“When in doubt, bury someone alive.” Edgar Allan Poe was purported to have said this as one of his five essentials for the betterment of a story. Although it’s never been confirmed, even if he didn’t really say it, he should have. So let’s figure out what Mr. Poe might have been suggesting. My interpretation is that there is always a solution to a writing issue. And one of the biggest issues new writers (and old) have is getting stuck without an idea what to do next. Poe suggests doing something drastic.
I don’t like to use the term writer’s block because I don’t believe it exists. But like most writers, now and then I wind up in a dark room with no doors. Usually this occurs in the infamous Sagging Middle as Clare so expertly discussed on Monday. Whether the idea you thought would work doesn’t or you hope the answer will emerge from the ether, you need a way to solve the problem.
So when you get stuck, what can you do? Here are some suggestions that I’ve used. Perhaps they’ll help you, too.
Change your writing environment. I have a home office with a desktop PC. I also have a laptop. Sometimes I need different surroundings so I grab my laptop and move to another room or outside. Just the act of breathing fresh air can fire up your brain.
Listen to music. Often I write to background music, usually a movie score (no distracting lyrics). But sometimes setting down in front of my stereo and rocking out to my favorite group can clear my head and refresh my thoughts.
Get rid of distractions. TV, email, instant and text messages, phone calls, pets, and the biggest offender of them all: the Internet. Get rid of them during your writing time.
Stop writing and start reading. Take a break from your writing and read one of your favorite authors. Or better yet, pick something totally out of your wheelhouse.
Don’t decide to stop until you’re “inspired”. I’ve tried this. It won’t work.
Open a blank document and write ANYTHING. It’s called “stream of consciousness”. It worked for James Joyce, Virginia Woolf and Marcel Proust. It can work for you.
Write through it. Beginners sit around and hope for a solution to come to them in their dreams. Professionals keep writing. The solution will come.
Finally, do something drastic. Bury someone alive. Works every time.
Fellow Zoners, how do you get yourself out of a writer’s corner? What drastic measures have you taken to keep the story moving?
Frasier: I’ve had an epiphany. Niles: Oh, wonderful. We could use a second sentence.
By PJ Parrish
The following is a true story, I swear. A couple years back, my sister and co-author Kelly and I were sitting at the old card table behind a stack of our books just inside the entrance of Barnes and Noble. It was raining and business was slow. (One advantage to having a co-author: You have someone to talk to during book signings when the screaming hordes of fans aren’t exactly beating down the door.)
A lady came up to our table, picked up our book, read the blurb and asked, “Are there two of you?” (We get that question a lot, even when both of us are sitting there). We explained that yes, we were co-authors and that was our pen name there on the cover.
The lady said, “My sister and I are thinking of writing a book together. Do you have any advice?”
I said, “Do you get along well with your sister?”
“No, we hate each other,” she said.
The first rule about co-authoring: It helps a lot if you like each other.
Yesterday, Joe Moore gave us an excellent overview of what it takes to write with a co-author. Today, I’m going into the weeds with some of the more prosaic stuff you need to consider before you partner-up. And yeah, I apologize ahead of time, but it does involve lawyers.
Personalities matter
First consideration when thinking about collaboration: You have to like each other.
If you don’t, it will never work. Think about what happens the first time one of you says, “You know, I don’t think that scene you wrote really works. Maybe we should scrap it.” Do you have roughly the same sense of humor? Do you like the same kind of books? Could you share a hotel room if you had to?
As Joe said, personalities matter. You don’t have to be bosom buddies, but you do have to respect each other and get along. Because writing even just one book is a long process and if you can’t stand to be in each other’s company for an hour, how are you going to make it eight months and 100,000 words?
Geography doesn’t
Over the course of thirteen books and fifteen years, Kelly and I have never lived closer than 1,000 miles. I’ve been rooted in Fort Lauderdale while she has wandered the earth like Caine in Kung Fu. In the early days, we relied on long distance phone calls (expensive), then emails, and now – hallelujah! — Skype. This has made collaboration easy because with Skype, one of you can have a chapter open on the screen and work on it while the other sees exactly what you are doing. But we also try to get together once a year in the same place because nothing subs for actual face-time. Plus we like to drink wine together.
Commitment matters
The second biggest consideration is this: Do you have the same level of commitment? Writing novel is a long tedious process and if one of the partners lacks the energy, time or drive, one person ends up shouldering the load and hard feelings develop fast. I have a good friend who partnered up with a guy to write a thriller. He had the original concept and a rich research background; she had a track record in mysteries and the work ethic. Three guesses who ended up doing most the work. For half the money.
Tone matters a lot
What kind of book are you writing? I know a lot of solo writers who can’t answer this, but you must agree on this with a co-author. What is your sub-genre, if any? What style are you aiming for? And what will the tone be? You must agree on this before you write one word or the book will never be seamless. I just started reading Joe and Lynn’s book The Blade, and I have to admit admit I went in looking for the seams. But I am finding none. This is very important because if the book feels like it has two voices at work, the reader won’t buy it. It’s very jarring.
Okay, now let’s deal with the nuts and bolts. You have to get this boring stuff down right from the start with a potential partner. Please don’t — in the beautiful bloom of first love, when you are dreaming about movie deals and royalties — neglect the details. Don’t try to wing it or figure it out later. This kind of thinking makes for doomed collaborations. And many bad marriages.
INCOME If you are self-publishing: Be aware that with most outlets, only one name can be on the account. If you want to post your book on Amazon, for example, you can’t list both your names on the account. Which means that one of you must manage the account, pay out income, and at the end of the year issue the other person a 1099 tax form. If your name is on the account, your writing partner is, in essence, a contractor. You can both access the Amazon dashboard account, which solves the problem of cheating. But someone has to be the main person for the income stream. Also, if you consign to bookstores, they will likely want to deal with one name for accounting.
If you go traditional: Your publisher will want both your names on any contract. They will likely split all income and issue you each royalty statements and tax documents. Ditto for any good agent, who will also deduct expenses individually.
EXPENSES: If you are the kind of person who shows up on April 12 at H&R Block with a liquor box filled with receipts, don’t try co-authoring. You must keep impeccable records. Because some expenses will be shared; some will be individual. Shared might include: editing, formatting, cover design fees, Createspace costs, website (yes, you need one), postage, and any expenses relating to the book in general. Individual might include: travel you do separately, workshop and conferences, publications, organization fees, office expenses. Someone in the partnership has to be the caretaker of the shared expenses, keep good records, and issue the other an accounting for tax purposes. Believe me, this can get hinky. It doesn’t hurt to involve a good CPA in this.
WILL: You do have one, right? Shame on you. Well, you need one if you have a writing partner. It needs to cover what happens if one of you dies: Who takes over the business and how are past and future income distributed? Do you want your ex-spouse or rotten kids to retain your part of royalties or a possible movie deal? Who owns the pen name, if you use one? Get a lawyer.
