Flowers of Fear, I Tell You!

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Flowers of Fear. That title got me thinking. I’m going to do this page one critique this week, but before I do I’d like to ask if anyone knows what happened to the Moonies. Remember them in the airports pushing bundles of flowers and flimsy-papered reading material at you with those LSD smiles and vacant, but hyper-alert eyes? You know, I suppose we have lots of cults, but I think the quality of the new ones is not what it used to be. I miss the Hare Krishmas, especially the ones who wore black-framed glasses and all had top-knots, billowy Saffron robes, sandals, and chanted nonsense in herds as they flowed along city streets chanting. Ah, the good old days.

Okay. So here’s the first page selected for me to critique.

FLOWERS OF FEAR

Chapter 1

“Bailey, it’s me, Sarah. I’m alone, let me in.” Hearing Sarah’s voice on the answering machine, I carefully cracked open my front door.

Sarah stood there, glitzy pink cell phone in hand, watching me. She watched me as I slowly opened the door just wide enough to scan my front yard. “There’s no one else around, Bailey. I checked.”

I quickly reached out, grabbed her arm, and pulled her inside. Slamming the door behind us, I leaned back against it. “No, he’s there. He’s always there. Every time I try to leave the house he’s waiting for me.”

Sarah nodded. “Is everything ready?”

My mouth was drier than Death Valley, and my stomach felt like it was in a bounce house, I was so nervous. I felt more nauseous than when I had stomach flu last season. But I managed to give Sarah a weak grin and say, “Of course! Boy Scouts are always prepared.” We needed to appear normal when we walked outside, so I was trying to lighten the mood. “Let’s go.”

Sarah picked up on what I was trying to do. She picked up one of my duffel bags on the floor and looped it over her shoulder. “Ugh! This is heavy! What are you taking with you, a bunch of rocks?”

“No, just some clothes and books.” I picked up the other duffel and my purse, and walked out the door. I didn’t look back.

I got into my car and Sarah got into hers. The plan was for both of us to drive to Cathy’s Coffee Shop, and then after thirty minutes of sitting and talking together, both of us would go into the restroom. When we emerged, I would look like her and she would look like me. I would then pay for my mocha, get into her car, and drive away.
Somehow, we both managed to act out our parts perfectly. I don’t remember much about what happened during that time, except that time crawled by. Finally, I got into the restroom, and a moment later, Sarah followed. We didn’t speak to each other, just swapped clothes. Both of us looked almost exactly like; shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair, freckles, and blue eyes. If he was there, then hopefully he’d think I was Sarah and she was me.

I started to walk out of the restroom, but then I turned around and gave Sarah a hug. “Thank you, Sarah. But be careful. He’s very dangerous. If something happens then I want you to go straight to Russ.”

We held each other tight for several seconds. Then Sarah let go and stepped back. She swiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Goodbye. You’ll always be my best friend, Bailey.”

I knew if I stayed any longer I’d burst into tears. I turned back towards the door, took a deep breath to steady myself, and stepped out into the café.

HMMMMM.
Frankly, this page one left me drier than Death Valley and my mind felt like a bounce house that had someone named Bailey jumping around in it. A dangerous man is out there lurking, and perhaps the police can’t be reached by pink glitzy phones. The two characters here are similar––no Laurel and Hardy here––and Bailey wants lots of books to take with her while she acts like she’s Sarah. Maybe she should be packing guns, knives or Tactical Battlefield Nukes. Is she going to spend the rest of the book reading, or running and screaming until she screws up her courage and fights back, beating the man with the flowers of fear? Aside from the fact that the author tells too much of the wrong thing too fast, there’s no real reason to read any farther. I do wonder if the evil man lucking will kill Sarah thinking she is Bailey, or when he discovers the deception he kills Sarah, or if he––evil but not particularly observant or bright––is fooled and follows Sarah for the rest of the book thinking she is Bailey. Don’t know. No reason to care. Fear the flowers of fear. Would those be lilies or poppies?

