I know you think you understand what I said but what you dont understand is that what I said is not what I meant
Everyone loves to talk about the lousy first draft.
Nearly everyone gets it wrong.
Yes, ignore spelling, punctuation, grammar in your first draft.
But also ignore everything you know about writing except this: tell your story.
The primary purpose of writing without stopping, spewing an unrefined first draft, is to not give yourself time to edit, even to think.
Only time to feel.
Continue reading “Lousy First Draft: You’re Missing the Point”
Some level of suspension of disbelief is necessary for any fiction. Larger or lesser, but always necessary.
“Unbelievable” is hardly criteria for failure. In fact, it’s entirely immaterial, as long as the writer observes the only rule that matters about making sense: never pull the reader out of the vicarious experience.
Internal logic and consistency is important in helping readers stay in the vicarious experience.
I lean strongly toward the belief that readers want to believe, or at least suspend disbelief, and most will gloss over even glaring issues. I remember Michael Crichton’s translating earbuds in Timeline and after a moment of “Really?” I moved on and enjoyed the book immensely. (The movie, not so much.)
In Story Robert McKee talks about “the negation of the negation” (NotN). It’s not mathematical, the multiplication of two negatives leading to a positive. It is the end of the line in the emotional or moral value of the internal story.
Take the normal “worst case” scenario, and find the thing that’s so much worse it’s unthinkable.
In “living dead” stories, that’s often the fate worse than death: damnation, or living death.
McKee talks about four stages, from The Big Win through Not So Much to Real Bad and finally, the NotN. For instance, in a love story you can have true love, indifference, active dislike/hate, and the worst thing in a normal romance, hate masquerading as love.
Scifi adventure: success might be beating the aliens. The other end of the spectrum might be seeing your whole race enslaved by the aliens, in a manner which prevents mass suicide. Nope. You’re slaves, maybe even eternally because they gave you live-forever-juice.
For many stories, the NotN is going to be, if not unique, at east customized.
The lighter the story the less devastating the NotN. For instance, in my book A Long, Hard Look
Not only does the case get solved too late to prevent another death, the girl despises him and runs away.
Figure out what your readers will assume equals “success” and if you choose a happy ending, deliver that and more.
Know, or define, what they’ll expect as the “less than success” the hero is worried will be his fate.
Know what your readers expect as a worst case scenario. That’s failure.
Make your protagonist suffer that failure, then give him a way out.
Then, come up with something so unimaginable your readers never saw it coming, couldn’t foresee it, won’t believe their eyes.
And aim it straight at your hero.
It’s a writer’s nature to assume that what pours from our fingertips will be the brilliant story in our heads. When we read a book, we see the polished outcome, not the deadly trudge it took to create it, and when it’s our turn we forget.
Instead of polished prose streaming from our minds, it’s more akin to the green soup steaming in the concrete waste canal in a springtime milking barn back home in Wisconsin. Not even usable as fertilizer.
At least, that’s what we think.
Truth is, it’s probably 80% excellent, and all we see is the 20% green soup.
The 20% is 80% easy to fix. That is, once we dig in (to the words, not the mucky green soup) we find that most of what’s less than stellar in that last fifth is easy to fix.
Before you start thinking about another kind of fifth, do the math: 80% + (80% of 20%) = 96% done.
Now you’re down to the 4% that’s excruciating.
That’s where writing happens: the choices you make, and the fervor and grit to slog through that 4%.
No, you never get to 100%. If you can cure another 80% you’ll be at 99.2% which is closer than any of us have a right to expect.
Subtext is the most important part of storytelling.
When we let the listener or reader finish the story, it’s their story now, and everyone wins.
For instance, take a simple joke, like “What’s the difference between a surgeon and God? God doesn’t think he’s a surgeon.”
The initial microsecond response is “What? Of course not. So what? Do surgeons think they’re—” Boom.
As Robert McKee, said “If your scene is about what it appears to be about, you’re in trouble.”
Subtext requires setup. If you go into the following scene knowing that Bill and Sara have an unhappy marriage, we’ve seen Sara eyeing another man, and we’ve seen Bill stocking up on sleeping pills, it’s not about the words at all:
“I’m tired.”
