by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

Back when I was doing the Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference every year, I read a lot of manuscript excerpts for critique. One year I read the opening chapters of a fellow’s first attempt at a novel. He gave me the pitch and was obviously enthused about the idea. He’d had it for years, in fact, and was finally getting it down on paper (as we used to say). I marked up the MS for him and gave him some tips.

The next year he was back. When we met he showed me the same manuscript. “I made some changes you’ll like,” he said.

I asked him if he’d written anything else since last time.

“No,” he said. “Still working on this.”

A whole year (’nother) with the exact same book? Trying to get it in shape to submit to agents? And while I don’t remember the entire pitch, I do remember thinking it’d be a challenge to market.

Plus, it was his first novel. How many writers produce a publishable (or sellable) first novel right out of the gate? Not many (though I believe our own Brother Gilstrap is one of them, with Nathan’s Run).

I’ve had some people over the years come up to me and say, “I think I have a novel inside me.” And I bite my tongue to keep from saying, “That’s a good place to keep it.”

Because there are two things wrong with their sentiment.

First, if you only think you have a novel inside you, you won’t have the drive you need to make it in this game. You’ve got to think: I am a writer inside, and I’m going to write that book.

Second, no one is interested in publishing a novel. They want a novel-ist. They want someone who can deliver the goods over a career. The landscape is littered with first-time novelists whose second effort fell flat, along with their future prospects inside the walls of the Forbidden City.

Now that we have self-publishing, of course, there is no barrier to entry. But if you toss up dismal offerings that readers don’t respond to (except with one-star reviews or, what may be worse, no reviews at all) you’re not building a career, you’re just exercising your fingers.

So how long should you labor over a book before saying, “This isn’t getting me any further. Maybe I should start another one.”

There is no magical answer, but maybe I can offer some suggestions, such as:

Spending a year on one book is long enough.

Yes, that’s a bit overstated. If you’re intent on writing a novel that begins with the pre-Cambrian protozoa and ends at the Treaty of Versailles, that’s your choice.

But a novel-ist produces. A page-a-day is a book a year. A Ficus tree can write a page a day. Don’t be shown up by a Ficus tree.

If you have completed your first novel, celebrate. You’re ahead of most “I think I have a novel inside me” writers. If you’ve studied craft along the way, you will have learned a lot, so your efforts are not in vain. Almost every novelist in the 20th century had a “trunk” novel. Maybe years later they came back to the idea. Or maybe not. What they didn’t do was workshop it over and over, waiting for the cows to come home or the agents to come calling.

This assumes, of course, that you’re hoping to have a career or at least happy vocation that brings in a little dough for your efforts.

But what if this is my second attempt?

You’ve written two whole novels. Good job. Now compare the second one to your first. Did you improve? Consider getting some objective feedback from a few beta readers.

I don’t need no stinkin’ beta readers!

How big is that chip on your shoulder?

This sounds too time consuming. I want to be published yesterday.

When I was in college I wrote to a novelist I admired, the author of The Last Detail, Darryl Ponicsan. He wrote me a nice letter with some solid advice, ending with, “Be prepared for an apprenticeship of years.” (I tell that story here, with a comment from Mr. Ponicsan himself).

It did take me years, and some pretty clunky efforts, before I was published. I spent seven years writing and immersing myself in the craft before a publisher gave me a shot. I’m glad easy self-publishing was not an option back then (just expensive, worthless “vanity” publishing). Going through the grinder of submission and rejection made me a better writer. When my break came, I was ready.

But writing should be fun. This doesn’t sound like fun.

You know what the best fun is? Getting better at what you do. I loved basketball as a kid and had my dad put up a hoop on our garage. I spent hours and hours practicing, sometimes in the rain. I played hours of pickup every weekend at the gym. I got real good, and that was doggone fun. I played in college. For years afterward I had fun playing, until I blew out my knee. That was not fun. But it didn’t negate one bit all the satisfaction I got out of getting good, of hitting the winning shot with the crowd cheering.

This sounds like you’re talking to newer writers. Am I hearing you right?

Loud and clear.

So what about a “seasoned” writer? Should they ever abandon a book?

I’ve got the answer: It depends.

Okay, genius, what does it depend on?