Seriously, and with no meanness in my heart, this one needs work. Unless this is a short/short story, you have more than one page to get the reader involved without laying out your cards with such haste. The reader wants to know where he or she is first, who the characters are second and the stakes third. Takes more than a page. You don’t paint a picture with a four-inch brush. Take me into Bailey’s house and let me feel the tension she is feeling. Fear? Anxiety? Show us. Take page one to set the scene, to introduce Bailey so we start to care about her. Hell, take the first three. We guys and gals come here week after week pounding home the basics, and we really want to help other authors. I’d say if you went through Scott Bell’s blogs you’d have a book of lessons. Same with the others as well as the comments. I feel like one of them old school teachers in a 30’s movie who is convinced he’s wasted his life trying to teach kids something important. Yeah, then they come in as ghosts and tell him how one of his lessons saved millions of lives in combat, although not the ghosts’.

Seriously. Don’t hand in homework that isn’t thought through. Don’t be lazy. Writing is hard work so, if you want to do it right, go do some of it with your thinking cap on straight.

Am I being too hard here?

I Need to Know Her Before I Can Care About Her

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By John Gilstrap
http://www.johngilstrap.com/

People ask me at conferences and such if I believe that my writing is character-driven or plot-driven. It comes up often enough that you’d think I’d have developed a standard pithy comment by now. Truth is, the question stymies me, because in my mind, there is no plot without compelling characters, and without a compelling plot, the characters don’t matter. It’s like asking which is the roundest part of a circle, the top or the bottom?

I point this out because I’m doing another of our first-page critiques this week (see below), and the first thing that strikes me about the piece is that a very dramatic moment is largely squandered because the shocking event is witnessed by a character I don’t yet care about.

I think the key to writing good fiction lies not with the plot elements, but in how the plot elements affect characters. Think about the realities of our daily lives—particularly those of us who live in metropolitan areas. I read about murders every day and don’t give them a second thought. For those news stories to affect me emotionally, they need to resonate with my own life, my own priorities. The same is true of fictional characters.

So let’s take a look at this week’s submission, presented below in its entirety, and then my comments will follow after the line of asterisks.

Sunny reached for the suitcase in the pile of junk and almost dropped it from her sweat-slicked hand. It was small but heavy and the brown leather was worn and dusty. She sat on the floor of the attic, welcoming the break, and tried to open it but the old thumb latches were rusted shut. She decided this was a sign to call it a day and carried the case down the tight spiral staircase with her, closing the door on the mess. The last room to clean and renovate – the attic could wait.
In the kitchen she tried to pry the case open with a butter knife and when that didn’t work she resorted to a claw hammer, prying the locks off with a satisfying crunch.
The case was packed full of papers — old postcards, newspaper clippings and hand-written notebooks that looked like journals. She observed the childish scrawl on the covers and thought it was a little girl’s memory chest.
There was lumpy bundle of cloth to one side and Sunny picked it up to inspect it. It seemed to weigh only a couple of pounds. She unwrapped the bundle and gasped when she saw a little hand, a tiny arm. Then she laughed at herself.
“It’s just a doll, you idiot,” she said aloud. Then she pulled the cloth away and saw the sunken eyes, the withered umbilical cord. She dropped the body into the suitcase and almost made it to the sink before she vomited.
It was an hour before Sunny could bring herself to go back into the kitchen. The little body was still there, the empty eye sockets gazing back at her. She reached out with hesitant fingers and tugged the wrappings away from its body and saw a neatly sewn seam on its chest and extending down its belly. She saw that it was a girl child.
She considered calling the police, but the thought of people in uniforms, people like Ted, stalking through her house made her uneasy. She needed time to think. What would they ask her? Would they suspect her of foul play?
Sunny’s mother had never been one to trust a uniform. “They want you to think they’re on your side,” she’d told a young Sunny. “But what they really want to do is find some excuse — any excuse — to beat the ever-loving shit out of you. Don’t you forget that.”
Sunny shook off the sudden chill that had trickled down her back. Why hadn’t she listened to her mother?
She pulled the notebooks and a bundle of ephemera out from under the body and shut the lid of the suitcase, hiding the baby from sight. She went into the breakfast room and spread the papers out on the table.
The name on the cover of the first notebook shocked her. In careful script it read, “Diary of Virginia Ketch”. Sunny scanned the others and was astonished. Every single notebook bore her great grand Aunt Ginny’s name.
The other items — newspaper clippings, postcards, telegrams — all seemed to be of the same vintage. They all seemed to be sorted by date from the 1920s through the 1960s. Someone had taken their time in compiling this little collection. It was like a treasure trove of family history. But whose baby was it? And why was it in the attic?

