Do you find it hard to part with your printed books? (I do, even though shelf space is at a premium!)
How much do you read on an e-reader these days?
Do you read on your phone?
Overall, do you read more or less than you used to?
Author Archives: James Scott Bell
Write Like Melted Butter
by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
Back in the day (and for you kids, when an author of my vintage uses “back in the day” that’s a bit further than when The Big Bang Theory was a hit) there was a TV commercial for Thomas’ English Muffins. A narrator extolled the benefits of said breadstuff, then a smiling kid held one up and said, “And lots of nooks and crannies to hold the melted butter!”
I salute the ad man who came up with this line, because back in that same day the federal gummint guidelines had butter on its dietary hit list. Bosh, thought the ad man. That smooth, warm taste of liquified gold coating the taste buds is the most enjoyable part of this culinary treat.
Which is how I think about style in fiction. When the prose has nooks and crannies of “unobtrusive poetry” (as the great John D. MacDonald put it) my reading pleasure buds pop with delight and I am likely to search out more offerings from that writer.
Which brings me to the subject of metaphors and similes. They are the melted butter of prose.
For example, Raymond Chandler would have been just another detective fiction scribbler were it not for the magic of his style. Here are a few of my favorites:
It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window. (Farewell, My Lovely)
I lit a cigarette. It tasted like a plumber’s handkerchief. (Farewell, My Lovely)
She lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her cheeks and slowly raised them again, like a theatre curtain. (The Big Sleep)
Here are some from other authors:
All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances. (Shakespeare, As You Like It)
“Sit down, Montag. Watch. Delicately, like the petals of a flower. Light the first page, light the second page. Each becomes a black butterfly. Beautiful, eh?” (Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451)
She faced the children’s mother, a young woman in slacks, whose face was as broad and innocent as a cabbage and was tied around with a green head-kerchief that had two points on the top like a rabbit’s ears. (Flannery O’Connor, “A Good Man is Hard to Find”)
She was the third beer. Not the first one, which the throat receives with almost tearful gratitude; nor the second, that confirms and extends the pleasure of the first. But the third, the one you drink because it’s there, because it can’t hurt, and because what difference does it make? (Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon)
I shall now lay down the rule (yes, I said it) for metaphors and similes: they must be in the words that the viewpoint character would actually say or think. If they are not, it is no longer unobtrusive. It’ll stick out like a garlic breath burp at a dinner party. (Hey, not bad.)
There is only one exception to this rule, and that is if the voice of the author is the selling point, the raison d’etre of the book’s allure. Old-school Omniscient POV (e.g., Dickens) had it. So did the post-realist novels of the 60s and 70s (e.g., Vonnegut, Pynchon). Almost always it is found in comic novels, e.g., Douglas Adams, and most abundantly in the writing of the late Tom Robbins. You read his books for the flights of literary fancy, the voice of mushroom-laced, hippie-dipped, Zen-flavored farce:
Every toilet bowl gurgled like an Italian tenor with a mouthful of Lavoris, and the refrigerators made noises at night like buffalo grazing. (Jitterbug Perfume)
Like a neon fox tongue lapping up the powdered bones of space chickens, the Rising Sun licked away at the light snow that had fallen during the night. (Skinny Legs and All)
It was as if the dishwater, as gray and oily as a mobster’s haircut, washed away his arrogant confusion. (Skinny Legs and All)
So how can you find your own melted butter? Wide reading of authors who do this well is, of course, a given. In addition, I offer a couple of writing exercises to expand your style muscle. Note, this means you do the heavy lifting in your own brain; it can’t be handed to you by a machine. It’s fun, costs nothing, and will improve all of your writing.
People Pegging
Go to a public place—a park, a coffeehouse, a mall—and people watch. Home in on someone for a few seconds, then write in your notebook the following:
- He walks like a __________
- If he were an animal, he’d be a ____________
- His mood is the color of a ___________
Detail Digging
Wherever you are, pick a random item within your sight—pen, cough drop, lip balm, glasses, book, cup. Then:
- Write five things this item reminds you of.
- How would an advanced-race alien describe this item?
- Imagine this item appearing in your novel. From your Lead character’s POV, write three metaphors—one based on sight, one on touch, and one on smell.
Spend just an hour doing one or both of these exercises and you will actually feel your style improving.
Which is so worth it. Raymond Chandler would have told you that. This observation was found in one of his notebooks after his death:
“Without magic, there is no art. Without art, there is no idealism. Without idealism, there is no integrity. Without integrity, there is nothing but production.”
Don’t just produce. Monkeys can do that. AI is doing it now. Who cares?
Bring a little magic to your prose.
Write like melted butter.