PARTNERSHIP AGREEMENT: If you have an agent or traditional publisher, they will probably demand this. Even if you self publish, it’s a good idea to have one anyway. Our former agent demanded it, and my lawyer asked me for it when I went to get my will done. This spells out things like: How income and expenses are divided (50%/50% or some other variation?) Who owns the copyright? How is the pen name to be used? (ours stipulates only for “works created together and for no projects either of us might undertake individually.” This prevents your co-author, if you split, from using the team name). A “failure to perform” clause, which details what happens if one of you dies or is disabled, that you have the right to terminate the partnership. It includes a clause called “Warranties” which is a bunch of legal-ese that protects you both. And you need to get this notarized. I know…pain in the butt. Too bad.
Whew…still want to team up? Let’s move on.
ORGANIZATION OF BOOK STUFF Main File: Do you ever lose material or delete chapters by accident? Do you forget and work on the wrong version of something? Welcome to my world. Now, consider how far south this can go if there are two of you. So, figure out before you start who is better organized and let that person be – {{cue Godlike voice}} — THE KEEPER OF THE FILE. Someone has to be in charge of the latest working version. If you don’t do this, you might each be working on different versions of the same chapter. The Keeper has to also have an excellent back-up program like iBox. They must be vigilant about making sure the other person has the right material. This is not what you want to hear when you turn on Skype in the morning: “I finished chapter 9 last night but I think I was working on an old version from two months ago.” This has happened to us. We call our working version ONE BIG FILE. At times, when things are going badly, we have inserted a colorful profane adjective between “big” and “file.”
Chronology: Someone should keep a running chronology of the book as you progress. I don’t know how anyone writes a complex plot without keeping a running chronology of what happens in each chapter, but that’s just me. With a co-author, keeping a chronology really helps to keep you on the same page in your time-line and saves time when you go into rewrite mode. You don’t want to have this conversation:
“We need to go back and beef up the clues in that Paris morgue scene so Jacques Reacher can figure out he is chasing a one-armed man.”
“What chapter was that in?”
“You wrote it. Don’t you remember?”
“That was five months ago.”
“Well, let me do a search for it. What was the ME’s name?”
“We didn’t give him one.”
“Well, search for all the French stuff!”
“Can’t we just let this slide? No one will notice.”
“Yes, they will. I think we said the guy was missing his RIGHT arm but now the slash marks from the knife would tell Reacher that he’s left-handed.”
LONG PAUSE. “Okay…I’ll find it. Go do a run on your treadmill. You’re getting crabby.”
This is why you keep a running chronology. To save time and tsouris. Here is a part of our chronology for our current WIP:
CHAPTER TWO – day 1 Saturday April 6, 1991
Louis arrives at church and talks briefly with new boss Steele. Est. setting.
CHAPTER THREE – day 2: April 7
Louis finds his apartment and unpacks his mementos. Thinks about Joe. Brief reference to what happened in DOW with Steele.
CHAPTER FOUR – day 3 Monday morning April 8
Back at remodeled church. Team members show up. Steele gives brief intros and they take their cases.
CHAPTER FIVE – day 3 Monday late night
Emily comes and they go to dinner at bar and talk. Louis calls Joe.
CHAPTER SIX – day 4 Tuesday April 9
The meeting in the choir loft. As Louis is packing up file and getting ready to leave, he can’t resist asking Steele why? Backstory on what exactly happened in Loon Lake 5 year ago (in L’s thoughts) and what changed Steele’s mind about Louis.
CHAPTER SEVEN – day 4 Tuesday
Louis drives to Keweenaw. Meets Sheriff Nurmi and Monica. First reference to Sisu clue on Monica’s sweatshirt. Ends with L seeing the box in evidence.
In each chapter, we record the salient plot details, the first appearance of any character. We also record the calendar date as it happens in the book and what DAY we are in time-wise, so we can tell how much time passes between events. This latter DAY thing is important because you can see, at a glance, that you’ve let five days go by in your plot and nothing has happened. I update this with each completed chapter and send it to Kelly.
Character board. Now this is strictly optional, but Kelly and I have found it useful. You and your partner need to be on the same page when describing characters. We’ve found a trick: We agree on a famous person — like Mike Ditka was our sheriff and the actor Michael Rennie is Louis’s foster father — and sort of use him or her as a template. Over the years, we’ve even pasted them in a montage. This is fun and goes over big at workshops and signings.
Yikes…you’re still here? Boy, you must want this partnership thing bad. Okay, here’s the rest of the stuff you have to consider before you get hitched.
MISCELLANEOUS What’s your name? Are you going to use a pen name like Kelly and I do? Or do you use two names, like Joe Moore and Lynn Sholes? And whose name goes first?
Are you at about the same level in your craft? They say you should always play tennis with someone better than you. I don’t advise that for writing. Aim for someone on your own level. As Joe pointed out, you will each bring different strengths and weaknesses to the team, but your basic craftsmanship level should be the same. Now, if you are entering a partnership where one is charged with all writing and the other say research and editing, make sure you are clear going in that those are indeed the parameters.
Go to a writers conference together. You can learn a lot about another writer in a writer’s conference bar. Pick each others brains. As Joe said, talk, talk, talk…and talk some more. Consider it speed dating before you make the plunge.
Commit to a routine. Joe said this but I need to second it because it’s vital. Set a daily “meeting” where you get on Skype or phone and touch base. Maybe it’s for hours as you thrash out plot. Maybe it’s for 10 minutes. But you must maintain contact. And emails aren’t enough. Did I mention that you need to talk?
Support each other. Again, this is like a marriage in every way. You go into a writing collaboration because you want to believe that you can achieve something together that you can’t achieve alone. So tell each other the truth, but do so constructively and with kindness. Be honest. Don’t be afraid to send your less than best. You can send something that needs work; that’s why there are two of you. Yes, you want to do a good job but it is not important to impress your partner. And last but not least…
Bury your ego. You each bring different skills and talents to this and if one is far stronger at plot, let that person take the lead. Maybe you are better at character development. As the partnership goes on, you might find, as we did, that we learn from each other.
People ask us all the time if we argue or disagree about the book. Of course. We’re sisters. We’re writers. We have massive egos and decades of history together. But we understand that, in the end, there are really three of us in this partnership. So yes, we argue. But that third entity — the story — always wins.
Sue Coletta, a good friend of TKZ, recently responded to our call for blog topics by requesting some discussion on co-writing fiction. Since there are two of us here that collaborate with others—myself with co-author Lynn Sholes, and Kris Montee with her sister Kelly Nichols (PJ Parrish), Kris and I decided to take up the task. I have switched with Kris to start the discussion today, and she will take my slot tomorrow to deliver part 2.