********

Let’s take this paragraph by paragraph. My comments are in bold italics:

Sunny reached for the suitcase in the pile of junk and almost dropped it from her sweat-slicked hand. It [“it” here refers to her hand] was small but heavy and the brown leather was worn and dusty. She sat on the floor of the attic, welcoming the break [from what?], and tried to open it [“it” here refers to the floor of the attic] but the old thumb latches were rusted shut. She decided this was a sign to call it a day and carried the case down the tight spiral staircase with her [as opposed to without her?], closing the door on the mess. The last room to clean and renovate – the attic could wait. [I’m confused. If it could wait, why is she cleaning it?]

Note: As a reader, I’m not sharing Sunny’s desire to break into this chest. In my mind, it’s just one more bit of clutter in an attic that’s packed with clutter.

[. . .] There was lumpy bundle of cloth to one side and Sunny picked it up to inspect it. [This kind of sentence structure (There was . . .) always strikes me as lazy and unengaging. I would write something like, a lumpy bundle of cloth lay under the papers . . .] It seemed to weigh only a couple of pounds. She unwrapped the bundle and gasped when she saw a little hand, a tiny arm. Then she laughed at herself.
“It’s just a doll, you idiot,” she said aloud. Then she pulled the cloth away and saw the sunken eyes, the withered umbilical cord.

Stop the story! BS alarms are clanging. No one anywhere could possibly mistake a dead child for a doll. This is the kind of research fumble that, with all respect, is horribly unprofessional. That aside, how about a little more description. Why the vomiting in the next paragraph. For this imagery to pay off to the max, you need to make the readers feel a little ill, too.

She dropped the body into the suitcase and almost made it to the sink before she vomited.
It was an hour before Sunny could bring herself to go back into the kitchen. [Really? 3600 seconds? That’s a long time. What is she doing in the meantime? And why the change of heart in the next sentences?] The little body was still there, the empty eye sockets gazing back at her. She reached out with hesitant fingers and tugged the wrappings away from its body and saw a neatly sewn seam on its chest and extending down its belly. She saw that it was a girl child.

And then, after it all, she pulls out the papers and sits down to go through them? I don’t buy that she wouldn’t call the police; not because it couldn’t happen, but because you haven’t sold me on her emotional space.

It’s really, really important to keep your readers in mind as you write any story. We can’t read your mind, and we can’t know your heart. If you want to have our sympathy, you need to earn it on the page.

Innocence Lost

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by Michelle Gagnon

Today we’ll be tackling another first page critique. This one is entitled, INNOCENCE LOST:

The elevator doors opened facing the sign for Children’s Psychiatry. Seth Bellingham froze. Places like this never changed. Dreary, gray waiting areas were filled with old, broken toys and troubled people. He was fifteen again, and angry with his mother for forcing him to come. Talking to someone wouldn’t help. No one understood how he felt and no one ever would. They kept asking him, how it made him feel. Why? They didn’t care.

The tap on his arm brought Bellingham back to the present. He saw his new partner, Jake O’Brien, eyeing him with caution before he asked, “Are you okay? Did they get the results back on your father’s tests, yet?”

Bellingham shoved the elevator door that bumped him for the second time, and stepped out. “I don’t know what the results are. The old man threw me out after I dropped my mother off.”

He changed the subject of his father with years of practice and asked, “What do we have?”

Jake pulled his small notebook out of his shirt pocket and flipped to the right page. “The hospital security was here first, followed by a couple of uniforms. They secured the scene and waited for us. I got here a few minutes ago.”

