Poor writers observe nothing. Good writers observe something. Better writers observe many things. The best writers observe the right things. The worst writers observe everything.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

So my English teacher said that I need to learn to observe all my surroundings in order to become a better writer. She said that “good observations make great writing.” Is that true in your experience? And if so, how can I be a better writer through observation?

—Glenn Hamilton, St. Paul, Minn.

If I were you, I’d find a new English teacher. If I were this teacher’s boss, I’d fire her. If I were this English teacher, I’d hang myself.

That advice is travesty, unless you believe that more cup holders make a nicer car or that more milk makes your cereal better. And if you do, see the solution for “If I were this English teacher” above.

Keen observation, while a critical component of writing, does not better writing make. If I notice that a character’s home features “paisley wallpaper, adorned with elements of aqueous blue and alizerin crimsons, with a little smudge of blotchy yellow bulging at most a quarter inch in the top right corner of the wall, eight-and-three-quarters of an inch from the sepulcher-white crown molding, crisping lightly around the edges, with its little cracks creeping like random spiderwebs and crap,” then I’m going to 1) wonder what’s up with the wallpaper fetish, and 2) use this book’s pages as new wallpaper for the author’s house, right before I burn it to the ground.

Observation. All about light brushstrokes. Dishes “in disarray.” “Waxed” torso. “Insufficient” lightbulb. Holding a “stubby” cigarette “in his talons.” Hedgehogs, like “little forests of needles.” A glass of water “sweating profuse.” “Tangled” beard. “Grimy” sunglasses. An “old” book, “pages yellowed, spine creased.” “Stank” breath. Let the reader’s mind do some work. It’s lazy anyway, and it could use the exercise.

I’m fine with noticing the “splintered chocolate chip cookie” on the table. But when an author goes 3-D X-Ray vision in his observation, demanding me to notice the “forlorn cookie, dotted with six-and-a-half semi-sweet chocolate chips, split into three parts, wholly distinct: one shaped like the island of Corsica, a chocolate chip standing where you’d normally find Mount Pinatubo; the others identical, separate only by occupation of chocolate chips, one fiercely outnumbering the other, all equally lonely, keeping company with scarce crumbs,” then I protest. So should you. Mount Pinatubo is nowhere near Corsica.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and referenced in your English teacher’s pink slip. 

No matter how strong the tale, it’s only as strong as its writing. A basic tenet, but almost everyone forgets this. Emphasis on everyone. Most misguided stories don’t turn out to be poor tales at heart, but then again, you’d never know. Miring through the poor framing, the stilted narration, the repetitive structuring: it’s too much effort. When it comes to reading one’s writing, you shouldn’t have to pry a gem out of coal and mud.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

Hi Writing All Wrong,

I’ve been working on a story about what I call an “isolated” hero. He’s been betrayed, so he basically feels like he’s redeeming himself by redeeming others. Anyway, I’ve let a few people read it. Some like it, but some don’t, so I want to get an objective, unbiased opinion. Here’s a selection of what I’ve written so far:

“Angelo. He was alone. Alone in the midst of other lonely people. He sharpened his blade with a leftover shard found on the dusty floor. His steel-blue eyes glared from the trusty weapon, reflecting confidence. He took a deep breath, sharpening away. Angelo sighed, kicking up dust. He’d waited long enough, and he’d have to wait longer still. He couldn’t bear the burden of his vengeance much longer.”

I’d like to get your opinion on it. Thank you.

—Dan Reed, Depoe Bay, Ore.

If you’re looking for objective, unbiased opinion, then you’re looking in the wrong place. The only thing that will provide that is a text analysis program, and even they have their biases. They’ve been notorious finicky when it comes to postmodern chick-lit, and they’re not as friendly toward hypertextual SF(surprise). Besides, that’s not what you need. You need help.

Let’s start with the first flaw: Angelo. Not inspiring. Not for this kind of story. Solution: call him Tangelo. I’ll help you out by referring to this protagonist as Tangelo from henceforth. You should do the same.