Do you think about style when you write and/or edit? Do you search out fresh metaphors and similes? Do you love it when a writer is able to pull off “unobtrusive poetry”?
Reader Friday: Where Do You Write?
What Artificial Intelligence Can’t Give a Writer
by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone
This is a long one. Pack a lunch.
I hesitated to write yet another post about AI. The blogosphere is jam-packed with thoughts, opinions, screeds, exaltations, and jeremiads concerning this quantum leap in machine capacity.
For writers, there is no end of discussion on the use (or abuse) of AI in the writing of a book. For me, that consideration boils down to this: AI is an amazingly powerful tool—and time saver—for things like research, brainstorming, book descriptions, synopses, series bibles and so on. But where the rubber meets the road—or the words meet the page—is when the machine writes the actual prose that will appear in the final product issued under the author’s name. That is a line I refuse to cross. Why I don’t is the subject of this post.
Before I get to the main point, allow me a small excursus on writing for money. It’s okay to do that! The pulp writers of old wrote for money, especially during the Depression. They learned the formulae for romance, mystery, fantasy, and adventure. They churned out stories for which they were paid. That’s called free enterprise. The best of them added their unique voice to set them above the average pulpster. You had the sharp leanness of Dashiell Hammett, the thunder and lightning of Robert E. Howard, the cynical snap of Raymond Chandler.
But now AI can churn out formulaic novels with a few clicks of the Return key. Anyone with a modicum of computer sense (not really a “writer” if they don’t do the actual writing) can produce a product that can be sold online. Such a producer might turn out five, ten, fifteen books a month, in the hope that sheer volume will return some hearty ducats.
It’s possible to tell Chat or Grok or some other machine to come up with a complete outline for a fantasy, and then tell it to write scenes “in the style of” Brandon Sanderson or George R. R. Martin or Patrick Rothfuss and boom, a day or two later you’ve got a novel.
That’s legal. But is it ethical? I decided to ask Grok (**irony alert**). Here’s the result. (I’ve redacted author names as I did not secure permission to include them.)
Yes, there are writers using AI to produce novels quickly, sometimes in a matter of days, and some are attempting to mimic the styles of famous authors. This practice is becoming more common as AI writing tools improve, but its legitimacy—both in terms of ethics and quality—is a subject of debate.
Several documented cases highlight this trend. For instance _____, a science fiction writer, used AI tools like ChatGPT, Anthropic’s Claude, and Midjourney to create 97 mini-novels (up to 5,000 words each) in just nine months. Each book took him six to eight hours, a fraction of the time traditional writing might require. Similarly, _____ generated a novel … in three hours using 66 prompts, winning second prize in a 2023 sci-fi competition.
As for mimicking famous authors, AI tools like NovelAI and Sudowrite allow users to train models on specific styles or prompt them to emulate authors like Agatha Christie or Stephen King. [A 2023 novel] was composed with large language models, drawing on styles of detective fiction writers like Raymond Chandler. However, the results often require human editing, as AI struggles to maintain coherence over long narratives or fully capture the nuanced voice of a specific author.
Is This Legitimate?
The legitimacy depends on perspective:
- Creative and Practical Legitimacy: From a production standpoint, it’s legitimate in that it works—AI can generate readable content quickly. Some authors argue it enhances their creativity, acting as a tool to brainstorm and draft. _____, an indie author, uses Sudowrite to meet tight deadlines, producing a novel every nine weeks. Tools like Squibler and Jasper also market themselves to authors, offering features to generate outlines or full drafts in minutes. Readers often buy these works (selling for $1.99-$3.99), suggesting some market acceptance.
- Quality Concerns: Critics argue the output lacks depth. Significant human curation is needed to stitch AI outputs into a cohesive narrative. Off-the-shelf models like GPT or Claude often produce generic or inconsistent prose when tasked with mimicking complex styles, as noted by writers like _____, who found AI-generated text fell short of his voice.
- Ethical and Legal Issues: The ethics are murkier. Many authors, backed by the Authors Guild (over 10,000 signed a 2023 letter), argue that AI tools trained on copyrighted works without permission constitute theft. If a writer prompts AI to “write like Dan Brown,” it’s likely drawing on his style without consent, raising ethical questions. Legally, AI-generated works face copyright ambiguity—U.S. law traditionally requires human authorship, and the extent of human involvement (e.g., editing vs. pure generation) complicates ownership. There’s also the question of transparency: should authors disclose AI use?
- Cultural Reception: Some see it as a betrayal of the craft. Traditional authors value the slow, personal process of writing, as expressed in a 2023 Los Angeles Times piece, fearing AI erodes the human eccentricity that defines literature. Others view it as a practical evolution, akin to using a thesaurus, especially for indie authors under pressure to publish fast on platforms like Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing.