Bellingham followed Jake down the hall, past all the doors that normally would’ve been closed, hiding the private sessions of pain and trauma. Today the doors were open, filled with faces of doctors and patients curious about someone else’s misery. The last time he’d seen a place like this, he was a scared fifteen year old, with a gut full of pain and guilt. His years in the military and on the police force rid him of the fear, but the pain and guilt still lingered and grew stronger the longer he was forced to stay in Maine.

My notes:

I think there’s potentially a great premise here, but it’s buried under some fairly awkward sentences and way too much exposition. I understand that the author wants to give us a sense that Seth has past experience with Children’s Psych wards, and that will play into the story. But as of yet, I’m not invested enough in this character to really care. And not only am I being asked to care about him, but also about his father, an apparently negligent dad currently waiting for test results. That’s a lot of information presented at the get go, about people I don’t really know anything about yet. Better to hint at that dark past with a single sentence, farther along in the story.

I would open with the reason that Seth is there. If the cops are about to interview a kid, I want to see that right away. Consider starting with a line of dialogue, then show Seth’s discomfort throughout, but subtly. Get to the meat of the matter much more quickly. If I know why the cops are there, and how it feeds back into Seth’s past, then I’m engaged. I have no idea what the situation is, but take this as an example:

“So why’d you kill her?”

The kid shrugged, eyes fixed on the floor. He was fifteen, scared, with a gut full of pain and guilt. Watching him, Seth reminded himself that he was a cop here to do a job. Still, all of this was striking uncomfortably close to home…

That’s a little rough, but something along those lines would draw a reader into the storyline more than following two guys out of an elevator and down a hallway. The point at which you choose to open a story is critical. You’ve got one shot at grabbing a reader’s attention, and turning that browser into a buyer. Make sure you don’t squander it.


Coming up short with word count

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By Joe Moore

“I’ve cut this rope three times and it’s still too short.”

image Despite the corny old carpenter joke about miss-measuring, it’s something that does happens from time to time when writing a book. You’re under contract to deliver a 100k-word manuscript and your first draft is 10k short. What do you do? Do you “pad” the writing—go in and add a lot of stuff just for the sake of word count. Padding usually involves “staging” or additional extraneous actions by your characters as they move around the “stage”. But doing it too much will call attention to the padding and wind up getting sliced out by your editor. Intentional padding is not the answer. But there are some legitimate ways to increase word count without bloating your story.

One suggestion is to build up your story’s “world” by conducting additional research and adding a few bits and pieces of atmosphere throughout. Let’s say your scene takes place in Miami Beach. Your character is having breakfast on the balcony of her hotel room overlooking the Atlantic. Without slowing down the story, add a few lines about the history of the hotel. Since most of the hotels on Miami Beach have been around for decades, certainly something might have happened years ago at the same local that could reflect on or be pertinent to the story’s plot or situation.

Another method is to utilize your character’s five senses. Are you making good use of them? Sitting on that balcony, your MC must be able to smell the fresh sea breeze and hear the gulls calling from overhead. Or she notices the ever-present container ships slipping along the horizon in the Gulf Stream. Could be that she can feel the film of salt coating the arms of her chair. How does her freshly squeezed OJ taste? You don’t want to use all 5 in every scene, but engaging the senses is a great way to expand the prose and take advantage of an opportunity to further develop your character.

The skill in expanding a manuscript is to do so without appearing to pad the writing. And you want to avoid going down a new rabbit hole and suddenly winding up with too many words such as introducing a new subplot. Always consider the two basic criteria for any additional words: they must either advance the plot or further develop the character. Otherwise, they don’t belong.

What about you? Have you ever come up short on contractual word count? How did you expand the story without it becoming blotted or obviously padded?

Open Tuesdays

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open1 While our blogmate, Kathryn Lilley, is on medical hiatus, we’re opening up the Kill Zone on Tuesdays for general questions, comments and discussions. If you have a question about writing, publishing or any other related topic, ask away in our comments section. We’ll do our best to get you an answer.