First, on whether or not you’ve got a contract. You may not have the luxury of simple abandonment. You may be able to get a deadline extension from your publisher, but don’t make a habit of it.

If you’re an indie writer, or are writing “on spec,” you have more flexibility. We’ve talked about the “30k wall” here at TKZ. I seem to hit that with each book, even with an outline. I’ve found that a day or two of letting the basement boys have at, then coming back with a vengeance, always provides a breakthrough.

But I also have known a successful “pantser” who has written up to a point where the book flattens and loses steam, so much so that he sets the book aside and moves on.

I do my “pantsing” in the plotting stage. I explore many possible scenarios and outcomes, possible twists and turns, before choosing the path that has, for me, the greatest potential. If some twists pop up during the writing (and they always do) I take a little time to assess, and then tweak my outline. I prefer tweaking over abandoning.

I do have a file of first chapters. I can write first chapters all day long. I’ve done that as part of my creativity time, just to see what it sparks. Sometimes it is a jumping off point into further development. Other times I consider it writing practice.

Nothing is wasted when you exercise your writing muscles.

Can Artificial Intelligence save your bacon?

That is a whole can of worms (to mix metaphors). I’ve run plot problems by Mrs. B, whose intelligence is not artificial. So it is good to a brainstorming partner. The advantage of AI is you don’t have to make a phone call and set up a meeting. It is instantly available.

I would just advise not becoming too dependent on AI, because then you’re not exercising your imagination, as stated above. When that atrophies, it affects all aspects of your writing.

On the other hand, the more you work out that brain of yours, the stronger your writing will become. Plus, you’ll bring that secret sauce called self to the pages, the thing that makes your writing stand apart from the noisome pestilence of mediocrity.

Don’t ever abandon yourself.

How I have rambled on. You take over now in the comments. I’d love to hear what you have to say. (Mrs. B and I are watching the grandboys all day, so my responses may be limited. We never abandon grandboy time!)

By John Gilstrap

It seems that my writing process, if I have one at all, is to stack as many odds against myself as I can. I overcommit to too many real-life projects at the same time, I don’t outline, and I push my writing schedule way too close to deadlines. The net result is to live in a world that is far more stressful than it needs to be.

Somehow, it works. It just doesn’t always feel that way.

Sometimes, when I’m pantsing along without benefit of an outline–pretty much the definition of pantsing (as opposed to plotting, or outlining)–I can find myself in the middle of a plot twist that seemed like a really great idea when I first made the turn, but now that my character is in the middle of great peril, I have no clue how I’m going to get him out of it. Or, perhaps she made a bold courageous choice, and I now have to figure out why she would have done such a self-destructive thing instead of making the safer, more logical choice.

Tick-tock. Deadline’s coming.

The coward’s way out is to go back and change the story to relieve the pain on the story’s pressure pressure point. I resist doing that for several reasons. First of all, I’ve learned over the decades that my imagination takes me to places for a reason. If the choice that got me in trouble seemed like a good idea when I made it, I’ve got to trust that it was, indeed a good idea. If I stay with it long enough, a solution will emerge.

Too many inexperienced writers, I believe, punt early and take the coward’s way out. They find themselves in a creative corner, claim “writer’s block”, and then either abandon the project or start over. Don’t do it, folks. Stay the course.

But if you do go back and undo the troublesome plot twist, beware the ripple effect. If you’ve written for anytime at all, you’ve been there: where a single change to a plot point makes another plot point no longer relevant, and by the time the secondary and tertiary effects are calculated that tiny change has created major headaches.

Another reason I rarely go back and make changes (never say “never,” right?) is purely logistical: I typically don’t have time left in the schedule for long rewrites. Since I’m always screaming, face on fire, to make my deadlines, I’m lucky if I’ve got a week left over after typing The End to do the clean up rewrite. I most definitely don’t have time to rewrite the entire third act. So, damn the torpedoes, my course is set.

Finally, logistics aside, here’s the most important reason not to take the coward’s way out and punt to the rewrite: hubris. old fashioned pride. My characters aren’t cowards, so I can’t be one either. If I put them in a tough situation, I can get them out. And you know what? I always can! Sometimes it takes the application of a little more imaginary explosives, other times it takes an additional character with a few lines of dialogue.