Conclusion
Yes, writers are using AI to churn out novels in days, sometimes in the style of famous authors, enabled by tools like ChatGPT, Sudowrite, and NovelAI. It’s technically feasible and has a niche audience, particularly in self-publishing. However, its legitimacy is contested: it’s a powerful tool for speed and ideation, but the quality often lags, and ethical-legal concerns linger. For now, it’s a hybrid process—AI accelerates drafting, but human skill is still key to polish and authenticity. Whether it’s “legitimate” depends on your stance: a pragmatic shortcut for some, a creative compromise for others.
Got all that? Want to put out a novel a day? You won’t get arrested. And maybe the actual output, with help, can produce competent fiction.
But I believe there’s something you will miss, something AI can never give you: truly and deeply experiencing the lives of the characters you lovingly bring to life on the page. A machine can’t hand you that feeling; it can only come from inside you, churning through the heart, flowing through your fingertips as you type the words. And when you finally type The End there’s a certain euphoria that is only bequeathed to the writer who has “opened a vein.” The lifeblood of a story can’t be given by transfusion. It has to come from within.
Ray Bradbury wrote in Zen in the Art of Writing:
If you are writing without zest, without gusto, without love, without fun, you’re only half a writer. It means you are so busy keeping one eye on the commercial market, or one year peeled for the avant-garde coterie, that you are not being yourself you don’t even know yourself. For the first thing writer should be is excited. He should be a thing of fevers and enthusiasms. Without such a vigor, he might as well be out picking peaches or digging ditches; God knows it’d be better for his health.
I’ve experienced zest with every novel I’ve finished. A few times the experience has been overpowering.
Case in point. I wrote a trilogy, the Ty Buchanan series. Over the course of these legal thrillers there’s a love story. When I typed the last line, the most perfect I’ve ever written (for me, at least) I burst into tears. I mean, just like that first scene in Romancing the Stone where Kathleen Turner, at her keyboard with headphones on, types the last word of her novel. Weeping and laughing she utters, “Oh, God, that’s good!” It happened to me because I both created and experienced every emotion of every character over a three-book span.
I will not trade away that feeling. Besides, I believe it has value for the reader, too. I believe most readers sense when a book’s been written from a vibrating human heart, or hasn’t. As Carl Sandburg once said, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.”
Secondarily, I’m also wary of too much “cognitive offloading.” Another reason I write the words is to keep my brain in shape. If AI does that for me, my synapses stop firing. It’s like watching pickleball on TV every day instead of playing it yourself. Doesn’t do the body much good, does it? As one source puts it: “The long-term reliance on AI for cognitive offloading could also erode essential cognitive skills such as memory retention, analytical thinking, and problem-solving. As individuals increasingly rely on AI tools, their internal cognitive abilities may atrophy, leading to diminished long-term memory and cognitive health.”
I’ll finish with this. In my favorite movie, Shane, there’s a magnificent moment in the beginning where Shane, the mysterious stranger passing through, has been shown hospitality by the Starrett family—Joe, his wife Marian, and their boy, Joey. After a hearty meal, Shane excuses himself and goes outside. He’s about to express his gratitude without words. For in the yard is a big old stump that Joe has long been chopping away at.
Shane picks up an ax and starts hacking. Joe joins him and the two work into early evening.
They make their final push on the stump. It barely moves.
Joe’s wife sensibly suggests they hitch up a team of horses to pull it out. Joe says, “Marian, I’ve been fighting this stump off and on for two years. Use the team now and this stump could say it beat us. Sometimes nothing will do but your own sweat and muscle.”
Joe and Shane lay into that stump and with a final, mighty push, uproot it.
I guess I feel like Joe Starrett. There’s some things that won’t do for me as a writer but my own “sweat and muscle.”
I’ve gone on too long and I’m still thinking this all through. Please let me know your thoughts in the comments!
Here’s that scene from Shane:
Romancing the Reader
by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
I’m no expert in the romance genre. I do know it’s the best selling slice 
of the fiction pie and is dominated by female authors (along with some guy named Sparks).
And I’m pretty darn sure of this: there’s a romantic relationship in these novels. (Check me on that.)
Reasons given for the popularity of romance novels include deep emotional connection, vicarious pleasure, escapism, and the satisfaction of a “happily ever after” ending.
Which is why the romantic subplot is so often utilized in other genres. Everyone (or almost everyone) loves a love story. Whether that’s the subject of the book, or merely an aspect of it, love and its machinations draw readers in and connect them to the characters in a singular fashion.
Someone who I’d say has a handle on this is Nora Roberts. She’s published a few books (I think the number is 225 right now, but may have just ticked up). Most of them landed at or near the top of the NYT list.