The next flaw: isolation. I can understand the beating in of the character’s loneliness, but unless you’re writing to the sub-preschool audience, it’s not necessary. “He was alone” is the weakest way to convey your idea. Reinforcing it by adding “(a)lone in the midst of other lonely people” contradicts with confusion. This isn’t stylistic panache; this is painful.

The flaw after next: anti-specific vagueness. I’ll be the first to admit that not everything needs a description in pinpoint. If you evade the IRS by jumping into the “river,” I can live with that. If you threw a “rock” at a wild jackalopotamus, then you needn’t describe further. But I’m going to call you out on “leftover shard.” Leftover from what? A battle? A previous weapon A prison meal? Is he even in a prison? And what kind of shard is this? Rock? Shale? Glass? Flint? Adamantium? It’s good practice to let the imaginative mind of the reader fill in the blanks, but it’s a malicious ruse when I have to draw those blanks myself.

Another major flaw: sentence structure. I don’t have the patience to point out everything else that’s wrong here, like the clichéd use of “taking a deep breath,” with the dovetail into hapless redundancy of “deep breath” and “sighed.” Stepping back, the paragraph becomes predictable with this pattern of “subject-verb,” “subject-verb,” and “subject-verb.” He sharpened. Eyes glared. He took a breath. He sighed. He waited. He’d have to wait. He couldn’t bear. Just kill me, please. Do it now.

The flawiest flaw: emptiness. Read this again. We’ve seen a hodgepodge of empty descriptions stitched together in a meaningless blur. Even outside the context, there’s nothing pulling me into Tangelo’s plight, nothing emphasizing what this soulless character feels, and nothing convincing me that any of this is worthwhile. We’ve got loneliness, vengeance, despair, and confidence all crammed in, making everything look like a poor series of ill-thought afterthoughts.

Sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and used as an effective C-C-C-Combo Breaker.

So it begins.

The story’s there in the mind, nowhere on the paper. There’s a great tale somewhere within your grand idea, but getting into it remains the dilemma. The beginning is your builder of momentum. Get the right push, and the narrative carries itself. Start by languishing in the mud, forgo your impetus, and we have a story that’s fighting the doldrums when it should be developing.

Describe your setting, too pedestrian. Set the stage, whisk us away. Talk about your character, invite us to ignore them. Have us tag along with that character’s goings-on, we’re in. Tell us, and we won’t listen. Show us, and we might glance. Take us, and we’ll go. Anything less, and there’s nothing but a journey not taken.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

how do i begin my story. do I start by descirbing [sic] the scenety [sic] or should I tell a little bit more about my character? Its pioneer romance with a feel-good feel and i dont kow [sic] whether or not i should start with the pioneer setting or whether or not I should start with my pioneer heroin [sic, I think]. 

—Gabey Meeks, Hagerstown, Md.

Well.

The short answers: 1) I don’t think you should begin this story. At all. 2) If you’re faced with a choice of “descirbing scenety” and telling more about a character, I’d go with what makes actual sense. 3) Maybe you can tell me more about this “feel-good feel.” 4) Be careful with that pioneer heroin. I’m assuming it’s a touch more potent.

The long answers: Depends entirely on where you’re taking this story. You could start with a standard intro, bringing the protagonist’s struggle to the forefront right away:

“Across the dusty thoroughfare, she could hear the doctor cursing about his missing needles and syringes. She hoped the apothecary wouldn’t also notice anything missing from his reserves. Her desperation led to constant fear.”

You could also lunge into your character, as you tried to suggest:

“Martha sobbed, tears tracing through dusty cheeks. She winced after tightening the bandana on her arm, battered from self-infliction and addiction. The remnant strands of her pale hair fell prey to gusts of sand and wind.”

Perhaps the setting then? Not going to offer much in that vein, other than mentioning that you’ll see this often. Narrative absorption is predicated on some mode of mental/spatial transportation, hence the prevalence of setting first, then story. It sets the mood, the tone, with the place making space.

But for a pioneer heroin romance with a feel-good feel? I recommend beginning another story altogether.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and begun with the letter W.