There’s a weird thing that happens in every book, and it always comes about in the third act. I call it the unexpected shortcut. I’ll have planned this elaborate set piece with multiple points of view that’s going to take ages to write, and then out of nowhere, I’ll get smacked with the realization that I’ve provided myself with a much more streamlined, elegant and effective route to the conclusion that I didn’t even know I’d written.

In my most recently completed book, Burned Bridges, the first of the Irene Rivers series, to be released next year, I found myself buried up to my neck in the third act with the action scenes clear in my mind, but I didn’t have a way to reveal to the good guys the secrets that justified killing the bad guys. Once the bad guys died, their secrets would die with them, but I didn’t have a believable motivation for them to confess. I knew there had to be a way.

Then it hit me. I had introduced a character way back in the second chapter whose original purpose was to be a walk-on catalyst for an entirely different scene. All Irene Rivers had to do was place a phone call to this character (no longer just a walk-on, and likely destined to return i future books), and the rest would fall into place.

Whether you’re new to this writing game or wizened and gristly with war stories from the storytelling trenches, you need to remind yourself from time to time that you’ve got this. You know what you’re doing. The story that seemed like a great idea when you first started writing it is no less a good idea just because the telling of it is getting frustrating. It’s supposed to be a little bit hard all the time.

Okay, it’s your turn, TKZ family. How do you hack your way out of plot corners?

By PJ Parrish

Morning, folks. I am a little under the weather today, recovering from Covid. No worries. Am old but healthy and Paxlovid is doing its thing. (Go you little functional virus particles! Inhibit that essential enzyme!)

But shoot, this brain-fog thing is real so forgive me if this post is typo-ridden, terse, or turgid. (I worked hard on that alliteration). Speaking of working hard, here’s a pretty darn good submission for our First Page Critiques. Well, I tipped my hand, didn’t I? So much for writing suspensefully.

There’s still stuff here we can talk about and help the writer improve on. The writer calls this “real-world fantasy.” Not sure what the heck that means. But like I said, I am old and maybe out of touch. See you in a sec.

JULY ASCENDANT

Amidst the roar of the crowd, Johnny Summer stepped into the ring, wondering who they would make him pummel this time.

He tugged off his shirt and threw it aside. The audience jumped to their feet, screaming his name — and a few were even rooting for him. The rest were cursing him out, holding up touching homemade signs that wished him a happy and painful demise. For spectators of an illegal fight, they sure could make a guy feel special. Just to get ‘em going, he turned in a circle, waving, flexing, and grinnin’ like a fiend.

The entire time, he swept his gaze over the floor, looking for his opponent. There was Beverly, flashing him a thumbs-up, there was Uncle Ambrose, of course, chewing on his cigar, but where was the competition?

“Come on!” Johnny roared. “Bring him out!” And let everyone get home before midnight, hopefully.

“Ain’t he amazing?” the announcer said. “Seventeen years old, and ready for blood! Ambrose Girard’s undefeated champion! But will he fail tonight? Will Johnny Summer finally meet his demise? I think so, folks. Coming all the way from Alaska, let’s give it up for Kodiak!”

The crowd went wild as a man came from the back, his tight shirt practically plastered on his muscles. Huge was an understatement — if they had been on the same side, Johnny could’ve just hid behind him the whole fight. When he climbed in, the ring shook, and even the ref took a step back.

“A kid?” Kodiak scoffed. “That’s who I’m fighting? Really?” Kodiak cracked his neck. “This is gonna be easy.”

Johnny swallowed, rubbing his thumbs over his hand wraps. It just had to be bare-knuckle night, didn’t it? That meant he’d get the full force of every blow, and anything went, too, so he had a variety of ways to get pummeled. Fists, feet, death by biceps… the possibilities were endless.

He glanced to the side. Ambrose was glaring as usual, but Beverly, sitting in the front row, didn’t have a hint of doubt on her “Come on, you can do this, get ‘im, Johnny!”

He turned back at Kodiak. Right. He could do this.

Right?

The bell rang.