I was going through one of my many binders full of clipped Writer’s Digest articles (dating from 1988) and came across a profile of Roberts from 2001, back when she’d published “only” 130 novels.
The reason I saved it was three-fold. First, because of her work ethic. For most of her career she’s held to an 8-hour writing day, five days a week. She says she had an advantage in being educated by nuns. “I was raised with discipline and guilt—they’re wonderful writer’s tools.”
Also of interest to me is her method. Her practice is to “pants” a “short” first draft. It gives her the basic story. Then she goes back to the beginning and adds elements to fill things out. Then there’s another pass (a “polish”) and she’s done. (I do think that’s a fine way to write a novel. I would call that short first draft actually a very long outline! That’s one way to “discover” your story.)
And third, she gave her thoughts on what makes a successful commercial novel:
Your characters have to jump off the page. They have to appeal to the reader in some way. If you don’t care about the people, then it’s all action, and who cares about that if you don’t care about who drives the action or who the action happens to? It’s all about who these people are.
(Horn toot: there’s a book out there on how to write “jump off the page” characters.)
Roberts says, “Character is plot. Character is everything and the story wraps around them.” I’d add that plot is also character, in that the story wrapping around them has to challenge them to the max, and force their true character to be revealed and, in most cases, transformed.
A romantic subplot, as I mentioned, is a powerful way to add flavor to a novel, in any genre. All my series—Kit Shannon, Mallory Caine, Ty Buchanan, and Mike Romeo—have a romance element. I’m a sucker for love, too.
There’s another, equally potent plot device which I call the “Care Package.” It refers to a relationship the Lead has before the book begins, one where the Lead cares deeply about someone else. Katniss Everdeen has her mother and Prim. Luke Skywalker has his aunt and uncle. Dorothy has Toto.
The bottom line is that we always root for a) people who fall in love; and b) people who care about other people, with no thought of personal gain. We want decent people to succeed.
That’s how an author can romance the reader. And readers who fall in love with your book will be anxious to buy another one.
Comments welcome.
The Shadow Knows
by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
Orson Welles as The Shadow
For years, classic radio audiences thrilled to this opening: “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows.” This was followed by a sinister laugh. (Orson Welles played the role for a couple of years.)
The Shadow was a good guy, a vigilante who stopped bad guys. It was the secret identity of one Lamont Cranston, a wealthy young man who spent time in the Orient and learned a hypnotic power “to cloud men’s minds.” Thus, he could make himself “invisible” to the criminals, who could only hear his haunting voice.
There’s also an invisible part of every novel you write. And once again, the Shadow knows!
I refer to what I call the “shadow story.” That’s what’s happening off the page. Meaning that when a scene is unfolding before us, characters who are not in the scene are still active. They are reacting to plot developments, and planning and carrying out counter moves.
You may choose not to know about any of that, but in your story’s world, it’s happening nonetheless.
Why not harness its power?
When you identify the shadow players and track their moves, it offers abundant fodder for shocks, red herrings, and twists in the plot that is “onscreen.”
Now, I know many a successful mystery writer has “pantsed” a plot. That was Sue Grafton’s method, though each day she “interacted” with her unfolding story by writing notes to herself before she worked on the WIP. She’d ask questions and list possible answers. In other words, she was developing the shadow story alongside her developing plot.
Another well-known “discovery/intuitive” mystery writer said he will pants along and find himself writing something that comes to him on the fly. For instance, a potted plant in a fancy vase will jump into his imagination, and he’ll put it in, not knowing how or when it would pay off.
This author also admits he’s had many novels that stalled and were discarded. Yet he still produces successful books.
Be that as it may, I’ve found that plotting the shadow story early is indispensable in my own writing. Knowing who the villain is from the jump, I can drop in all sorts of happenings that deepen the mystery and how it will all be wrapped up at the end.
As I plot the book, I include scene squibs that won’t show up in the finished product, but are there to suggest mysterious happenings that won’t be explained until the end.
That’s one of the nifty things about Scrivener.
Scrivener lets you write a scene (or chapter) and record a summary of it on an “index card.” You can look at the cards on a corkboard, and also in the outline view.
Further, you can color code the cards. I have colors for the main plot and subplot(s).
I also have a color for the shadow story. These are index cards with squibs on what the offscreen characters are doing. In the “Inspector” pane I hit the “Metadata” tab, then uncheck the box that says “Include in Compile.” That way, when I compile the manuscript for editing, the shadow story doesn’t show up in the manuscript.
But at any point I can print the outline view, with the shadow story scenes showing. This gives me a nice overview of the proceedings, and I can tweak things and get ideas for upcoming scenes.
