are no rules, however, each techinique or approach creates effects or results, and that's what you need to be aware of.

The distance question: I think Janine's example. . .

He's a hunk, she thought, leaning her elbow on the bar and twirling the olive in her martini.

. . . is actually still a very close third person. Whenever I see "she thought," I feel I'm right inside the character's skull. Can't get any closer.

But varying distance is a good idea. There are times when a scene needs to be set, and you need to start with what the movies call an establishing shot. Here are some notions on how to do that. Once more, from the WIP, the very opening paragraph:

Although the occasional muttering madman in Central Park can be irritating, after walking New York City's reeking streets, Graeme and Ailia are willing to risk an encounter in exchange for a cleansing breath of nature. They stroll onto the park's trampled lawn and meander past stands of trees bright green with new spring leaves. But images of polished marble and welded metal at the Met still flicker through her mind. Ailia says, "I thought the new sculpture exhibit was excellent."

Actually, this was written in first person, but I shifted it to third to illustrate. The first sentence and a half are fairly distant, allowing you to "see" the context of the scene. But then it zooms in to a character's thoughts, effortlessly bringing you close.

By the way, a technique for making sure you're maintaining a close, consistent point of view is to write it as though you were in the first person. While I've seen head-hopping in a first-person narrative, it is unusual. You can even write a scene in first and then convert to third.

Another distance example, this time from my novel, We the Enemy, currently being offered by my agent:

Jake scanned the Chelsea's lobby, his years of experience alert for body language that signaled a threat.

The usual high-priced hookers littered worn, red velvet furniture with all the glamour and finery of models posing for a fashion shoot. The usual bellboys idled, and the usual executives eyed the usual high-priced hookers. Except for a long table featuring posters of a gray-haired man, nothing seemed other than ordinary.

The long table was womanned by three cheerful-looking fems ranging from twenty-five to forty. The youngest -- red-haired, trim and smiley and pretty -- accosted people with handfuls of material while the other two helped lines of lively men and women register for something. Signs on the table told Jake to "Get information about the Alliance here."

A faint memory surfaced; some kind of cult out West?

Paragraph by paragraph, the point of view moves from:

• Close: we're in Jake's head, scanning the lobby, knowing his intent. Also, this tells the reader immediately whose pov they're in. I recommend establishing that asap at the beginning of a chapter or scene with a new point of view.
• Distant: we "see" the occupants of the lobby.
• Distant to close: first the activity at the table (distant), and then closing in to Jake's pov with what a sign tells the character.
• Very close: we're in Jake's head, experiencing a memory.

Changing distance in point of view is, I believe, a good idea. For one thing, staying deep in a character's mind all the time could become claustrophobic at times, depending on the skill of the writer.

And varying distance grants flexibility, gives the author the tools to show both scope and intimacy as needed to best create an experience in the reader's mind.

For what it's worth.

Questions? Comments?

Ray

Free edit in exchange for posting permission. You send a sample that you have questions about and of which you'd like an edit. I won't post it without your permission. Please attach samples as documents to your email.

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© 2006 Ray Rhamey

Maintaining a close point of view

Before you get to the meat of this post, Kathleen Bolton and Therese Walsh, a couple of writers who blog on "the craft and business of genre fiction" at Writer Unboxed, are publishing part two of an interview with yours truly on Friday, March 3. For what it's worth.

---

Much of modern fiction is written in the close third person point of view. At least, many of the writers I see work from try to do that. But they often "slip" in subtle ways.

To maintain a close third person point of view, the narrative can contain nothing that a character CANNOT directly see, hear, taste, feel, or know. In other words, just like you and me in real life. We're all prisoners inside our own heads.

• When we're talking with someone, we can't know what they're thinking -- unless they tell us.
• When we see someone do something, we can't know their motive -- unless they tell us.
• If we're asleep or knocked unconscious or shot dead, the narrative in our point of view can't then show what happens to us. I have seen that, though.