And don’t forget you can download a copy of FRESH KILLS, Tales from the Kill Zone to your Kindle or PC today.

The power of the voice

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by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

Happy Memorial Day weekend!

Having survived the two-day drive from Oakland to Tucson this weekend, I have a renewed appreciation of the power of the audiobook. Okay, so I admit with twin 5-year olds I was listening to children’s books the entire time but nonetheless I had to admire the ‘power of the voice’ to keep us all enthralled during the two most deadly-dull interstates (in my opinion) – I5 and I10. Best of all was hearing Jeremy Irons narrate Roald Dahl’s James and the Giant Peach. He was so good at portraying the dreaded Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spiker that my boys were still talking about it when we had dinner. Despite the 100 degree heat we are so pleased to be here at my folk’s place in Tucson – and, as you will hear about over the next few months, this is the first step in our summer odyssey that will take us through almost all the National Parks in the American West.

I’m pretty beat now…the toll of the heat and the driving, no doubt…but the trip was made delightful by the power of both the story and the voice – boy, am I ever grateful for the invention of the audiobook!

So what’s the best audiobook you’ve ever heard? Any other tips for surviving deadly-dull interstate drives? Because believe me we have some ahead of us I’m sure…though even the most scenic of drives might also be enhanced by a good story. Let me know what you recommend! In the meantime, I’m off for a nice glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc with my hubby…(yes, I am composing this Sunday night not early Monday morning:)!)

A Word of Caution

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James Scott Bell

John’s post on Friday sparked a healthy combox on the subject of self publishing in this new age. We all know it’s now possible to send an entire novel out to the e-osphere without having to pony up for printing or warehousing. Dreams of making a good sum of money this way, a la Joe Konrath, are dancing in many heads, like visions of sugarplums. Since it isn’t Christmas yet, I feel the need to offer a word of caution.

If you upload your self published novel before it’s ready, you’re more likely to turn off future readers than gain them. If someone plunks down even 99¢ to take a chance on your book, and is disappointed, they are not going to plunk down that money again. If you want to have a career as a novelist, you have to reverse that dynamic. You have to offer books that readers love and leave them wanting more.

Now, this is America. We have free speech and free enterprise. You can put your novel out if you want to. But before you do, I would urge you to consider the following:

It takes a long time to learn how to write narrative fiction. I would guess that 98% of traditionally published authors paid years of dues learning their craft. That same 98% would probably look with horror at their first attempt at a novel. That novel likely sits in a drawer, or on a disk, and will stay there—as it should. Many of these writers have multiple efforts that never saw the light of day.

But let’s say you’ve written and studied and been critique-grouped to the point of psychosis. You have determined you are ready. Hold the iPhone. Before you publish, do the following:

1. Get your manuscript to five “beta” readers. These should be people who are not just going to gush over your work, but people you can trust to give you direct comments on likes and dislikes. Make sure 4 out of 5 give it high marks, and the fifth is pretty close.

Note: this is not your critique group (if you’re in one). Such groups have their own peculiar dynamics. What you want are people who will experience the book as the average reader would. Be prepared to make substantial changes based on the feedback.

2. Hire a freelance editor. It’s well worth it to find somebody who can go over the manuscript, catch glaring errors, and offer fixes. Do your research, though, and make sure you get what you pay for.

3. Pay for a good cover design. Nothing looks cheesier than a typical, self-pubbed, self-designed cover. I recently went browsing at the Kindle store, looking at self-published works. The covers were, by and large, terrible. Unless you have strong graphic and artistic ability, find someone who can design you a great cover.

4. Even after your upload, do not get overconfident. The odds are stacked against you making walk-away-from-your-day-job money this way. If you want to be a real writer, and not just somebody who has made an e-book available, keep growing and working at the craft. Every single day. Then maybe your efforts will start to pay off, down the line.

The modern self-publishing movement, which began with Bill Henderson’s The Publish-it-Yourself Handbook (1973) has just taken a quantum leap forward with e-publishing. But the same caveat that applied then applies now: just because you wrote it doesn’t mean it’s ready.