Here’s how it looks in the Binder View (click to enlarge):
And in the Outline View (click to enlarge):
As I write, one of my scenes might need a twist or surprise. I can then turn to my shadow story outline, and add to it, and use that for the twist.
Yes, there are many ways to write a novel. I offer the shadow story as a tool, and a powerful one. If you use it, as you write feel free to hum the old standard, “Me and my shadow/Strolling down the avenue…”
What about you? Do you ever give thought to what characters are doing off-page?
It’s Strictly Business
by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
There’s a crucial scene in The Godfather where Sonny and Tom Hagen and the capos, Clemenza and Tessio, are trying to decide what to do about Sollozzo, who had Don Corleone nearly assassinated. Naturally, Sonny wants all-out war. Tom Hagen wants Sonny to calm down.
In the middle of it all sits Michael, whom no one expects to hear from. Michael has just saved his father from a follow-up attempt on his life, at the hospital. When the corrupt police captain, McCluskey, shows up, Michael accusing him of being on the take from Sollozzo. Whereupon McCluskey has his men hold Michael so he can bash in Michael’s face.
But Michael is the youngest son, the one his father wants to be “legit.” As he listens to all the talk he has his “mirror moment.” Will he continue to be the straight-and-narrow war hero? Or will he take a fateful step that will change the trajectory of his life forever?
Michael chooses. He tells everyone of a plan. Get Sollozzo and McCluskey to meet with him. Find out where. Plant a gun in the bathroom. “Then I’ll kill them both.”
After a moment of silent shock, the others in the room begin to laugh. Especially Sonny.
“Hey, whataya gonna do, nice college boy, eh? Didn’t want to get mixed up in the family business? Now you wanna gun down a police captain because he slapped you in the face a little bit? Hah? What do you think this is, the Army where you shoot ’em a mile away? You’ve gotta get up close like this and bada-bing! You blow their brains all over your nice Ivy League suit.”
Sonny kisses Michael’s head. “You’re taking this very personal. Tom, this is business and this man is taking it very, very personal.”
Michael lays out his plan in more detail. Cool and collected. Then looks at his brother. “It’s not personal, Sonny. It’s strictly business.”
Which brings to mind traditional publishing. It’s always been strictly business. As recent news reaffirmed. According to the NYT:
In a significant shake up, Penguin Random House, the largest publishing house in the United States, announced on Monday that the publishers of two of its most prestigious literary imprints had been let go.
The departure of Reagan Arthur, the publisher of Alfred A. Knopf, and Lisa Lucas, the publisher of Pantheon and Schocken, likely came as a surprise to many in the company — including, it seemed, to Lucas.
Lucas posted on X, formerly called Twitter, that she had learned of her dismissal at 9:30 a.m. on Monday morning. “I have some regrets about spending the weekend working,” she wrote.
Reagan and Lucas were “splashy hires.” But the company faces financial challenges “with rising supply chain costs and sluggish print sales.”
So two high-profile, in-house publishers became part of an across-the-board cost cutting move.
It’s strictly business. Which means if you, dear author, wish to pursue the “traditional” way of publication, you must understand:
- You are entering into a business relationship, which means everything ultimately comes down to whether you make the company money…or not.
- If you don’t make the company money, you will not be offered another contract.
- If you are not offered another contract, you will want to get the rights back to your books the company has published. However, the company may want to keep your books in print. This is also a business decision. The company has paid for your book to be published; they would like to make that money back.
- This makes your contract’s reversion clause of crucial importance. In the “old days” it was based on a book being “out of print” (which meant copies in the warehouse and available to bookstores. But print-on-demand and ebooks have rendered this obsolete. The simplest and fairest clause will trigger reversion when the author’s royalty falls below a threshold (say $250) for two consecutive accounting periods.
- Another clause to be considered is non-compete clause. The publisher does deserve some protection from an author publishing a substantially similar work with another company, or as an indie project. On the other hand, the author should be free to sell or publish other works that don’t directly compete. I’ve written about that here. The Author’s Guild offers further advice.
And if you go the indie route? It’s still business if you are in it to make some dough. There are other reasons to write and publish. But to build a stream of income, think like a publisher.
- If you were an acquisitions editor at a publishing house, would you give an advance for your book? Is there a market for it?
- Don’t shut off quality controls, i.e., don’t just type and publish. There is a roiling sea of lousy to mediocre fiction—and AI-generated content—uploaded to Amazon every day. Publishing a dozen novels a month doesn’t build a readership unless people want to read them, which they don’t.
- Growing a fan base takes time.
- Build an email list.
(Further thoughts on this can be found in How to Make a Living as a Writer.)
Comments welcome! (I’m on the road today, so will check in when I can.)