Between Sholes & Moore, and PJ Parrish, we have produced 24 co-written works of fiction. We hope that today’s post and tomorrow’s will shed some light on what is considered by most of our fellow authors as an impossible task.
Collaborating on fiction was started in the mainstream a number of years ago by the great Clive Cussler, and soon followed by James Patterson. Their co-writers alone could fill a fancy cocktail party. Nowadays it seems to be growing in popularity. This week’s New York Times bestselling top 20 includes THE PURSUIT by Janet Evanovich and Lee Goldberg, THE HOUSE OF SECRETS by Brad Meltzer and Tod Goldberg and THE EMPEROR’S REVENGE by Clive Cussler and Boyd Morrison. I’ve spoken to a couple of Cussler’s co-writers about their technique which I won’t reveal here. But I can assure you, it is NOT the panster approach. I also have my theory why co-writing fiction is really catching on—increased product means increased sales. But that’s just me.
The reason co-writing fiction is looked upon as impossible is because it’s hard. In the beginning nothing exists but an idea in an individual’s imagination. It might be inspired by facts or events, but only the individual has a specific vision of those events in his or her head. So how can two people have a similar enough vision to be able to write a novel?
Lynn Sholes and I have written nine thrillers together because of the following reasons. First, we love the same kind of books—the ones we read are like the ones we write. Second, we have an unquestioning respect for each other’s writing skills and a deep belief that whatever one of us writes, the other can improve. Third, we believe that there’s always a better way to write something. Fourth, we never let our egos get in the way of a good story. This comes from spending over ten years in a weekly writers’ critique group. Fifth, we know each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and are willing to admit them. Sixth, we agree on the same message in each book. Seventh, we believe that we are on the same level of expertise. And last, we believe that the whole is greater than the sum of the parts.
Those points cover the mental portion. Now, how do we handle the mechanics of the job? We talk, and talk, and talk. Once a day we conference call, brainstorming and telling and retelling each other the story. Our two favorite words are: What if? Whether it’s global plot points or an individual scene or character motivation, we keep telling each other the story until that little imaginary movie in our minds becomes as in sync as possible. Then one of us will declare to have a “handle” on the scene or character or chapter, and create the first draft.
We write slowly because each chapter must go back and forth many times for revision. Years ago, when we first started, everyone could tell who wrote what as we tried to finish our first book. It took three years of hard work before we fused our voices. Now, because the process goes through so many revisions, most of the time neither of us can remember who wrote what. We rely on each other so much that we both wonder how it is possible for anyone to write a book on his own.
There are several advantages and disadvantages to collaborating. A disadvantage is that you split the money you make. So you’ll always make half of what you would as a single author. And like any relationship, there is always a chance of a falling out. And something could happen where an ego can become inflated and affect the process.
A giant plus is that we never experience writer’s block. One of us will always have an idea on how to get out of a jam or move the story forward. And unlike our family, friends, trusted beta readers, and everyone else, a co-writer has an intimate, vested interest in the success of the story that no one else could have.
We are approaching the mid-point of our tenth thriller together. We believe that the whole thing boils down to trust. Trust in each other and in the goals we both want to achieve with the story and with our careers. For us, two heads are better than one.
Here’s a list of points to consider when entering into collaboration.
Understand why you think collaboration would be beneficial and share that with your co-author. There are many reasons to collaborate on a story, and only the participants can say what these are. The ideal collaboration is one free of hidden agendas. If you desire something specific from the relationship, it’s best to state it straight out. This can avoid conflict and frustration on the part of one or both writers.
Know the co-writer and his or her work before entering into a collaborative arrangement. If you don’t get along with a writer or the two writing styles conflict, then collaboration may not be the best idea.
Come to the relationship with an open mind and flexible ideas. If you enter the project with set images and plot ideas, then you limit the other writer’s involvement. This can also lead to conflict. If your collaboration begins with something previously written, then there will be constraints, but still be flexible.
Respect your collaborator’s ideas and opinions. Leave your ego at the door. A partnership works because of input from both sides and a healthy respect for each other. There are no stupid ideas. If possible, state your biases up front so that each writer is aware of differences of opinion. For example, one of you might be opposed to first-person stories or present tense. Knowing this up front can help avoid conflicts.
Explore each writer’s strengths. If your specialty is plot and your partner’s specialty is description, then use those strengths to the story’s advantage. The ideal collaboration results in a story that neither writer could generate on his or her own.
Divide the workload and agree on it at the beginning. Perhaps one of you will write the first draft and the other will edit/revise the draft. Perhaps one will write the skeleton and the other will fill in the descriptions. There is no single method of collaboration. It is as unique as the two writers who come together to collaborate. But each writer wants to feel involved in the process.
Discuss differences of opinion and employ the art of compromise. Don’t make differences into impasses. Pose solutions with compromise as the goal. Don’t let the differences escalate into dissolution of the partnership.
Allow for an easy, clean way out. In case things don’t work out, and to avoid hard feelings, each writer should have a painless way out of the partnership. Make sure you have agreed on how to divide up the intellectual property before beginning collaboration. The escape clause should be agreed upon ahead of time.
Most important, have fun. Collaborations can and should be fun. If it is not, try something else.
Check back tomorrow for part 2 of co-writing fiction with PJ Parrish.
We have another intrepid author who has submitted their first 400 words for critique. Enjoy the read. My feedback will be on the flip side. Join in the discussion with your constructive comments.
“Dr. Germano! I need you!”
Ray bolted to his feet, throwing the blood work report he was reading onto his desk. As he came out of his office, he nearly collided with one of his staff hurrying down the hall, carrying a box lid with a small bundle of fur huddled inside.
“Bring it into the common room, Mary Jo. Matt! You here?”
“On my way, Boss!” The answer came from the reception area.
Ray could hear the creature’s raspy breathing as he followed the woman to an exam table and winced when he saw the contents of the lid. A malnourished calico cat lay on its side, struggling for breath, eyes wide. A feathered shaft stuck out of its chest.
“My God, is that an arrow? Smart of you to carry it flat,” Ray said, with a nod to the tearful woman. “If that thing shifts, it could do some damage. Is it one of your neighbor’s cats?”
“I don’t think so, Doctor. I’ve haven’t seen this one around before and I know most of the outdoor cats around my apartment. I found it in the alley when I was taking the trash out this morning.”
He hesitated for a moment, weighing his options. The practice policy was clear on drop offs and found animals. No heroic efforts unless the animal was a pet, with a collar or microchip. He could almost hear Phil. We’re running a business, damn it, Ray, not a charity! He had heard that speech many times over the years.