Be patient. Take some time. And don’t go it completely alone.

Then, if you want to play, you’re free to try your hand at this. As Henderson wrote back in ’73: “Publishing-it-yourself is in the individualistic tradition of the American dream.”

Just do your dreaming with your eyes wide open.

Any other words of advice or warning for those who are itching to jump into self-publishing?

THE WRITER’S LIGHT IS ON

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John Ramsey Miller

I’m in a hurry but I’ll tell you what’s on my mind. Tonight I am driving my wife and three-year-old grandson to Panama City, Florida to attend a family wedding. Little Rush is a good rider, but it’s frankly a long, long drive even for adults. I have been driving picturesque county roads counting heads for three weeks, and it’s time for a break. So I get to drive twelve hours, attend a wedding the next day and leave for home a day later alone because I’ve been asked to stay on with the head-counters and move my interviewing and persuading talents to work in a new region driving county roads and counting heads and figuring out ways to get the goods from reluctant individuals. Sometimes I get to become a detective and search out the elusive members of society, who enjoy not participating in the big count.

I have been gathering characters that I want to use in a new book and I’ve been thinking about writing a non-thriller for a change. (I know I’ve said this before) I mean I can’t write a book without a degree of violence because life-or-death situations are the sort of stakes that matter to me. I’m not the sort of author who can write about the coming of age in the deep South without putting in the KKK or a dangerous adversary, but I want to write at a pace that allows for deeper character development––a different pace. I’ve been dancing the Boo-Ga-loo and I’d really like to try my hand at a waltz. I think the Thriller is as important and reaches as lofty a roost as any other genre. If Wally Lamb has anything on Ken Follet I’ll never say its so. Anybody who looks down on our genre has never tried to write one. Thrillers are serious literature and if anybody disagrees we’ll send our characters to wreak havoc on their houses and lay waste to their fields.

In my job I don’t tell anyone that I am a published author, and I think it might have made things different, made me more of an outsider to my co-workers. I thought it might have made my comrades suspicious of me, and guarded in what they said and how they related to me. I’ve been just another worker bee in the cog of the Government wheel and it’s been …well fun and fulfilling in a way I’m not accustomed to.

So after I complete my depression-era gangster novel, I think I will take the time to write that different book. Don’t get me wrong, I love writing thrillers, but like the horse looking at the grass on the other side of the paddock, I’m yearning to make a change. I’m looking to write without a ticking clock, to string together rug tugs, plot bombs, and surprising twists. I had an editor ask me once what the next book was going to be about. I said betrayal. She smiled and said, “Aren’t most thrillers about betrayal?” I guess it’s true. We all hate betrayal and having the protagonist’s danger coming from someone he or she trusts is a standard last twist in most thrillers.

For the past few weeks I have been experiencing life up close. As an observer, and thief of life for so many years, I think I have missed actually living to a great extent. I haven’t been getting out and experiencing the trenches, more like observing at a distance and imaging it as I think it might be to those involved in it.

It seems that most authors with day jobs envy authors who write full time. I find myself envying authors who work at something unrelated to writing and write because they have something to say about their lives, and are always meeting people from a different angle than I think I do. I like being anonymous in social situations. When people know you are a writer, they relate to you differently.

I never had a mid-life crisis, but I’m yearning to try new things while holding on to what I have, to participate more in the lives of my children and grandchildren, to stop coldly observing so much, and get down on the floor and play. And I want to play with my writing.

Do any of you think you’re not climbing into life enough?

Such Anger

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by John Gilstrap
www.johngilstrap.com

Last week, Michelle Gagnon reported on Joe Konrath’s presumably groundbreaking deal with AmazonEncore. In essence, his next book will be published first as a Kindle-only edition, and then as a traditional book, with Joe pocketing more attractive royalties than are offered by any mainstream publishers. It was presented as a really big deal. Maybe even a game changer.