Should You Write a Series or Stand Alones?
by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
The old pulp writers recognized the value of a series character. Erle Stanley Gardner called it “the pulp writers insurance policy.” He certainly collected with his character Perry Mason.
Carroll John Daley was the first to score big with his detective Race Williams, who appeared in many issues of Black Mask.
We’ve seen many a successful series character over the years—McGee, Spenser, Reacher, Bosch, Millhone, Lucas Davenport, Jonathan Grave, Louis Kincaid. The list goes on.
Perhaps that’s why in the early years of the indie revolution, the mantra was Go for the series. It makes a certain degree of sense. You build a readership, a fan base that wants your next book. When you bring new readers in, some will want to buy all the other books in the series.
On the other hand, the indie landscape is littered with the bleached bones of series books that never caught on. This was especially true for first-time authors.
Which brings me to a blog post from a marketing expert (and friend of mine) who says, “Stop writing book series!” (Thomas also knows how to get clicks.)
He does a lot of math in the post, which is a good exercise for your brain. But I think I can simplify his assertions.
- If the first book in a series doesn’t sell well, the ones that follow won’t either.
- Advertising the heck out of a lackluster book just loses money. “Good advertising helps a bad product fail faster.”
- If you’re just starting out (a “rookie”) beware:
When you start your career by writing book #1 in a series, the nature of the series sends all new readers through your freshman effort for the rest of your career. Before readers can enjoy your better, more polished writing, they must first read your oldest, sloppiest writing. When readers tell their friends, “Author Smith’s series gets really good around book 3,” Author Smith is in trouble.
Marketing a series with a weak first book is like trying to run with weights on your ankles.
On the other hand:
Writing a series is good advice for authors who have written a hit book.
But what about the other 999 authors whose books sold hundreds of copies? Should they write a sequel? Not if they want to write for a living.
They will likely make more money writing another standalone book. They should figure out why the first book was not appealing and work to make the next book more appealing.
That is just what the pulp writers did in order to keep bread on the table. They constantly studied the market and what was popular. Then the best set out to tap into that market with their own, original creations.
Another challenge for the new, would-be series writer is “battered reader syndrome.” He brings up the examples of George R. R. Martin and Patrick Rothfuss, both of whom have left their series unfinished. That left loyal readers, who invested time and emotion in the books, out in the cold. Thus:
When battered readers see that a book is the first in an unfinished series, they’re hesitant. That book #1 designation is a liability instead of an asset. It tells readers this story may not have a satisfying ending, or perhaps no ending at all!
Readers who don’t know you won’t trust you to complete all three books in your trilogy. They may wait to buy book #1 until you’ve published book #3. Battered reader syndrome makes it really hard for new authors to attract readers to new series.
Thomas’s answer for the new writer is:
[W]rite book #1 as a standalone book. Keep any numbering off the title. Don’t include a series name. Just write a good story with a good ending…[I]t’s a lot easier to turn a successful standalone book into a popular series than it is to use a series to make the first book successful.
Thomas does recognize that established authors, who know how to “stick the landing,” can hit the ground running on a series:
If you already have a tribe of readers and have learned how to write books they love, and you want to commit to a series, go for it! You’ve earned the trust of your readers to write a series.
But don’t tell brand-new authors with no platform to follow your example. It hurts them by committing them to books that may not find an audience. It also hurts you by contributing to battered reader syndrome, which scares readers away from books altogether.
New authors haven’t yet gained the trust of their readers. They don’t have the caliber of skills you have. If you encourage a new author to write a series, you may be dooming their careers without realizing it.
So, for a new writer wanting to do series, the best move may be to write that first book and gauge the results. Not just sales but customer reviews. Note not only the star rating (some say the “sweet spot” is 4.2-4.5 stars) but also the content. Would what is said there be positive word of mouth in a Starbucks conversation?
This seems like a low-risk way for a new writer to test the waters for a series. It’s sort of like what we say about prologues (write it, just don’t call it a prologue!)
I offer this as breakfast for thought today. Comments welcome.
Exposition in Your Opening: Less is More
by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
Here is another first page for critique. See you on the other side.
At the Edge of the Radiant Sea
If Larissa Jackson squinted hard enough, the blue tents massed on the plain below might almost look like the ocean. A barren strip of beige separated the refugee camp from the Atlantic, vast and forbidding under the glaring sun. And if she tried really hard, the faint din of two hundred thousand Slavic refugees could almost sound … like seagulls’ cries?
Except that the Arctic War, as it exploded across the Northern Hemisphere, had wiped out seagulls almost a decade ago.