_______________________

Like I already said, I like this submission. It has much going for it. More on that in a moment. But as I re-read this for the post, I realized I might have made a dumb assumption. I read this as being set in present time or maybe even future-ish, set in a dystopian Escape From New York cage-match setting. Maybe it was because the writer tagged it “real-world fantasy.”  But the more I read this, I realized this might be in the past — say, the 1800s. Bare-fisted illegal fights were big biz back then.

So…which is it? Does it matter? Does the writer have an obligation, in the first 500 words or so, to let us know where and when the story takes place? I think they do, but given that this sample is tense and compactly written, I am willing to wait a little longer to establish time/place. What do you think?

Let’s talk about specifics. I sense a confidence in this writer, a good grasp of craft basics. So I’m not going to nit-pick there. I love the fact the writer chose a good moment to enter the story — just as the main character (I assume Johnny is such) enters the ring. We are literally entering the story with him. The writer could have entered too early — say with Johnny sweating it out in the locker room, thinking, musing, dreading, and his manager coming in to tell him it was time. The writer could have entered too late — say with Johnny supine on the canvas, spitting up blood.

Always keep in mind that one of the most important choices you make is WHEN to parachute your reader into the story.

I like the sense of suspense created here. Notice how the writer gracefully slips in the characters name and age. We know Johnny has been here before. He knows he feels scared and out-matched. We already want to root for him.

But…

Yeah, the more I like a submission, the more I but it.

What a great PLACE to open a story — a bare-knuckle fight arena. But except for crowd noise, what aren’t we getting? A sensory feel for what this place is like. I really think this writer has it in them to deliver better description, to make us experience this place better. Using all five senses does more than just establish place — it creates suspense!

What does this arena look like? Not enough details for me, and it might go far to telling us where we are in time and place. What does it smell like? Body ordor? Beer? The pungent eucalyptus/menthol of boxers’s liniment? My dad smoked cigars and I will never get that stink out of my memories.

And dear writer, don’t miss any chance to SHOW instead of  TELL. Don’t tell me people are holding “touching” signs or ones that wish Johnny death. What exactly do they say. Details, details, details — they add life to your setting.

You also missed another description chance — Kodiak. All we get is that he’s big. Get in Johnny’s head and senses here — what does he look like? I like that you said he’s so big Johnny could hide behind him. (but might “disappear” be a more telling word?) But you’re good enough to make this important minor character come alive. Maybe you can even make Kodiak represent something deeper to Johnny — not just an opponent, but a personification of something deep in Johnny’s psyche. Apollo Creed wasn’t just Rocky Balboa’s opponent — he was the personification of corporate boxing, a slick publicity-hound, the man that Rocky could never be. Remember that Creed had a bunch of nicknames?  “The King of Sting,” “The Dancing Destroyer,” “The Master of Disaster.”

You’re up for this, writer. When it comes to description, don’t pull your punches. Land em hard and make descrption work hard.

Let me do a quick line edit to point out some other things I think you can improve on. My comments in blue

Amidst the roar of the crowd, Johnny Summer stepped into the ring, wondering who they would make him pummel this time. Not a bad opening but those first six words don’t work for me. First, “amidst” is a clunky and archaic word. It immediately slows down your pace. It belongs in a period romance, not a visceral fight scene. “Amidst the roar of the sea, Cathy could hear Heathcliff calling her name.” If you just delete that, you opening line is better. 

Johnny Summer stepped into the ring, wondering who they would make him kill this time. I know literally “kill” is not right but it’s stronger. And you can quickly turn it on its head:

Johnny Summer stepped into the ring, wondering who they would make him kill this time. The roar of the crowd swept over him, and for a second, he had to steady himself against the ropes. He hadn’t killed anyone with his fists, not yet at least. But that didn’t stop the crowd from screaming for it.

He tugged off his shirt and threw it aside. The audience jumped to their feet, screaming his name — and a few were even rooting for him. The rest were cursing him out, What specifically are they yelling? Details add suspense. holding up touching homemade signs that wished him a happy and painful demise. Same thing here. Details! For spectators of an illegal fight, they sure could make a guy feel special.

New graph here, I think. Just to get ‘em going, he turned in a circle, waving, flexing, and grinnin’ like a fiend. Cliche. This phrase is not yours. You can do better. Grinning but what is he really feeling at this moment?