This cat was obviously a stray, as scruffy and skinny as it was. It couldn’t weigh eight pounds soaking wet. No one was going to step forward and claim it. Still, it seemed young and strong. It was still breathing with an arrow in its chest after all. He hated not to give it a chance. Her, give her a chance. Calicos were usually female. Well, Phil was retired now and he’d make his own decisions on who to treat.
He reached out and stroked her head gently. To his surprise, she tried to butt his hand and even mustered a faint purr. Then his eyes widened and he barely resisted the urge to jerk his hand back.
FEEDBACK:
Well, I don’t know about you, but I sure want to know why the good doctor wanted to jerk his hand back. Shades of Pet Sematary. (I hope Catfriend weighs in on this. Expurrrrrt) The intro starts with a “call to attention” dialogue line. For the most part, the writer sticks with the action, except where the intro “strays” (pun intended) into the former practice policy.
FIRST PARAGRAPH – Since the first paragraph establishes the scene, I would suggest stronger wording to set the stage and focus on the action. I’d also suggest clarification on where the action takes place.
Suggestion – Ray bolted to his feet and threw a blood work report onto his desk. He rushed from his office and nearly collided into Mary Jo, one of his staff. She raced by him carrying a box lid with a small bundle of fur huddled inside.
It’s not clear to me what this business is. Dr. Germano has a desk and there is a practice policy. I’m assuming it’s a veterinary hospital or practice, but that’s never stated. This can be fixed by using a tag line at the beginning, before the first dialogue line, or it can be inserted into the first paragraph – He rushed from his office at Pavlov’s Veterinary Hospital…
STICK WITH THE ACTION – In the paragraph starting with the sentence, “He hesitated for a moment, weighing his options.” Unless this is important, I would shorten to minimize it or delete this paragraph.
Tightening Suggestion – He hesitated and weighed his options. Drop off animals, with no owners, would cost the practice. Unless the animal had a collar or a microchip, the practice policy stated no heroic efforts were to be made.
Then focusing on the cat and what he sees (perhaps foreshadowing a hint of peculiar behavior) would ramp up the creep factor.
Tightening Suggestion – Scruffy and skinny, the stray couldn’t weigh eight pounds soaking wet. No one would claim it, but it still breathed with an arrow in its chest. He hated not to give such a young and strong animal a chance. Her, give her a chance. Calicos were usually female.
PASSIVE VOICE – There are several uses of passive voice in this short intro. Easy to clean up in 400 words, but the author should learn how to catch it as the words are streaming. Here are a few:
Before – Ray could hear the creature’s raspy…
After – Ray heard the creature’s raspy…
Before – I found it in the alley when I was taking the trash out…
After – I found it in the alley when I took the trash out…
Before – No one was going to step forward and claim it.
After – No one would step forward and claim it.
Before – It was still breathing…
After – It still breathed…
NITPICKERS – There are always nit picky stuff that one person might notice, while other’s don’t. A good copy editor night catch these or reading your story aloud can help a great deal.
Boss – I would use lower case.
Around – used twice in same sentence, starting with line, “I don’t think so, Doctor.”
Who – The word “who” refers to people, not cats. See line, “…he’d make his own decisions on who to treat.”
Gently – use of adverb. “LY’ words raise a flag for me. Try to minimize or eliminate for stronger writing. In the line, “He reached out and stroked her head gently,” it’s strong enough and describes tenderness, that the word “gently” is not needed and is redundant. I might also focus on this action more, between the doctor and the cat. For example:
Suggestion – He reached out and stroked her head with an affection stray cats shunned from mistrust, but to his surprise, the tiny calico returned the tenderness with a head butt and a faint purr.
SUMMARY – I would definitely keep reading. I’m a pet lover and have had cats before. What cat owner hasn’t looked over their shoulder thinking someone is creeping up on them because their cat is staring at SOMETHING BEHIND YOU. This author, with a little clean up, would have me hooked.
DISCUSSION:
Weight in, TKZers! Would you read on? What constructive comments would you make to help this author?
A topic I’ve seen on forums and blogs is Kurt Vonnegut’s 8 rules of writing fiction. They’re worth reviewing and taking to heart. But his rule number 5 is the one that made the biggest impression on me. Rule number 5 is: Start your story as close to the end as possible. This is relevant for both the entire book and a single chapter. We often hear that the most common mistake of a new writer is starting the story in the wrong place.
Well, it happens to published writers, too. Lynn Sholes and I are guilty of drafting whole chapters that either occurred in the wrong place, or worse, weren’t even needed. Usually they turn out to be backstory information for us, not the reader. We go to the trouble of drafting a chapter only to find it’s to confirm what we need to know, not what the reader needs to know.
So if we apply Vonnegut’s rule number 5, how do we know if we’ve started close enough to the end? Easy: we must know the destination before we begin the journey. We must know the ending first.
To me, this is critical. How can we get there if we don’t know where we’re going? And once we know how our story will end, we can then apply what I call my top of the mountain technique. In my former career in the television postproduction industry, it’s called backtiming—starting at the place where something ends and working your way to the place where you want it to begin.
But before I explain top of the mountain, let’s look at the bottom of the mountain approach—the way most stories are written. You find yourself standing at the foot of an imposing mountain (the task of writing your next 100K-word novel), look up at the huge mass of what you are going to be faced with over the next 12 or so months, and wonder what it will take to get to the top (or end).
You start climbing, get tired, fall back, take a side trip, climb some more, hope inspiration strikes, get distracted, curse, fight fatigue, take the wrong route, fall again, paint yourself into a corner—and if you’re lucky, finally make it to the top. This method will work, but it’s a tough, painful way to go.
Now, let’s discuss the top of the mountain technique. As you begin to plan your book, even before you start your first draft, imagine that you’re standing on the mountain peak looking out over a grand, breathtaking view feeling invigorated, strong, and fulfilled. Imagine that the journey is over, your book is done. Look down the side of the mountain at the massive task you have just accomplished and ask yourself what series of events took place to get you to the top? Start with the last event—the grand finale— make a general note as to how you envision it. Then imagine what the second to the last event was that led up to the end, then the third from the last . . . you get the idea. It’s sort of like outlining in reverse.
This takes it a step further than Vonnegut’s rule number 5 by starting at the end and working your way to the beginning while you’re still in the planning stage. Guess what happens? By the time you’re actually at the beginning, you will have started as close to the end as possible. And you will see the logic and benefit of rule number 5.
Naturally, your plan can and probably will change. Your ending will get tweaked and reshaped as you approach it for real. But wouldn’t it be great to have a general destination in mind even from the first word on page one of your first draft?
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For a limited time, download THE TOMB, #3 in the Maxine Decker thriller series for only 99¢.
“The average detective story is probably no worse than the average novel, but you never see the average novel. It doesn’t get published. The average — or only slightly above average — detective story does…. Whereas the good novel is not at all the same kind of book as the bad novel. It is about entirely different things. But the good detective story and the bad detective story are about exactly the same things, and they are about them in very much the same way.” — Raymond Chandler
By PJ Parrish
Okay, it’s time to talk about the F-word.
