Seeing the Light

You know you're a series writer when you never want your stories to end. I happen to be that kind of storyteller. I'm also allergic to happily ever after, don't like saying good-bye, and refuse to believe in Armageddon.

Then there is the frustrating mystery of the appropriate time to stop replying to e-mail replies, which I have never been able to solve. Do I stop replying too soon? Do I drag it out longer than I should? I'd put -30- at the end of mine, but not everyone would get it. And there's no graceful to say "Do you still want to reply, and then should I reply, or is it okay if I stop after you send the next one?"

Hey, I'm a writer. I worry about this stuff.

I also hate ending books, which is why I often rush through writing my last chapter. It's like taking cough medicine; sipping it slowly is simply not possible. For a while it was becoming a real problem for me; during the full manuscript editing phase I almost always threw out the last chapter because it sucked and rewrote it from scratch. Then someone mentioned online that they wrote their final chapter way before they got to it so they could work toward an ending versus screeching to a halt and wrapping it all up (and I'm sorry, but I don't recall who said that or I'd give them credit.)

I'm also a linear writer, in that I write from beginning to end without stopping, so I knew from the start that this was not going to be easy for me. Still, I wanted to see if it worked, so I tried it. I stopped when I was writing in first third of the book, and put together a draft of the last chapter. Once I finished it, I parked it at the end of the manuscript anyway and went back to pick up where I left off.

I don't think about what I've already written while I'm writing, so I forgot about it. And sure enough, when I got to the end of the book and started getting the usual, "Oh, God, I have finish it" heebie-jeebies, the ending was already there, like a nice little light at the end of the bridge.

Now granted, that last chapter draft was pretty rough, and needed plenty of revision because certain things had changed during the process of the novel. But I am much less stressed when I edit, especially when I have a completed manuscript to work on. I also didn't take as much time off between the writing and the full manuscript edit because I wasn't annoyed with myself or how I'd written the ending. Having it waiting for me was actually energizing.

If you wrestle with your endings and want to try this method, I have a few suggestions:

Know how you want your book to end (obviously writing ahead isn't going to work for organic writers) and briefly outline the chapter before you write it.

Write light. This is a draft, not a finalized chapter, so keep it simple and nail the most important details.

Characters, dialogue and action make a great framework for a draft chapter. Avoid things that bog down the writing, i.e. tons of description, endless setting, weather reports, travelogues, etc.

Don't tell yourself it's set in stone, because it's not. If it sucks you can always toss it and rewrite a new version from scratch.

Writing the last chapter while you're still working on the front of the book also has one final benefit: once you have it written, the book is technically finished. Then all you have to do is write toward that light at the end of the story bridge.

Image credit: © Karin Jehle | Dreamstime.com

First Chapter Fever

While we were out last weekend I picked up some books by some authors (who shall remain nameless) I haven't yet read. Buying random books helps me expand my reading horizons, and about 50% of the time I get lucky and find someone I want to read again.

No such luck this time. I finished only one out of the four.

I thought I had selected a pretty good mix; the authors were a veteran, two rookies and a self-reinventor respectively. Four different genres, too. For anyone who is getting nervous, don't be. None were written by anyone I know or who drops by here, and none were published within the last two years.

I can nutshell the problems. Both debut authors apparently attended way, way, way too many writer workshops, because they put everything they learned in their first chapters. Every. Thing. The veteran was short on characterization/plot/voice/pacing/everything else and loooooong on repetitive sex scenes (I did finish that one just to see how often these people could do it without acquiring shin splints, oral abrasions or friction burns. Every twenty pages, I swear, they were at it like bunnies on Viagra.) The self-reinventor dressed up nice but didn't go anywhere but the mirror.

What all four books suffered from were different variations of First Chapter Fever. This syndrome can strike when a writer forgets about story to fixate on assumptions they've made about their readers, and (feverishly) writes to cater to those assumptions. The most common strains I've noticed are:

All-Upfront Infodumps: Typically a first chapter averages between two and five thousand words. If more than 85% of those words are an explanation of the backstory or the plot that is wearing a flimsy narrative mask, the author has broken out in a very bad case of infodumps. The writer's fear that the reader might miss some detail ends up choking the life out of the story and the reader's interest because the first chapter basically reads like a boring synopsis of the entire novel. It's a common malady among debut authors, but unfortunately not exclusive to them.

Cast Rash: These breakouts happen when every single character in the book is trotted out to be introduced to the reader. In one of the quartet I quit reading I met the H&H, their two best friends, their respective posses, the bad guy, the kind of bad guy, the two bad guys who weren't really bad guys, and another fifteen (yes, I actually counted) backstory characters. Let me get my calculator; that's (adding it up) 31 in all. In the first chapter, no less. Now, I like a big cast as much as the next series writer, but the reading experience was like standing in front of a hotel revolving door and watching people run in and out. I glimpsed some interesting-looking folks, but we didn't exactly get a chance to bond.

Time Period Pox: Commonly contracted by writers who fear their readers can't make a mental leap to the past and so attempt to shove them back via endless descriptions of story period-appropriate dates, historical figures, world events, weather conditions, architecture, clothing, technology of the time, transportation, furnishings, food, shoes, accessories, vermin, and on and on and on. This is most painful when it is incessantly delivered in the As-you-know-Bob dialogue between appropriately-dressed and coiffed characters. Any writer can catch this, but they're most vulnerable to burning up when they're writing in a new-to-them time period.

Transdermal Superiority Those who suffer from this condition seem to believe that a) they are brilliant, b) readers are morons and c) the first chapter needs to make this very, very clear. Immediate signs are clunky, complicated to incomprehensible descriptions of some manner of technology that are as exciting to read as a high school chemistry textbook written in a language other than your own, of which you understand just enough to ask where the bathroom is.