She didn’t look up. “Then go to bed.”
He flicked a glance her way, then stood.
“I just didn’t want you to be alone.”
Now she looked up.
“Being alone doesn’t make me lonely. I’m fine. You look tired. You should rest.”
Bill looked into the fire, then down at the slippers she’d bought him on their honeymoon.
“I think I will.”
He took a long, slow look around the room, and slowly climbed the stairs to the spare room where he slept these days.
Pressing the last few pieces into place, Sara looked at the puzzle, then shoved it off the table into the box, put the lid on, and turned to look out the window into the darkness.
If this were about a happy couple, it’d be banal to the point of nausea. Build some setup, and it’s a different scene, which is not in any way about the words but about the subtext.
Off the top of my head again, that scene, written as a beginning hack would have written it:
“I’m really depressed and it feels like you don’t care.”
As usual, Sara ignored him. Her attention was elsewhere.
He watched her, hoping she’d try to stop him.
“I need you to love me, Sara.”
Now she looked up.
“You’ve had what you needed all along. Now I’m going for what I need.”
Bill looked into the fire, then down at his slippers. She’d bought them on their honeymoon, when she used to love him.
“I can’t do this anymore. And I’m not going to.”
He took a long, slow look around the room, then slowly climbed the stairs. He hadn’t shared a bed with Sara in a long time, so he’d been sleeping in the spare room.
Sara thought, I’m through with him, just like I’m through with this puzzle.
Besides for being even worse writing, there’s almost nothing here but a bit of shoe leather or staging that’s worth keeping.
Yes, just as a pure pantser can find story structure, foreshadowing, etc. by rewriting their entire book 14 times, one could do it this way. It would require rethinking every single word of dialog, finding ways to not say the vital stuff, the way Coltrane or Parker might play every note except the melody.
I think knowing in advance where I plan to go makes for a more efficient trip, without taking the spontaneous fun out of it.
Do you have all the following in place so your fans are connected with you and sharing your posts with their friends?
Let your fans know that supportive things like reviews at Amazon, comments at the blog, enthusiastic shares on social media and even personal emails help make you enthusiastic about continuing to write.
Author Bio:
Sue L Canfield has been working with social media since 2005. She blogs regularly about how to use social media and consults on best social media practices at Chief Virtual Officer. She specializes in helping authors create and maintain their online presence. She currently manages a team of four social media account managers and over a dozen social media clients.
That search shows up here more frequently than any other except searches for my name.
Here are a few answers:
How long does it take you to write 1,000 words?
I wish I had a nickel for every time I’ve read this sentence:
The best way to learn writing is to write.
It comes mostly from pantsers who don’t want to learn story structure, who think it’s a straightjacket for producing formulaic pablum and they want no part of it.
When my middle daughter graduated from high school she wanted to write songs. We got her a small keyboard and I offered to give her lessons.
“No, that’s okay. I know what I’m doing.”
She was echoing what I’ve heard dozens of songwriters say: “Learning music theory will destroy my spontaneous creativity.”
Really? So you’re saying that me and Mozart and Dylan and Donald Fagen are drudges? I’m not the genius those three are, but I write better songs because I learned music theory, not in spite of it. Listen to Donald Fagen talk about composing the Steely Dan song Peg:
![3 Ways to Create a Villain Who Audiences Want & Heroes Need [Infographic]](http://davidvillalva.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/3-Ways-to-Create-a-Villain-Infographic.png)
David Villalva is a story nerd like me. Smart, friendly, smart, generous, and smart.
He created this superb infographic to explain how to create your story’s villain, and why doing it like this matters. Click to make it big.
Short version: make it a habit.
Slightly longer version: make it the right habit.
Full version:
After 18 months of experimentation (following 18 years of dabbling) I’ve made writing my habit. It’s part of my daily routine.
Every morning, Best Beloved and I have our tea and a chat. Then, I go downstairs and write one scene (+/- 1,000 words is where mine seem to fall.)
Continue reading “You’re Not Getting Your Writing Done Because You’re Building the Wrong Habit”