But before we do, I have to back up a little and first talk about ballet.
Back in my newspaper days, I spent 18 years as a dance critic. I was privileged to see every great ballet company in the world, and interview wonderful dancers. I also took a lot of classes, starting when I was a tubby little 12-year-old to around 35 when I finally hung up the toe shoes. I didn’t know it at the time, but ballet was really good training for becoming a crime novelist. Because both are based on finding magic within the formula.
A quick primer for all you ballet-adverse types out there. Bear with me, because you will need this when I get to Raymond Chandler:
Everything in ballet can be boiled down to five positions. There are only five ways to position your feet, five ways to hold your arms. But…
Everything in ballet -– from the classical precision of Swan Lake (1875) through the sassy sweep of Twyla Tharp’s Nine Sinatra Songs (1982) — flows out of this. Think about that for a second: Within one strict formula can be found myriad unique opportunities for self-expression.
One of my favorite ballets is George Balanchine’s Serenade. Balanchine was a genius. He sort of did for dance what Raymond Chandler did for the detective novel, building a bridge between the 19th and 20th centuries, finding new permutations within the old formula, and changing everything that came after forever. Serenade was the Rosetta Stone for a new kind of dancer. Philip Marlowe, likewise, held the DNA for a new kind of hero.
The opening of Serenade is breathtaking in its simplicity and promise. Seventeen dancers stand motionless on stage, one arm raised, feet parallel. Then, slowly, their arms come down together in first position, and a beat later, their feet turn out. With that one motion, they mutate from mere women into dancers, standing in the first position from which all movement flows. Go watch it and come back. It will only take 53 seconds.
Now, here’s the opening of Chandler’s The Big Sleep.
It was about eleven o’clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn’t care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.
Like Serenade, this opening is breathtaking in its simplicity and promise. Right away, we know we are beginning a journey with a very special guide. And oh, those telling details. Who but a man who’s been on too many benders would point out that he was sober this time? And that last line? A lesser writer would have been content with: “I was going to see a rich guy.” Such delicious sarcasm and attitude!
Both Serenade and The Big Sleep are exemplars of two master artists working within the confines of their genres even as they explore and expand the formula.
So back to the F-word. Let’s talk about formula. I think it’s become a dirty word in our crime writing world, tossed around as a pejorative by folks who want to put us in our place. Some want to draw distinctions between genre fiction and literature. (“Her novel transcends the blah-blah-yada-yada.”) And some, even within our own circle, want to diminish writers who hew too closely to the bones. (“He’s working the tired old formula.”)
Years ago, I was on a panel about the future of the PI novel. There was a strange undercurrent to it, like it was put on the program almost as an apologia. It was like the conference organizers were accommodating the private eye novelist as the goofy cousin you seat at the kid’s table at Thanksgiving. Chandler himself, in a great interview with Ian Fleming put it this way: “In America, a thriller, a mystery writer as we call them, is slightly below the salt.” (Click here to hear the entire fascinating exchange.)
But I think the PI formula — and indeed, the entire crime fiction blueprint — has much to recommend it. Mainly because, as with ballet, once you master its fundamentals, once you understand the underlying structure and learn the basic “rules,” you are freed to swing for the fences.
I guess we should stop and take a hard look at that word “rules.” It’s a scary word because some of us think we don’t know the rules and others think the rules are there only to be broken. There have been a lot of rules doled out over the years regarding crime fiction. S.S. Van Dine’s “Twenty Rules for Writing Detective Stories,” written in 1928, might be the most famous. Van Dine prefaced his rules thusly:
The detective story is a kind of intellectual game. It is more—it is a sporting event. And for the writing of detective stories there are very definite laws—unwritten, perhaps, but nonetheless binding; and every respectable and self-respecting concocter of literary mysteries lives up to them.
My favorite Van Dine-ism: “There simply must be a corpse in a detective novel, and the deader the corpse the better.”
T.S. Eliot was a big fan of detective novels, and was compelled to publish his own set of rules, in 1927 in his literary magazine The Criterion:
The story must not rely upon elaborate and incredible disguises.
The criminal’s motives should be fairly predictable. “No theft, for instance, should be due to kleptomania (even if there is such a thing).”
The solution should not involve the supernatural or “mysterious and preposterous discoveries made by lonely scientists.
Elaborate and bizarre machinery is an irrelevance. Detective writers of austere and classical tendencies will abhor it.
The detective should be highly intelligent but not superhuman. We should be able to follow his inferences and almost, but not quite, make them with him.
Even Raymond Chandler himself couldn’t resist laying some laws. Here are his Ten Commandments For the Detective Novel:
It must be credibly motivated, both as to the original situation and the dénouement.
It must be technically sound as to the methods of murder and detection.
It must be realistic in character, setting and atmosphere. It must be about real people in a real world.
It must have a sound story value apart from the mystery element: i.e., the investigation itself must be an adventure worth reading.
It must have enough essential simplicity to be explained easily when the time comes.
It must baffle a reasonably intelligent reader.
The solution must seem inevitable once revealed.
It must not try to do everything at once. If it is a puzzle story operating in a rather cool, reasonable atmosphere, it cannot also be a violent adventure or a passionate romance.
It must punish the criminal in one way or another, not necessarily by operation of the law….If the detective fails to resolve the consequences of the crime, the story is an unresolved chord and leaves irritation behind it.
It must be honest with the reader.
Now of course you can see that Chandler’s “rules” are more in tune with our own modern sensibilities. He, like ballet’s Balanchine, pointed the way to the future. He, like Balanchine, took the old formula and made it new. Which is why we still read him today and we don’t read S.S. Van Dine or Ronald Knox.
It’s often said that we writers only recycle the same plots over and over. There are, in fact, only seven stories in the world, according to the writer Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch. Here they are:
man against man
man against nature
man against himself
man against God
man against society
man caught in the middle
man and woman
So Romeo and Juliet is reborn as West Side Story. Moby Dick resurfaces as Jaws. King Lear becomes A Thousand Acres in the hands of Jane Smiley. And don’t get me started on what Bram Stoker unleashed on us.
This post was inspired by Larry Brook’s post here last week on concept vs premise. Go back and read it if you haven’t already. As I said in my comment there, the current hit movie The Martian is really just an old plot, one Sir Arthur himself would recognize as Man vs Nature but transported to Mars. Before The Martian, we had Robinson Crusoe, The Swiss Family Robinson, PD James’s Children of Men, Laura Ingalls Wilder’s The Long Winter, Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, and Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend, which was recycled into thecheesy Charleston Heston movie Omega Man.
