Category: Brutal

5 Warning Signs of Being a Bad Writer

Everything happy in your lolly-jolly writersphere? Good for you! I like happiness.

Wait, come again? (Listens with intent). Oh dear. That’s why you’re happy? That puts you in the company of many a writer swimming in the blissful water of ignorance.

Close that pool.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

Serious question, Mr. All Wrong:

I feel like “I’m where I want to be” with my writing. Engaged within the writing community. Full of inspiration. Multiple projects going. Money! 

Why am I bothering with Writing All Wrong if everything is going All Write?

—Benjamin Stump, New Holland, Pa.

“Wherefore he that thinketh himself to stand, let him take heed lest he fall.” – Jesus.

I agree with Jesus here. With that, I give you five warning signs of being a bad writer:

1. Getting the formula down.

If you can crank out one hundred novels a year, then that’s impressive. What’s not impressive is when you boil it down to a science, a predictable formula. Formulaic is not how you want to be described. You have become no good writer when you reduce it to a soulless recipe, you soulless fiend. Shame. Slow down and create something worth writing.

2. None who challenge.

If everyone loves what you’re doing, then you must be doing it right. Of course. That makes sense, but it’s wrong. When you have no opposition left, be afraid. Be very afraid. The honest among you have fled, and you may be surrounded by cowards who will only appease your ego. But what are they doing to spur on excellence in writing? Nothing. Find at least one person who will be honest, one who will challenge. He or she may be the only one you know who will tell you truth you don’t want to hear. Truth that will make your writing better.

3. Embracing community over creation.

If you value the “writing community” over “writing,” then you have issue. Deep down, I can’t find why you’d want to be a writer. Just be a “social media friend!”What makes you happier: perfecting a narrative (or a sentence!) or getting a ton of retweets and blog comments from all the “friends” you made on the World Wide Internet? We all want to be affirmed. It’s that blasted weakness of ego within us. Re-align it somehow and get the focus back on the writing. Or be everyone’s friend if you want. Crapsucking writers love each other more than anyone.

4. Being a player, bringing no game.

Yes, you. “Writers” in quotes only. You “aspiring” writers. You who toot your own horns without having one to speak of. I’m glad that you identify yourself with writing. You now have two options: show it, or get busy on showing it. There’s a measure of forgiveness to those who bring an amateur’s game to a pro’s court, sure, but there’s no forgiveness for those who “wear that jersey” and don’t come to play.

5. Writing wonderfully in your own mind.

Even the best writer knows he can make his writing better. If you’ve put yourself on top a nice little pedestal, and no one (lesser or greater) can take you down, then it’s a little pedestal indeed. That first draft should be your worst draft. As should the second, third, whatever. Crave improvement, refinement. When you don’t, you begin the journey to the Dark Side of Bad Writing.

What other warnings have you had to heed to keep from the sin of Bad Writing?

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com) and followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong).

You Don’t Need to Make Your Characters “Relatable”

“I loved reading this book! I felt like it spoke to me, because I could relate to the main character.”

Reading appraisals like this makes me want to shoot the author and poison the reader. It’s not vicious enough to be a vicious cycle. It’s mediocrity feeding mediocrity.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

How do I make my main character more relatable to my readers?

—Jan Craig, Winston-Salem, N.C.

I’d tell you, but then I would condemn your writing to a timely death. If you want to make a quick buck and reduce your writing to cheap whoredom, then please, do so. You have plenty of weak readers to fool. You don’t need a soul for that.

That being said, the goal is NOT “making characters relatable” or “writing someone the reader can identify with.” Can it happen in your writing? Of course. Should you aim for that? No. Here’s why:

1. “I’m so relatable!”

Do you want to sink your writing down to veritable scumbags, douchecanoes drifting down the rivers of douchedom, people who think the world revolves around the great “me,” and intellectual poseurs who “read” so they can say they “read books?” If you’re writing to that audience, then you have their money, part of their ear, and nothing of importance. Enjoy!