The entire time, he swept his gaze over the floor, looking for his opponent. There was Beverly in the front row, flashing him a thumbs-up. There was Uncle Ambrose, of course, chewing on his cigar, but where was the competition?

“Come on!” Johnny roared. “Bring him out!” And let everyone get home before midnight, I like that you’re giving him a thought here, but it’s kinda meh. Is this man confident going into this? Is he tired of fighting? He’s only 17, but does he feel suddenly old and worn? Missed opportunity to begin layering in, via a few emotions and thoughts, some backstory hopefully.

“Ain’t he amazing?” the announcer said. “Seventeen years old, and ready for blood! Ambrose Girard’s undefeated champion! But will he fail tonight? Will Johnny Summer finally meet his demise? I think so, folks. Coming all the way from Alaska, let’s give it up for Kodiak!”

The crowd went wild Cliche! You can do better. And filter it through Johnny’s senses, not your own. The ring began to shake and it took Johnny a second to realize it was the stomping of feet. The noise didn’t even sound human anymore, and Johnny could hear the scream of pigs back on the farm as they were hit with electric prods. (Have it relate to something in his world!)

Johnny turned. There he was, a massive thing, rolling slowly through the crowd. Or something better, more specific to JOHNNY’S experience and background. How does this huge man APPEAR to Johnny from the FRAMEWORK of his senses and background (not yours). 

A man came from the back, his tight shirt practically plastered on his muscles. Huge was an understatement So it this. SHOW US don’t tell us. — if they had been on the same side, Johnny could’ve just hid behind him the whole fight. When he climbed in, the ring shook, and even the ref took a step back.

“A kid?” Kodiak scoffed. “That’s who I’m fighting? Really?” Kodiak cracked his neck. “This is gonna be easy.”

Johnny swallowed, rubbing his thumbs over his hand wraps. It just had to be bare-knuckle night, didn’t it? That meant he’d get the full force of every blow, and anything went, too, so he had a variety of ways to get pummeled. Fists, feet, death by biceps… the possibilities were endless.

He glanced to the side. Ambrose was glaring as usua. But Beverly, sitting in the front row, didn’t have a hint of doubt on her face? Is she is girlfriend? You could drop a hint of description here. He’s just a kid, after all, but here he is, in the man’s ultimate arena. You must have had a reason for putting Beverly in here. Make it mean something.

Need new graph whenever you have new dialogue. Come on, you can do this,” she yelled., get ‘im, Johnny!” Because you dropped the H, I am now assuming she’s cockney? Are we in London? 

He turned back to at Kodiak. What does he see on the man’s face? What is he thinking, feeling? Right. He could do this.

Right?

The bell rang. I like this part. Like how you set each into it’s own graph. 

Okay, as I said, I really like this submission. I think it’s a really strong start. But this writer is capable of much more. Work harder on your description and don’t stint. Get in Johnny’s head a little more and drops some hints about his background. HINTS! Just a few well chosen words or thoughts will create more even  sympathy for him.

I would definitely read on, and I don’t even like fight stories. But I like Johnny. Don’t be afraid to inject a little more emotion into him, even in this opening round. You need to spill a little blood onto your pages. Good luck, keep working, and let us know how it’s going.

As I type this, two ginormous generators on an equal number of gooseneck trailers across the street roar so loud I’m forced to wear the ear protection usually reserved for shooting large firearms. On the backs of those same trailers are four five-hundred-gallon tanks full of water and some foamy solution designed to remove paint from brick.

The house across the street is the target of my ire, along with the steady hiss of pressurized water spewing from the ends of two power washing wands wielded by a pair of very wet workers. It’s part of an ongoing saga of renovations over there, and as John Gilstrap can attest from the last time he visited over a year ago, the residence in question looks like someone with no sense style had been watching wayyyy too much HGTV.

I think the house was a front for nefarious businesses. Honestly, I believe they were cooking meth over there. Strange things went on behind those closed doors after we moved here five years ago. I seldom saw the same people more than a couple of times in the four years after we bought this house. Strangers came and went. The blinds were always closed, and it usually looked as if no one lived there.