Formulas are not, in themselves, bad things. And given the long and glorious history of the crime novel, it is something we should honor, not disdain. The “trick” for us is to find within the universal human experience, fresh things to say about our own times and situations.
The ballet Serenade ends on a mournful note, a man borne off by a female dancer who, to my mind, is a symbolic angel.
And then, there is the equally elegiac ending paragraphs of The Big Sleep.
I went quickly away from her down the room and out and down the tiled staircase to the front hall. I didn’t see anybody when I left. I found my hat alone this time. Outside, the bright gardens had a haunted look, as though small wild eyes were watching me from behind the bushes, as though the sunshine itself had a mysterious something in its light. I got into my car and drove off down the hill.
What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that. Oil and water were the same as wind and air to you. You just slept the big sleep, not caring about the nastiness of how you died or where you fell. Me, I was part of the nastiness now. Far more a part of it than Rusty Regan was. But the old man didn’t have to be. He could lie quiet in his canopied bed, with his bloodless hands folded on the sheet, waiting. His heart was a brief, uncertain murmur. His thoughts were as gray as ashes. And in a little while he too, like Rusty Regan, would be sleeping the big sleep.
On the way downtown I stopped at a bar and had a couple of double Scotches. They didn’t do me any good. All they did was make me think of Silver Wig, and I never saw her again.
There is nothing new. Just new ways of making us feel.
I’m proud to have longstanding TKZ member, Sue Coletta as my guest today. This is her first time here as a featured author. Not only is she usually one of the first to comment on each post, but I’ve seen her grow as a writer. I enjoyed her first book MARRED, with its strong voice and dark eerie tone, and I’m currently reading WINGS OF MAYHEM and thoroughly enjoying the voice of her protagonist, Shawnee Daniels. Take it away, Sue, and welcome!
Sue Coletta on VOICE
When we first begin our writing journey voice is one of things that’s nearly impossible to define, never mind discover. For years I kept hoping to find my writer’s voice, but I had no idea where to look. Deep within myself? Through hours and hours of practice would it suddenly appear? What was this mysterious “voice” everyone spoke about? And why didn’t I have one?
Perhaps what agents and editors were referring to was that perfect blend of style, rhythm, and cadence that make up the mysterious writer’s voice. Maybe it’s like trying to define the difference between graffiti and street art. I may not be able to put it into words, but I’ll know it when I see it.
When I look back on those days I wish someone would’ve told me, with a clear definition, how to develop my voice. And then one day something magical happened. I was reading the most amazing craft book I’d ever encountered, the book that transformed my writing life in an instant. I’m referring to Story Engineering by TKZ’s own Larry Brooks.
When I learned about the three dimensions of character I found my writer’s voice. I couldn’t believe it. Why didn’t anyone tell me this before?
Today, I would describe voice as the combination of syntax, diction, punctuation, dialogue, sentence rhythm, and character development within one story or across many novels. It’s unique to you. Just as a flute doesn’t sound like a clarinet, neither does one writer from another.
How awesome is that?
We all use the same 26 letters, and yet, no two authors will write the same scene the same way. One writer might use run-on sentences that go on for miles. Whereas another loads the story with short, punchy fragments. Neither is wrong; it’s a matter of personal style.
But style isn’t the only thing that makes up the writer’s voice.
By knowing our characters intimately, by understanding their hopes, their dreams, their backgrounds, scars, flaws, nervous ticks, religious beliefs, world views, what they fear, what they strive for, what they want more than anything else…we can slip into their skin and write using their voice. Not only in dialogue, but in the narrative as well—also known as narrative voice.
Take, for instance, my protagonist in Wings of Mayhem. Shawnee Daniels is a wise-cracking, snarky chic who was raised on the city streets. The way she views the world is much different than her librarian best friend, Nadine. Shawnee is overly cautious. She swears, has huge trust issues, and in a lot of ways, she’s her own worst enemy. Where Shawnee might see danger, Nadine, who was raised in a loving and often sheltered environment, would see an opportunity. Nadine never swears. Instead, she uses words like “ship” and “fleakin’”. She’s a glass-half-full type of girl. Shawnee’s glass barely has a drop in it.
Nadine’s dialogue is filled with words like “Woot!” She waves jazz hands and bounces on her toes when she’s excited. Shawnee is her polar opposite. She would never be caught dead waving a jazz hand in the air and she certainly would never use the word “Woot.” Because she’d never do these things in the dialogue, I can’t let her do it in the narrative, either, or the story would lose its narrative voice.
In Wings of Mayhem I alternated chapters between Shawnee, Detective Levaughn Samuels, and Jack Delsin, my antagonist. Each have their own way of viewing the world around them and, more importantly, the situation they’re in. I couldn’t write the narrative in the same way or it wouldn’t be unique to each character.
Where Shawnee believes everyone is after her, Detective Levaughn Samuels is more level-headed. In his narrative I used contractions like I did with Shawnee, but the tone is different. He views the world with a calm, rational, detective’s perspective. When he looks at a crime scene his stomach doesn’t scream in protest. But Shawnee’s does.
While examining a murder victim, Levaughn would narrate the facts, the wounds/injuries, his theory of the case, etc. Shawnee would be too distracted by the blowflies. She might gape at the victim’s smeared mascara, or narrow in on the thick, bluish film veiling the victim’s eyes. But Levaughn wouldn’t mention that because all corpses develop corneal clouding. It’s a natural occurrence that develops 2-3 days after death, depending on the environment in which the body is found.
By remaining true to our characters in dialogue as well as narrative we breathe life into the story. Thus, filling it with voice.
For Discussion: Over to you, TKZers. What tips have helped you develop your writer’s voice?
Suspense Author Sue Coletta
BIO – Member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and International Thriller Writers, Sue Coletta is always searching for new ways to commit murder…on the page. She’s the author of Wings of Mayhem, Marred, Crime Writer’s Research, and 60 Ways to Murder Your Characters. She’s published in OOTG Flash Fiction Offensive, Murder, USA anthology, InSinC Quarterly, and in the upcoming dark fiction anthology, RUN. The founder of #ACrimeChat, which takes place every Wed. on Twitter, Sue also runs a popular crime resource blog, where she shares her love of research…forensics, police procedures, serial killers, and true crime stories. You can learn more about Sue and her books at: www.suecoletta.com
Sometimes I come across posts on writing blogs that I feel compelled to share with everyone at TKZ. One such informative post deals with what happens once you finish your first draft. With permission from its author, the great writer and teacher, Joanna Penn, here is a repost of her advice on the subject. Enjoy. – Joe Moore
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Many new writers are confused about what happens after you have managed to get the first draft out of your head and onto the page.
I joined NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) this year and ended up with 27,774 words on a crime novel, the first in a new series. It’s not an entire first draft but it’s a step in the right direction and the plotting time was sorely needed.