Earlier this week, Publishers Weekly posted a story on its website that refuted most of the claims made in Konrath’s press release. The tone of the PW piece was snarky at best, and maybe even a little bit mean. Konrath posted a retaliatory blog encouraging his legions of fans to let PW know that the magazine’s reporter got a lot of facts “wrong.” I put “wrong” in quotation marks here because I’ve got no dog in this fight, and I don’t know any of the facts. I’m certainly not in a position to take sides, and deep down inside, I don’t much care.

What I find startling about the whole thing is the level of anger out there focused on the publishing industry. Publishers, you’ll learn, wouldn’t know quality writing if it kissed them on the nose, and agents are evil incarnate, allegedly in cahoots with the evil publishers to make sure that the world’s most talented writers are never allowed to have a voice in print.

It’s like stepping through some twisted version of Alice’s looking glass. The publishing world alleged by some of the most spun-up of these sites and others represent the exact opposite of my own experience. In the publishing world I know, every agent is desperately hungry for the next great voice in authordom, and every publisher is betting the corporate treasury every day on new talent. They might now be doing it millions of dollars at a time as they were in the 1990s, but they’re certainly doing it tens of thousands of dollars at a time. New careers are being launched every day.

According to many of the posters on the screaming websites, the publishing industry as we know it is locked in denial of the fact that they are dinosaurs that refuse to accept that they’re dying. In their death throes, they refuse to admit that the future lies in self-published novels and ebooks.

It’s hard for me to imagine a more foul-smelling steaming crock of bull poop. Alternative publishing will certainly change the business model—who knows, it might derail it completely—but if that happens, it won’t happen because publishers are evil; it will happen because readers change their habits.

Which leaves us with the anger. Where is this coming from? Isn’t it remotely possible that the preponderance of the rejected manuscripts out there are in fact rejected because they aren’t very good? Or if they’re good, they’re not marketable? Doesn’t the traditional publishing model exist at least in large part because the model provides quality control?

Is it possible that Joe Konrath’s success—which I do not dispute—actually provides false hope to authors who aren’t very good at what they do? As an author who has had at least some measure of commercial success, is it possible that Joe’s success at independent publishing is not relevant to the average aspiring writer?

Series Finales: the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

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by Michelle Gagnon

Let’s talk about endings today. I’ve been in a bit of a fugue state since LOST concluded on Sunday night. Endings tend to be bittersweet, and this one got me mulling over the final episodes of some of my other all-time favorite shows. Fans of LOST, THE SHIELD, THE WIRE, LAW & ORDER, SEINFELD, THE SOPRANOS, and SIX FEET UNDER, here’s your warning: if you haven’t seen the final episode of these series yet, there are spoilers ahead…

I became hooked on LOST early on. Over the past six seasons it was sometimes fantastic, occasionally maddening, and always puzzling. At the moment, how to draw something to a close is a particularly relevant subject for me, since I recently finished the fourth book in my series. All of those books have primarily focused on the arc of two characters, and with this final book, that arc needed to draw to a close. Mind you, I’m not done with the series, but the focal point will shift with the next book. Because of that, I really wanted to wrap things up in a way that was ultimately satisfying (although not necessarily “happy”). It’s a challenge that most series face. Some rise to the occasion, others fall flat.

So here’s my rundown of the best and worst television series finales. Feel free to chime in on what you thought of each:

  • LOST: To be honest, I didn’t have high expectations for this finale. I knew going in that there were so many dangling threads, there was simply no way the writers would be able to tie them all up. Yet I was pleasantly surprised. What I think they gave us, in the end, was viscerally satisfying. The characters that we’ve grown to care about all completed their journey, there were some nice tie-ins to incidents going all the way back to the pilot. That initial episode concluded with Jack saying, “If we can’t live together, we’ll die alone.” As it turned out, living together meant that when they did die, they weren’t alone. The finale didn’t answer every lingering question (what was the island after all? Just a giant MacGuffin?) but it managed to deliver what the show has alwayLost.jpgs provided in its best moments. Since the debut it was an emotional ride, focused on the characters and the journey they’ve undertaken together. It provided enough answers to give some satisfaction, while still leaving quite a bit open to debate. I suspect that if the writers had known from the outset how many episodes total they’d have to play with, it would have been a much tighter story arc. But alas, that’s not how the world of TV works. Going in, they never could have guessed what a hit the show would become, and how many slavering fans would dissect every scene. That being said, I think they did a great job. In the end the series shone a light on the true meaning of love and friendship, redemption, and mortality. Some people complained that it was mawkish and maudlin. For me, the sentimentality worked. After all, I’d spent years with these characters. I cared about what happened to them. I wanted things to work out for them- and based on my interpretation of the finale, it did.