If you still don't get why a feverish first chapter is not a good thing, imagine you're at a party and you're introduced to someone new. Someone you don't know from Adam. In the first five minutes you spend talking to that stranger, do you take off all your clothes? Do you describe every single member of your family without pausing for breath? Do you insist on giving this person a narrated tour of the party's location from top to bottom? Do you prove to this poor slob how smart you are by explaining all of Einstein's theories as well as all of your theories about Einstein?

No? So why would you do the same thing in a book?

If I'm your reader, I want to start off with your characters, and what they're saying, and what they're doing -- not all of them at the same time, just the important one(s). The one(s) who will grab my interest (and it doesn't have to be a protag; I've read plenty of great stories that start off with the antagonist.) The characters I need to meet first are those who are most likely to keep me reading.

Naturally not everyone shares my prejudices or opinions, but some things are universal. I doubt you'll find a lot of readers who are mesmerized by a dark and stormy night, a cast of lemmings who rush them like they're a cliff, maps to every nook, corner and cranny seventeenth century London, or your blinding genius.

If I could ask all authors to avoid one thing in the first chapter, it's delivering a lot of story set-up. I like the screenwriters' approach; bring me into the scene as late as you possibly can. Don't worry, I'll keep up. First chapters that I consider dazzling establish a connection with me almost instantly. They make me forget that I'm reading. If you can do that, then no matter how you write it or what you put in the first chapter, I'm yours.

What do you guys like or don't like to read in a first chapter? What do you think is most likely to keep you reading? Let us know in comments.

Writer Math

Some observations I've made lately (never mind about what or who) have me feeling the urge to do some writer math today. Bear with me; this is the stuff they don't teach you in Algebra I.

Serial weather reports ≠ world-building.

To build a world, you need just a tad bit more than an overcast sky and temperatures in the light jacket range. Show me some architecture, some locals, some flora, fauna, anything but current climate conditions, I beg you.

Endless introspective interludes < interesting reading.

I am your reader, not your character's therapist. Reading ten pages of your character's thoughts is like listening to my mother talk nonstop for three hours. I am sympathetic, really I am, but three pages is my absolute limit (Mom gets thirty minutes.) Try interspersing all those issues with some dialogue and action.

Hateful, selfish, shallow, disgruntled, untalented narcissists are not ≥ true storytellers.

They do quite well in Publishing, however, so get used to their unbearably evil presence, 'cause they ain't going anywhere. Don't wait for them to die young, either, because they also live forever. Look, just be glad you aren't married to one of them.

A first-novel bestseller does not → perpetual genius, stardom or even a very long writing career.

It often does = too much con-going, Tiki-bar visiting, online time-wasting, not enough writing and a second novel that tanks so bad they tear up your contract and tell you ta-ta. Your fans are waiting, so get back to work, genius.

Self-doubt spawned urges > rational thought.

Example: you e-mail your freshly-finished manuscript to your best writer friend with this demand: Just read the damn thing and tell me how much it sucks. Even if it sucks like a turbo-charged Dyson, your BWF isn't going to tell you that. At least not while you're acting all read-the-damn-thing crazy.

Soft amorphous fantasy places are not ⊆ adequate story setting.

Remember during the eighties, when you went to that mall photographer to have them do your author bio photo in that cashmere sweater that you thought was fun but in reality made you look like a great big pink Yeti as viewed by someone after cataract surgery? Same thing. And don't give me that "if it's not a real place it doesn't have to be all that detailed" nonsense. You want me to believe it's real? Make me.

What writer math have you done lately? Add your equations in comments.

Metaphorstory

This collage page from one of my journals uses art as a personal metaphor, one I put together for the beauty I find in writing. My computer is nowhere near as gorgeous as a peacock feather, but the feather represents both how I see and what I try to do with my writing instruments. Behind the feather is a torn fragment of a watercolor I painted that I wasn't happy with, to symbolize my vision of the story (and my eternal conflict trying to realize it.) The rough dark page is the world beyond my story; the audience I can't see, the void I want to fill.

Would you have known that if I hadn't explained it? Probably not. Does not knowing what the page means to me personally diminish your enjoyment of it? It could, but it doesn't have to. I think it depends on how you relate to symbolism and how often you engage your sense of wonder and curiosity.

It would be great to publish books as colorful and creative as my personal journals, but because everything I write as a novelist is published in black and white, words are my only medium. Metaphors are both paint and brush, mortar and brick, courier and message. Very often we respond on many levels to a story, and not all of them register right away, if at all. In an open mind, metaphors can gain access to many different levels.

Sometimes metaphors are intensely personal, and without shared experiences, can be inexplicable. For example, while trimming trees last weekend we accidentally made this preying mantis temporarily homeless. We moved the mantis out of harm's way to a smaller tree, and now every time I mention a mantis to my guy, he'll remember everything that happened when we saved this one. If I use the mantis as a metaphor while talking to my mom, she'll just think I'm talking about a bug.

Metaphors invoking very common shared experiences can be recycled so much that they morph into a cliche, and it's easy as pie, and like taking candy from a baby to overuse them. Creating your own personal metaphors means really thinking about how your story symbols relate to the experiences of others, and what sort of response they will invoke in readers who have a good working sense of wonder. Employ your senses (colors, sounds and tactile sensations are good metaphor building materials, as we all share the world on the same basic sensory level.)

See? Piece of cake.


Related Link: Literary zone.com has a good post here defining different types of metaphors and gives some examples, if you're interested in reading up on them.