Maybe you ‘won’ NaNo or maybe you have the first draft of another book in your drawer, but we all need to take the next step in the process in order to end up with a finished product.
Here’s my process, and I believe it’s relevant whether you are writing fiction or non-fiction.
(1) Rewriting and redrafting. Repeat until satisfied.
For many writers, the first draft is just the bare bones of the finished work and often no one will ever see that version of the manuscript. Remember the wise words of Anne Lamott in ‘Bird by Bird‘ “Write shitty first drafts.” You can’t edit a blank page but once those words are down, you can improve on them. [More books for writers here.]
I love the rewriting and redrafting process. Once I have a first draft I print the whole thing out and do the first pass with handwritten notes. I write all kinds of notes in the margins and scribble and cross things out. I note down new scenes that need writing, continuity issues, problems with characters and much more. That first pass usually takes a while. Then I go back and start a major rewrite based on those notes.
I absolutely recommend a structural edit if this is your first book, or the first book in a series. A structural edit is usually given to you as a separate document, broken down into sections based on what is being evaluated. You can find a list of editors here.
When you get a structural edit back, there are usually lots of revisions to do, possibly even a complete rewrite. This may take a while …
(4) Beta readers
Beta readers are a trusted group of people who evaluate your book from a reader’s perspective. You should only give them the book if you are happy with it yourself because otherwise it is disrespectful of their time.
This could be a critique group, although I prefer a hand-picked group of 5 or 6 who bring different perspectives. I definitely have a couple of people who love the genre I am writing in as they will spot issues within the boundaries of what is expected, and then some people who consider other things.
The result of line editing is the classic manuscript covered in red ink as an editor slashes your work to pieces!
You can get one of these edits before or after the beta readers, or even at the same time. I prefer afterwards as I make broader changes of the book based on their opinions so I want the line editor to get the almost final version.
Line edits are more about word choice, grammar and sentence structure. There may also be comments about the narrative itself but this is a more a comment on the reading experience by someone who is skilled at being critical around words.
The first time you get such a line edit, it hurts. You think you’re a writer and then someone changes practically every sentence. Ouch.
(6) Revisions You’ll need to make more changes based on the feedback of the beta readers and line editor. This can sometimes feel like a complete rewrite and takes a lot of detailed time as you have to check every sentence.
I usually make around 75% of the changes suggested by the line editor, as they are usually sensible, even though I am resistant at first. It is important to remember that you don’t have to change what they ask for though, so evaluate each suggestion but with a critical eye.
(7) Proof-reading
By this point, you cannot even see any mistakes you might have made. Inevitably, your corrections for line editing have exposed more issues, albeit minor ones.
So before I publish now, I get a final read-through from a proof-reader. (Thanks Liz atLibroEditing!) After Crypt of Bone was published, I even got an email from a reader saying congratulations because they had failed to find a single typo. Some readers really do care, for which I am grateful and that extra investment at the end can definitely pay off in terms of polishing the final product.
(8) Publication
Once I have corrected anything minor the proof-reading has brought to light, I will Compile the various file formats on Scrivener for the ebook publishing platforms. I will then back the files up a number of times, as I have done throughout the whole process.
(9) Post-publication
This may be anathema to some, but the beauty of ebook publishing is that you can update your files later. If someone finds a typo, no problem. If you want to update the back matter with your author website and mailing list details, no worries. If you want to rewrite the whole book, you can do that too (although some sites have stricter rules than Amazon around what is considered a new version.)
Budget: Time and money
Every writer is different, and there are no rules.
But in terms of time, your revision process will likely take at least as long as the first draft and probably longer (unless you’re Lee Child who just writes one draft!). For my latest book, Exodus, the first draft took about 3 months and the rewriting process took about 6 months.
I believe editing at all these different stages is important, because it is our responsibility to make sure our books are the best they can be. But if you can’t afford professional editing, then consider using a critique group locally or online. The more eyes on the book before it goes out into the world, the better.
What’s your editing process? Do you have a similar approach or something completely different?
Joanna Penn is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of thrillers (as J.F.Penn) and non-fiction, a professional speaker and award-winning entrepreneur. Her site, TheCreativePenn is regularly voted one of the Top 10 sites for writers. Connect with Joanna on Twitter @thecreativepenn
Another courageous author has submitted the first 400 words of a work-in-progress anonymously for critique. Read and enjoy. See you on the flip side with my comments, then join me with yours.
PROLOGUE
Waterford, MN June 4, 1994
By the light of the moon you can catch fireflies, or sit by a campfire watching the embers drift upward toward the stars. By the light of the moon you can stroll down a dirt road, or just sit on a back porch with a tall glass of iced tea. By the light of the moon you can propose marriage, or just leave your lover.
And by the light of the moon, if you have a shovel, you can try to bury your past.
That’s exactly what Jack Cicero had in mind, on this night in early June. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, and the full moon was threatening to make an early appearance. As he ducked under the oak trees, darkness shrouded him, causing him to have to use his flashlight which lit up the area like a beacon. All of his senses went into high alert. He pushed his thick eye glasses tighter on his nose. He strained his ears to listen for the sounds of approaching cars. The night was silent except for sounds of the Snake River choking itself on the rocks in its path; and the pounding of his own blood in his head.
He pushed on not willing to test his luck. He spied a large rock under the trees, and set the flashlight down in such a way as to shield its light from the road. If he heard anything, he could grab it in an instant and kill it.
He picked up his shovel, and cursed and groaned as he stabbed the soft earth at the base of the rock. He had to hurry, because this moon was a reluctant, silent witness rising higher in the sky, threatening to expose him. Although she tried, the full moon failed to penetrate the thick oaks overhead. But that didn’t make Jack feel any better. Despite the cool night air, he was breaking a sweat. He swore and picked up the pace. He was in a race to put everything behind him, closing one chapter so that he could open another.
With a groan, he hefted one final shovelful. Then he patted the dirt down and scraped some of last fall’s dead leaves over his handiwork. For a moment he thought that he might actually vomit. He dropped to his knees, leaning against the large rock and bent his head. A single tear rolled down his cheek, soaking into the sandy soil below. A final act of contrition. He wiped his face with his sleeve, pushed off of the rock and stood up. It was done. But Jack knew that no matter how much he could try to hide the past, it could come back to haunt him. He’d always be looking over his shoulder for someone to figure out his secret and expose him. Considering he knew just about everyone in Waterford, the list of possibilities was longer than the river itself.
FEEDBACK
OVERVIEW: At first reading, I liked this introduction because it stuck to the action (for the most part) and did not slow the pace with back story or explanation. That takes discipline for an author to do this. The narrative is simple and pulls the reader into the story with its mystery. Well done. But as I got into this on a 2nd and 3rd read, I found things I would edit if this were mine. This author shows promise and if the following items are addressed, I would keep reading.