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  • THE WIRE: Still, hands down, the best show ever produced for television. And the conclusion delivered. As always with this show, things weren’t tied up with a neat bow, because real life isn’t like that. But we saw the torch being passed to a younger generation, for better and for worse. We saw redemption for McNulty, justice for Daniels, and Bubs getting a new lease on life. This was probably my favorite series finale ever. Well done across the board.


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  • THE SHIELD: Tough one here. I loved the show from the outset for the moral gray area that all of the characters occupied. Like the WIRE, it felt more real than the vast majority of police dramas. It was never as simple as the good guys vs. the bad guys, the-shield.jpg because every character possessed the capacity for both good and evil acts (even Dutch: remember him strangling that cat?) And the conclusion here was grim. In the end, Vic Mackey ended up losing his family and friends, stuck in a day job that was for him a living hell, with all of his crimes brought to light. Things didn’t really end well for most of the characters we cared about: they were either dead, in jail, or alone and isolated. It was the furthest thing from a happy ending, yet it was satisfying, because there was a sense that justice had been done, and everyone ended up paying the price for it.


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  • SIX FEET UNDER: This finale if right up there for me. The final few minutes in particular, when Claire was driving away from her family to start a new life, interspersed with flash forwards that tied in so nicely to the opening of every episode, were sheer genius. Viewers witnessed the death of every major character in a sort of time-lapse montage video: some demises were funny, others tragic or mundane. Thanks to those snapshots of their future lives, it was probably the most satisfying series ending I’ve ever seen.


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  • LAW & ORDER: I just watched this last night. I’m not sure if the writers were aware that this particular episode would mark the end of the second longest-running drama on television. Either way, I like that they didn’t over do it. Most of the episode was just like any other installment, although this time (interestingly enough) there was no actual homicide (and if you’re going to get picky, no real reason for Lupo and Bernard to be investigating a potential terrorist threat. But I digress). The final scene with the lieutenant was heartwarming, although the great strength of the show was that viewers were left largely unaware of the personal lives of the characters. You were treated to tantalizing tidbits here and there, but the focus always remained firmly on their work lives (this is why they were able to keep going for twenty years despite a slew of cast changes, in my opinion).

Now, on to some finales that disappointed.

  • I realize that this is probably going to spark some debate, but I was one of the people who really loathed THE SOPRANOS finale. There were many far more interesting things they could have done, as opposed to that surreal, disjointed final scene in the diner (Speaking of which, if you missed the LOST alternate endings odeadwood.jpgn Jimmy Kimmel, see them here. Brilliant). The writers could have gone back to the pilot, bringing back those damn ducks. They could have had that Russian finally wander back out of the woods (speaking of threads that were never tied up). While I appreciated that they ended with the family, which is largely what the show was about, I still felt let down.
  • SEINFELD: Terrible. Just awful. Having the characters end up in jail was absurd, and not in the trademark manner of the rest of the show. It felt forced, nasty, and just plain silly. Worse yet, there was nothing funny about it- which is downright criminal for the conclusion of one of the all-time funniest sitcoms. I have never been more disappointed by the end of a series.


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  • DEADWOOD: This show ended prematurely, and on a flat note thanks to some serious missteps by HBO. It’s a shame that they’ll probably never be able to get everyone together again for that hinted-at film that was supposed to make up for it. What started with a roar ended with a whimper.

So I’d love to hear what you think of these, and other shows I might have missed. Who did it well? Which finales bombed?