Larissa shivered on the café’s patio. Despite the canvas canopy sheltering her, she settled her sunhat more firmly on her head. Eight years after the war’s end, the nuclear winter that had frozen the world under unending clouds of smoke was lifting. But the price for sunlight was skyrocketing levels of UV radiation, thanks to the tattered ozone layer, another casualty of the war.
Taking a final gulp of her milky coffee – now lukewarm, barely worth drinking – she turned away from the view, unease settling over her like a blanket of nettles. She wanted to be back in the bright sterility of her lab in Texas, not on the windswept edge of Portugal’s Algarve coast, about to enter a refugee camp.
She’d hoped a coffee would calm her nerves and wake her up after the long flight from Dallas to Lisbon, and the ensuing two-hour drive south.
But when she’d entered, the pastelaria was unlit, and its cold interior smelled of dirty dishwater. Glass cases that should be filled with a bounty of pastries held nothing but a few pastéis de nata, the iconic Portuguese custard tarts. Patch jobs of grey cement marred the black and white tiled floor. The spotted mirror behind the counter reflected the server’s thinning hair and scowl as he banged white ceramic cups onto metal shelves attached to the back wall. Dumpy, brown-haired, brown-eyed Larissa had never been a beauty, but even with fatigue written across her face and bags under her eyes, she looked indefinably healthier and more prosperous than anyone she’d seen since stepping off the plane.
Maybe the server had seen her get out of the sleek black sedan and assumed it belonged to her. He couldn’t know she was here on someone else’s orders.
***
JSB: We have a promising start. The first two paragraphs give us enough information to set the scene and offer quite a disturbance—a post-apocalyptic sea coast teeming with refugees. And I like that Larissa is trying to avoid thinking about the reality of it. I’m ready for some action. But—
Paragraph 3:
Larissa shivered on the café’s patio. Despite the canvas canopy sheltering her, she settled her sunhat more firmly on her head. Eight years after the war’s end, the nuclear winter that had frozen the world under unending clouds of smoke was lifting. But the price for sunlight was skyrocketing levels of UV radiation, thanks to the tattered ozone layer, another casualty of the war.
This is a paragraph of exposition. It exists only to feed us information. Larissa is merely a peg to hang it on. Keep this in mind: act first, explain later. Readers will happily wait for exposition if they are connected to a character doing something of moment. Larissa adjusting her hat is not the kind of something I mean. A scene needs to have some sort of tension or conflict, almost always by way of another character. I’ll have a suggestion about that later.
Paragraph 4:
Taking a final gulp of her milky coffee – now lukewarm, barely worth drinking – she turned away from the view, unease settling over her like a blanket of nettles. She wanted to be back in the bright sterility of her lab in Texas, not on the windswept edge of Portugal’s Algarve coast, about to enter a refugee camp.
Once again, the paragraph is exposition. This time the author wants us to know the precise location and a bit of character background. Again, don’t be in such a hurry to give us all this information!
You do have some interior emotion here, but I had trouble picturing a “blanket of nettles.” Or, more precisely, I didn’t have trouble—I couldn’t help seeing a bunch of spiky leaves stitched together draped over her body. Coming up with fresh metaphors for feelings is an ongoing challenge. We don’t want to use clichés, but we also need to avoid pictures that yank us too far out of the moment. And we don’t want to overuse them, either. Sometimes just write she turned away from the view and took a deep breath.
Paragraph 5:
She’d hoped a coffee would calm her nerves and wake her up after the long flight from Dallas to Lisbon, and the ensuing two-hour drive south.
More background information. Do we really need to know this?
Paragraph 6:
But when she’d entered, the pastelaria was unlit, and its cold interior smelled of dirty dishwater. Glass cases that should be filled with a bounty of pastries held nothing but a few pastéis de nata, the iconic Portuguese custard tarts. Patch jobs of grey cement marred the black and white tiled floor. The spotted mirror behind the counter reflected the server’s thinning hair and scowl as he banged white ceramic cups onto metal shelves attached to the back wall.
I like the detail work, the colors, the smell. But they are piled on. The author’s voice begins to intrude (the iconic Portuguese custard tarts) then takes on full volume when describing Larissa from an Omniscient POV:
Dumpy, brown-haired, brown-eyed Larissa had never been a beauty, but even with fatigue written across her face and bags under her eyes, she looked indefinably healthier and more prosperous than anyone she’d seen since stepping off the plane.
This is the author telling us what Larissa looks like, especially in comparison to others. Now, I’m not saying this is fatal. Sidney Sheldon and Danielle Steel sold millions of books with just this kind of Omniscient POV. I just want you to be aware of what you’re doing and understand that if you’re not careful it can distance us from the main character.