THE START: I understand what the author intended with the first paragraph – to set the stage with a light and breezy beginning of harmless imagery before the reader is shocked once they realize the story will take a dark turn. Who’s POV is this? No one’s. It’s omniscient before the POV becomes that of Jack. This tactic–and the use of YOU–pulled me out. If the story is set up properly, where we see Jack in the dark with a shovel, he could be doing ANYTHING until we learn what’s happening and the mystery begins. The shock factor would be presented in another way, without the need for the faux lead-in.
THE ACTION: What is Jack doing? He’s got a shovel and a flashlight, but it doesn’t appear as if he’s burying a body because he’s not carrying anything else. Is he digging something up? He starts by digging into the ground with his shovel but ends by patting down a mound of dirt and pushing leaves over the pile to hide what he did. The transition from start to finish didn’t describe enough for me to understand what he’s actually doing. With the vagueness, the reader might make an assumption that would prove false later on, and the author takes a chance of alienating the reader if this is not made clearer. I also wondered why Jack would pick a spot by a road where he can be seen with his flashlight. If he’s got a choice and wants to be secretive, why risk a location where he can potentially be seen? I know the risk of getting caught adds to the tension, but maybe there would be a way for the author to explain why Jack picked the spot (even if it meant risk of discovery) and still leave an element of mystery.
WORD CHOICES: In 3rd paragraph, “The night was silent, except for the sounds of….” If there are sounds, the night can’t be silent. The night might be “still” or “quiet,” but not silent if noise is heard.
In 5th paragraph, calling the moon “she” pulled me out and made me wonder if another character had stepped into the scene.
In 5th paragraph, the moon can’t be a “reluctant” witness to anything, but in one line the moon is shining on him, threatening to expose him, then in the next sentence, that description is contradicted by this – “the moon failed to penetrate the thick oaks overhead.” (Oaks are usually ‘overhead’ too. Directional words like up, down, overhead should be scrutinized during the edit process. They can usually be deleted.)
I’m not a fan of the word THAT. It’s often unnecessary and can be eliminated.
DESCRIPTIONS: This might be nit picky, but this phrase pulled me out of the narrative and made me wonder if there would be a better way of describing what is happening. This comes across as TELLING to me and could be more effective.
As he ducked under the oak trees, darkness shrouded him, causing him to have to use his flashlight which lit up the area like a beacon.
“The area” is actually the ground but what’s on the ground? How does the light play across it? it might be a more effective line if the author could get the reader to actually see the effect of the light, rather than merely saying it “lit the area.” Do the shadows of spindly grasses elongate and move as the light passes over it? The effect could add a creep factor. What sound do they make in the wind…for a guy who is already nervous?
PASSIVE VOICE: One of my favorite TKZ posts of all time came from Joe Moore in Jan 2012 – Writing is Rewriting. A great overview of the draft and edit process. Below are some examples of passive writing. My first pass at editing is to delete and tighten my sentences into succinct and clearer writing. Many readers might not pick up on the passive voice, but authors should strive to hone their craft and challenge themselves with each new project.
3rd paragraph: “was threatening” should be ‘threatened.’
5th paragraph: “was breaking” should be ‘broke.’
Last paragraph: “could try” should be ‘tried.’
PARAGRAPH LENGTH: I prefer to give the reader some white space so the paragraphs don’t appear laden and heavy as they look ahead. A heavy paragraph could encourage a reader to skim. As Elmore Leonard (RIP) once said – “Try to leave out the part readers tend to skip.” I often break up longer paragraphs into 3-4 sentences and change the length of those sentences to create a natural cadence if the words were spoken aloud.
FOR DISCUSSION:
What about you TKZers? What constructive criticism would you give this author?
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Someone once asked: “I’ve heard writers talk of being ‘in the zone’ regarding their writing, which I take to mean being in an altered state of extreme creativity. But how, without drugs or other stimulus, do they get into that state?”
In fact, we hear the term in the zone used often, not only with writers, but athletes, artists, and just about any activity that requires skill, creativity and especially concentration.
So what is “the zone” and how do we enter it? Why is it so hard to remain there for extended periods of time?
Being in the zone can last for a few minutes, a couple of hours or a whole day. For those that never seem to enter the zone, it might be because they try too hard to do so. Sort of like when we stop trying to solve a problem, the solution suddenly comes to us through our subconscious—what Jim Bell calls the boys in the basement.
Let’s try to define what being in the zone means, especially when it relates to writing. For me, it’s a mental state where time seems to disappear and my productivity greatly exceeds normal output. It might start after I’ve finished lunch and sat down at my PC to work on a new chapter. Without any feeling of the passage of time, I suddenly realize a couple of hours have gone by and I’ve produced 1000 words or more. I don’t remember the passage of time or anything that deals with my surroundings. I only remember “living” or becoming immersed in the story’s moment, having the words flow from a deeper source, and “awakening” from the writing zone as if only a few moments have passed.
I’ve never been hypnotized, but I can assume that being in the zone is somewhat like self-hypnosis. My body remains in the here-and-now, but my creative senses somehow find a hidden room inside my mind, a place normally under lock and key. And I’m able to enter it for a short time to let what’s there emerge into the light of day.
It can also feel like driving down the Interstate on a long trip deep in thought and suddenly realize I can’t remember the past few miles.
I’ve also never been athletic, but I bet it’s a similar scenario: a pro golfer is able to tune out the surrounding crowd of tournament spectators, the dozens of network cameras, the worldwide audience, the cheers from the distant gallery as his opponents make a great putt, and he’s able to enter a place where only his game stretches out before him. The rest slips by in a blur. Personal mind control.
So what is a good method for getting into the zone? Some writers use the “running start” technique by reading the previous day’s work or chapter. It gets them back into the story and hopefully the new words start to flow.
Others listen to music. This is something I often do. Nothing with lyrics, though. I listen to movie scores or piano and guitar solos. I find that it can help set a mood or become background “white noise” that blocks out other audible distractions. That’s because, for me, the biggest obstacle is distractions. It’s important to reduce interruptions and distractions by creating an environment where they are minimized. This means shutting my home office door, closing the drapes on the windows, unplugging the phone, disconnecting Internet access, and most of all, choosing a time to write when those things can be fully managed. Doing away with distractions is no guarantee that I will enter the zone at will, but it does give me a fighting chance to at least knock on the door to one of those dark, hidden rooms upstairs and let my story flow out.
So, my fellow zoners, have you ever entered the zone? Do you have a secret method that you’ll share with us?
even if he didn’t really say it, he should have. So let’s figure out what Mr. Poe might have been suggesting. My interpretation is that there is always a solution to a writing issue. And one of the biggest issues new writers (and old) have is getting stuck without an idea what to do next. Poe suggests doing something drastic. 