Then it sold, and the new owners brought in 30-yard dumpsters, and stripped the interior down to the studs. Ignoring the architectural styles of the neighborhood, they remodeled everything into some ghastly ultra-modern Scandinavian design with a wide glass front door the size you’d find at one end of a car dealership’s showroom.

Without approval from the HOA, they sprayed the exterior bright white, making it the only painted residence in our neighborhood of naturally colored brick. It stood out like a sore thumb, required Ray Bans to look at it in the bright summer stun, and still hasn’t sold eighteen months later, because the HOA (and this is the only time I will give them props) put a lean on the house until certain conditions were met. Namely, strip off all that garish paint.

That’s what they’re doing right now. Power-washing the paint off a 5,000′ two-story house brick by brick.

The noise and aggravation is one more thing to endure this month, and this leads us to the root of today’s rant and recommendation.

Through this summer, I hammered out the first 40,000 words on my latest western horror novel, Buck’s Lament, and on a creative roll, retreated to the Cabin for a week by myself to gain another fifteen. Coming home, I went to town on the downhill side of the manuscript (Texan lingo meaning to do something in a detailed and enthusiastic way).

On Monday, words flowed into the laptop from my fingertips. The story moved forward with startling twists as the plot continued to develop on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. During those four days, all those subconscious connections James Scott Bell was talking about a few days ago here on Killzone found themselves and i wrote with feverish glee at how well it read.

Those who know me can tell you that I don’t outline, so it was all stream of consciousness, and it worked!

Then I stuck on some bit of western history, and went to the Google for the information. Typing key words into the search engine, I found a safe link I’d used before and hit Enter.

A dozen screens popped up, one over the other so fast I couldn’t read them, before it froze up and refused to respond. On top of that, a warning came up that I didn’t quite understand. Trying not to panic, I dialed up the makers of my laptop. For the next hour, we discussed my dilemma and technical support finally suggested that I should shut everything down and reboot this infernal machine.

It worked, and all came back…except for what I’d written the last four days. Seven. Thousand. Words. They were just gone.

But that can’t happen! My iDrive automatically backs up to the Cloud. It should all be there.

Sick at my stomach, I again reached out to tech support and the helpful expert figuratively shrugged. “I can’t tell you what happened.”

I called a friend who lives on computers. He came over and three hours later, delivered the bad news. “For some reason, you were disconnected from the Cloud. Nothing has backed up since Sunday.”

With a sick feeling in my stomach, I swallowed down a wave of despair. “So it really is all gone.”

“I’m afraid so.” He went to work, beating back all the electronic gremlins he could find and got me going again, but for days afterward I couldn’t make myself type a word. All those descriptions, the twists, and especially the Pulitzer prize-winning dialog, was gone.

Following those twenty-year-old footsteps in my own imaginary ashes when an electronic hiccup took my entire first novel, I spent the next week re-writing those seven thousand words from memory. I’m sure I missed many details, but the scenes were still fresh in my mind. Maybe these new pages look like the ones floating around somewhere in an electronic heaven, but I’ll never know.

I wish I could tie my troubles in a gunny sack and throw them over the edge, but that’s just the line from a Guy Clark song.

So, the purpose of this discussion is to urge you all not to rely on just one backup method, no matter how good they say it is. I won’t go into the myriad methods to save your work, because I can’t tell you what’s best.

An exterior hard drive?

Had one. It failed.

Download to a thumb drive.

Check. Did that, but it also failed and when I bought this machine, they said the Cloud would never let me down. I know it wasn’t the electronic netherworld, it was a strange disconnect between this infernal machine and that little storm cloud icon at the top of this screen that I never would have imagined.

One of the support techs I spoke to on the phone said to use Time Machine. “You’ll never lose your work again.”

Probably should, but I don’t have the time or inclination to learn more technology. Then again, that’s what they said about the connection between this device and the Cloud.

My grown daughters insist I should use Google Docs. They say it will never fail. I’ll give that a look once I’m finished with this manuscript, but not right now.

I save as I go again, even though it’s supposed to do that for me, and at the end of the day I send the entire manuscript to myself through email. That one has never failed me.

I hope this never happens to any one of you, and I also mean the generators that I’m beginning to think will be outside my office window until the end of September.

—