Now, there are actually no "rules" in fiction, so writers can and do stray from this guideline all the time.

No rules, but there are effects. Consider why you might want a close third person point of view. It's to involve your reader with your protagonist. To create an emotional bond, some form of caring. Why? If the reader cares about a character, they're a whole lot more likely to care about what happens. And motivated to turn the page.

More than that, the closer you can bring a reader to a character, the tighter the emotional connection and involvement, and the closer you bring a reader to experiencing the story rather than just reading information. That, fellow writers, is the goal of a good storyteller.

If that's true, then slipping away from the close third person has the effect of distancing the reader from a character. Of taking her out of the mind and heart of the protagonist. Of disconnecting.

I want to show you some pov slips that occurred in writing samples that have been sent to me, changed a little to keep it anonymous. They seem innocuous, but I believe they have their effect.

Perhaps at first glance there's nothing wrong with this narrative:

She felt radiant, and her brown eyes glistened with happy tears.

Here's the slip:

She felt radiant, and her brown eyes glistened with happy tears.

Because we're in the woman's pov, she can't see her eyes glisten. That's impossible.
From a storytelling point of view, the reader is forced to take a step back from the character. Because only from outside the character's point of view can it be perceived that her brown eyes glisten.Maybe an arm's length away?

One other thing that's a point of view glitch -- mentioning the color of her eyes. Once again, she can't see the color and, while she certainly knows the color of her eyes, who ever thinks about the color of their eyes when they're crying? Not me. Not anyone.

How to get this image across without stepping out of her point of view? Well, you can say something such as "tears welled in her eyes. True, we don't necessarily "see" glistening, but is that key? The reader will fill that stuff in because they know what tears in eyes look like. Basically, all the reader is trying to do here is show the reader that the character is tearing.

I know this seems like a small thing, but the effect is cumulative. A phrase such as this is given from a point of view of the character. It pulls the reader out of the identification with the character that is so necessary for making a reader care about what happens enough to want to keep reading.

I know this seems like a small thing, but the effect is cumulative. "Her brown eyes glistened" is the author's point of view, and that pulls the reader out of the identification with the character that is so necessary for making a reader care about what happens enough to want to keep reading.

Here's another pov slip, where the author intrudes. It's from within the head of a bad guy.

Stephenson looked down on the woman who slept unaware of the evil presence standing only yards from her tranquil slumber.

Because we're in Stephenson's point of view, he would not be standing there thinking of himself as an "evil presence." This is the author intruding, trying to characterize him. I don't think the bad guys in novels go around thinking of themselves as evil, anyway. Sound motivation for antagonists gives them the point of view that they're doing the right or necessary thing, not something for purposes of evil.

What about this one?

She fell to the floor,  her eyes wide and panicked.

Yes, this is a subtle, tiny thing. But we're supposed to be inside her head. Where do you have to be in order to see if someone's eyes are wide and panicked? Standing next to them, right? Unless she's standing next to herself, she can't see what her eyes look like.

The author is doing the right thing in terms of trying to use action to convey emotion, and the description does that. But it's emotion as perceived from outside the character, not inside.

Here's another little one:

George spoke in a calm voice.

This characterization of his voice is as perceived from outside the character's mind, as heard by an objective observer. True, you can make a character aware of what his voice sounds like, i.e. "His voice sounded calm to his ears." But that's not what this author has done here.

So how can this writer get "calm voice" across without stepping out of point of view. One method is the one above, where he is listening to the quality of his voice. But that wasn't the intent of this narrative. It was to communicate the way the character was delivering his words. From inside the character's mind, it would be something like:

George kept his voice calm and casual.

For what it's worth.

Questions? Comments?

Ray

Free edit in exchange for posting permission. You send a sample that you have questions about and of which you'd like an edit. I won't post it without your permission. Please attach samples as documents to your email.

ARCHIVES .

© 2006 Ray Rhamey