The page ends with a potentially page-turning mystery: whose orders is she here on? But by this time I fear the reader might be getting antsy. Let me suggest an exercise. Try going to the first line of dialogue in your book and start there. Don’t give the readers any exposition except what you reveal in the dialogue itself. There will be plenty of time to get all the information in that the reader needs, but only after we have a real scene going on.
I think it was Elmore Leonard who said most of what the reader needs to know can be given in dialogue. That’s an overstatement, but writers often don’t give dialogue enough thought for exposition. I don’t mean the kind of dialogue known as “Here we are in sunny Spain” or “As you know, Bob.” The characters must sound like they are really talking to each other. A tip is to make the dialogue tense or confrontational. That “hides” the exposition.
NOT:
“Boy,” Larissa said, “the windswept edge of Portugal’s Algarve coast sure isn’t like my home base in Texas.”
“Did you have trouble getting here?” the server said.
“The flight from Dallas to Lisbon was all right, but the two-hour drive south was almost too much.”
RATHER:
“This is no place for a woman,” the server said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Larissa said.
“You’re here to help the refugees.”
“So?”
“Where are you from?”
“Texas, if that’s any of your—”
“Go back,” he said.
And so on.
One final note. I’m not sure if At the Edge of the Radiant Sea is the title of the book or the chapter. If the latter, fine. If the former, I’m not wild about it. It sounds “literary.” Try coming up with five alternative titles. Compare it with others in your genre.
You can write. You know how to string sentences together and have an eye for detail. All good. Now it’s a matter of being strategic with your exposition. Less is more on the opening page.
Thanks for your submission, author. Now let’s hear what others have to say.
How Chandler Overcame “Plot Constipation”
by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
Raymond Chandler
I’m having fun reading the selected letters of Raymond Chandler. He’s as entertaining in his correspondence as in his fiction. Plenty of opinions, yet also aware of his own foibles.
In 1945 he was under contract to Paramount (he had just written the classic screenplay for Double Indemnity, which was ironic as he loathed James M. Cain’s writing. “Everything he touches smells like a billygoat.”) The money was good, but the demand for original stories plagued him. That’s because Chandler was never one to grind stories out of “the sausage machine.” He believed that style and voice were more essential than plot, precisely the opposite of what Hollywood wanted.
But to keep a paycheck he needed to produce, and did, with mixed results.
A letter from this period talks about a method of writing Chandler happened upon out of necessity:
In less than two weeks I wrote an original story of 90 pages like this: All dictated and never looked at until finished. It was an experiment and for a guy subject from early childhood to plot-constipation, it was rather a revelation. Some of the stuff is good, some very much not. But I don’t see why the method could not be adapted to novel writing, at least by me. Improvise the story as well as you can, in as much detail or as little as the mood seems to suggest, write dialogue or leave it out, but cover the movement, the characters and bring the thing to life. I begin to realize the great number of stories that are lost by us rather meticulous boys simply because we permit our minds to freeze on the faults rather than let them work for a while without the critical overseer sniping at everything that is not perfect.
Here at TKZ we’ve talked a lot about the tyranny of the “inner editor.” The writer, whether plotter or pantser, needs to get that first draft finished to truly know the story trying to emerge. Only then do you get to the “fixing” of it. In another letter Chandler wrote: “[Y]ou never quite know where your story is until you have written the first draft of it. So I always regard the first draft as raw material.”
I’ve told my students to write a first draft “as fast as you comfortably can.” Do a quick edit of the previous day’s work, then move on.
That broke through the “plot-constipation” for Chandler (although there’s no record of what became of that story; likely it went to the story department for an assessment and never got the interest of a producer).
In the same letter, however, Chandler identified a potential weakness:
I can see where a special vice might also come out of this kind of writing; in fact two: the strange delusion that something on paper has a meaning because it is written…Also, the tendency to worship production for its own sake. (Gardner suffers badly from this…grinding the stuff out of the sausage machine.)
Chandler nailed it. Just because you write something doesn’t make it good. And publishing junk over and over doesn’t make a career (it does make a persistent and rather annoying hobby). He believed that style (the writer’s “individual mark”) makes all the difference. Style (or voice) is a “projection of personality” but “you have to have a personality before you can project it.” Thus, if you’re cranking things out of the machine, or using a machine to crank things out for you, you may create something with, in Chandler’s words, “an immediate impact of competence,” but it will be “hollow underneath.”
Two lessons to draw from this:
- Write fast first drafts
When you get to a point of constipa…er, when you get stuck, jump ahead to another scene. You can go back to this spot later. Get to know your story first.
- Concentrate on voice as you write
Voice is not something you can fake. Neither can AI. I wrote a book about ways you can pan for the gold of your own voice. Put that on the page. It’s what will set you apart in this sea of conformity.
It’s also why we still read Raymond Chandler today.
Comments welcome.