2. “The more I relate to these characters, the more I like this book!”

Then why don’t you write about three book club members whose lives are changed by reading a book with characters they can relate to, namely, book club members who are also reading a book that changes their lives with relatable characters. Wait, whoa. Literary inception aside, it’s a parlor trick. That’s not writing. That’s being a scam artist.

3. Realistic vs. Relatable

Similar, maybe, but not the same. Angle for the real, simply because it’s real. Art imitates life. Let the real speak for itself. Don’t roll up newsprint and make a ghetto funnel to score points by narrowing the real down to a solipsistic gimmick. Pour your intent into the art, the aesthetics, the narrative. Quit baiting.

4. Universal vs. Individual

Let’s take a copy of Pride and Prejudice from the bookshelves of Reading All Right. Do you think Ms. Austen went for the “Oh, how can I make these characters relatable?” approach? Nay, I say, with a vehement NO on the side. Know why people still read her (and others of her ilk), instead of the crap you’re reading now (which no one will read in twenty years)? Hint: something to do with ‘universality.’ Relating to a character can be a passing thing, the waves inconstant. But a ‘universal’ character, with qualities innate to this concept of being human? They stand the test of time, whether you “relate” to them or not. You admire them.

5. Art vs. Mirrors.

Know what I like best about paying to go to museums? Nope, it’s not the art on display. Nope, nothing to do with the awe-inspiring pieces that artists pour their souls into. Not even seeing how artists capture life and imagination around them. None of that. What I like best: looking at my reflection when I come to the doorway.

Why? Because I like being able to see myself. And that’s the beauty of art, right? Because I look into that and say, “Hey, that’s me! Wow.” Yeah.

Writers, you do it right when you make your characters works of art. They stand the tests of time. You do it wrong when you strive to make your characters relatable. You make nothing but mirrors.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com) and followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong).

Don’t Fall for a Point of View Gimmick

Point of view.

Joy, another gimmick turned to rubbish by fakes, rakes, and automobiles.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

Hi—

should i write a story from the viewpoint of a dog?

i like the new perspective and i want to explore

this.

—lacy alaine renard, decatur, alabama

I’m at a crossroads of a loss. Do we deconstruct this godawful attempt at an e.e. cummings impression, or strike at the heart of an already hackneyed approach? May I use your email for next week’s diatribe? Thanks.

To shoot down your simple inquiry: don’t. I can count on one calculator the number of stories written from a dog’s point of view. I can count on one hand the number of those that are good. And only after that hand’s gripped a detonating M-80.

Might as well flush the toilet and funnel through the many drain pipes that such gimmickry leads to.

Viewpoint of a three-toed sloth:

“The hunter trekked through this lonely tangle of forest, chasing after—wait, I cannot see him now. Maybe he’ll come back. Look. There sprouts more algae upon my back. I have spent six hours moving my arm to reach the algae I noticed yesterday.”

Viewpoint of a goldfish:

“He paced rapidly, kicking a shoe about with a cuss or two following. Hates his job. Why does he hate it? I’m not sure. He’s kicking that shoe now, cussing for some reason. He says he hates his job. That’s sad. I feel sad. Now I see him kicking his shoe, but he stopped. He hates his job? Since when?”

Viewpoint of a fly on the wall:

“Hard to tell why she pulled him in here. The lights were dimmed. Pregnant? But how? My compound eyes would have welled right now, but I don’t cry over these things. I’ll be dead next month, so I couldn’t tell you what’s to become of her child.”

Viewpoint of a giant squid:

“The camera floated down to cut a wedge of light through the debris, plankton, effluent of those in the higher waters. They don’t love me, these sick voyeurs. I’d cast a tentacle of spite, but then they’d—WHALE!—

Unless you’re going all-out, keep it simple when it comes to point of view. Keep it safe. Keep it sound. Keep people reading.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com) and followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong).