Tag: Author

Inventing Words: Stop That!

“People everywhere, just wanna be free, wanna read your story, don’t wanna have to figure out your crazy idiosyncratic terminology.” — The Rascals.

The cup of judgment is not yet full on the misguided purity of storytelling. We’re not “Storytelling All Wrong” today. But for pure storytelling that chokes on its own chunks with too much of these noodling neologisms and invented wordspew? Cup of judgment: OVERFULL.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

I heard you do some unsolicited reviews, so I wanted you to read as [sic] sample of what I’m working on.

“The rolled curtains of darkness covered the Arkhurt and the shields of the guarding Morghoth, defenders of the plain. The righteous field magick, the am’nepath, could only hold the evil back so long . . .

“Blisstrix cast aside her mitirith in disgust. The ritual jewelry of King L’andrøth was a stinging reminder of the maiden’s hollow servitude, a hidden curse of the Arkh-fathers . . . ”

—”Mage” Blackstone, Falls Church, Va.

I had to put “Mage” in quotes because there’s no way your name is Mage.

I had to withhold generous portions of this sample because, again, there’s no way your name is Mage.

I had to check my sources on where I said I do these unsolicited reviews because, once again, there’s no way your name is Mage.

Let’s break this down:

1) I asked Mrs. Writing All Wrong whether or not you “roll” curtains over anything. (“Nope.”) Gotta chalk off a point for clumsy mixed metaphors.

2) What’s with this invented vocab, this battery of fake words we have going on?

[I’m gonna park right here, folks. This needs attention.]

Fantasy/SF/cyberplank/wannabe writers: Please stop the unnecessary thuds of invented words and made up inner-narrative terms. You are not a genius, nor are you crafty for “inventing” a world of imaginary words. If you want to codify the mind goo of excessive D&D play and occupying a rent-free basement with your thoughts, then write Urukhukturian Culture and Vocabulary for Beginners, or what have you.

I don’t care if you explain what a jallidot is, or how the séances of Yrthbayne progress to the luminary cycles. If you take a detour to explain that a nuurgodd is a “special type of axe dipped in royal jelly,” let’s agree to call it an “axe” instead. Readers with even mediocre brain function will soon peer right through the vapid vapors of glitter and excess, finding a weak story and limpid writing as a whole.

Am I against even the slightest whiff of neologism? No. But this imaginary vocabulary exuberance affects the weak-minded to a fatal degree. Instead of focusing on trifles like theme, tropes, pacing, cadence, connotation, narrative, and plot, the weak writer latches onto the giddiness of his own rubified brain dumps, pinning them to a flimsy story and a weak, sputtering tale.

If you get too excited about the technobabble, the psuedo-linguistics, the mythical tongues of invented ages, then write a curriculum or a primer. Don’t shame the writing trade with your attempt at a story.

 Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com) and followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong). He’s the Phthanath of the Realm of Stythrandorn.

Forsaking Flash Fiction

Flash fiction.

It’s the writing world’s distorted way of saying “You can be good at something without really trying.”

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

Dear Writing All Wrong,

What’s the best approach to writing flash fiction?

—Gemma Rosedale, Glastonbury, CT.

(Note: Flash fiction is a short tale, often a complete story confined to 50-100 words.)

The best approach? Don’t approach it.

*cue a chorus of boos from writers who don’t want to lose what little relevance they have*

What? Whaaaat? People, writers, this is something you don’t want to hear. But you need to hear it. Flash fiction, in and of itself, isn’t a bad thing. I like writing. So should you. It can be good practice, a quick sharpening of the penning knives, cleavers, sabers.

But flash fiction has become useless, deceptive, vapid, shallow, and counterproductive. *cue more boos, closing of blog* Still here? Good. You need this. Here’s why:

1. Flash fiction makes it too easy.

Many (all) will argue: “But it’s supposed to be easy! That way, everyone can do it! You’re such a jerk.” And that’s the point: if everyone is “special,” then no one is. Setting the entry bar that much lower only fools “writers” into thinking the craft is much easier than it is. And any writer worth his salt licks will attest that it’s not easy.

2. Flash fiction is too much effort for a low yield.

Unless you’re writing (and selling) a flash fiction collection (which you aren’t), then it’s worth your lasting effort to write poetry, haiku, or spend more time on a short story. Or a long story. Or an idea. One that will lead to poetry, short stories, long stories.

3: Flash fiction devalues art, overvalues community.

Because everyone wants something read by someone. When I read clusters of flash fiction, I hear only cries of “I am relevant too! I’m throwing my dusty, frayed hat in the ring! Hey everyone, look at how compact and clever I can be! Look how original I am! This is where I’m making my name, because this is easy! I CAN WRITE TOO!”

4: Flash fiction is eating a “thrown bone.”

Famous bloggers, for their coliseum amusement, throw out bones of “flash fiction contests.” Huddled masses want in. They gnaw that bone, and they’re happy. They present their crusty, dimly glinting wares, praying for the passing blessing of a glance from the Emperor Writer of the Blog. Some may be graced with a comment. This is the highest praise. The next mass of masses find themselves strung on the same drug. The cycle continues perpetual.

5: Flash fiction overtrains for a under-needed skill.

So you can encapsulate a fiction in under a hundred words? That’s great! Now let’s move on to something beefier. The big boy weights are over here. No, you want to keep doing isolation curls with five-pound jogging dumbbells? Why? Because you like them? Well, yes, they can be part of the writer’s workout, but—oh, ok, have it your way then. You get really good at those then. I’ll be working on a cinquain.

6: Flash fiction isn’t a gateway drug; it’s a gated community. And it’s lousy.

Because flash fiction stresses the encapsulated form, you’ve a complete work that doesn’t provide the satisfaction of development. Your goal is squishing juicy things into a box and being all proud of that. “Yes! I smushed it good! I like this smushing writing! I want MOAR SMUSH NAO!”

7: Flash fiction will never make you lick your wounds.

February is FlaFiWriMo. And everybody wins. Except writing. You’ll never walk away from FlaFiWriMo feeling like you need to improve, need to step up your game. Nope. With NaNoWriMo? It pummels the weak, grinds them to powder, sizzling their puny innards over the skillet of spite until golden brown. That’s worthy of your time. FlaFiWriMo’s winners are losers.

8: Flash fiction feeds and sustains the lazy.

Ah, the argument of “If it’s short enough, people will read it.” Cool story, bro. If you want an audience of a five-second attention span, then you’re—hey, are Tropical Fruit Skittles® making a comeback? I love those things!

9: Flash fiction too often discourages variety of form, diversity of writing.

I’m a man of simplicity. When I buy a bag of Variety Chex Mix®, I demand variety. Writers should demand this from themselves. If you’re an accomplished writer, you’re likely not noodling in flash fiction and nothing but flash fiction. Don’t be that one bag of “Rye Crisps Only” Chex Mix®. If you’re flashing fiction, diversify that Chex Mix® portfolio. Don’t flood it down with penny stocks and ignore the long-term bonds, cash, and illicit drugs.

10: Flash fiction keeps the poor writers poor.

Because it does.

Are you a defender of flash fiction merits or a defeater of its heresies? Do tell.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com) and followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong). He writes flash fiction about flashbulbs.

When to Say “No” to a Good Idea

Training an ice-cyclops to freeze over Florida’s highest peak into a popular ski resort. A blind poker player on the run from America’s casinos. A zombie writing an apologetic on zombiedom. Church pastors teaming up to overtake the local mob with an alternate crime underworld.

What do those ideas have in common? They’re all great ideas, but they would all make poor stories.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

I have a great idea about a house that becomes sentient after a homeowner “cracks the code” by stirring his coffee with a fork and not a spoon. Faced with the prospect of having a dweller exist more efficiently than the house, the house turns on him, trying to squelch his innovations and everything. So how would I make a good story out of this?

—Violet Naumann, San Diego, Calif.

Ah, a great idea. I agree with that much. Making a good story out of this? Hate to say it (OK, no, I don’t), but the best story you can make of it is no story at all. 

Some great ideas aren’t meant to be fleshed out. Ideas both good and bad make awful tales, short and long. Takes the rare material to stretch a good idea, solid concept into a narrative. Diamonds? Valuable, shimmering, pricey gem: unmalleable. Then there’s gold. Still worth your dollar, yet you can press it out for construction, just like the city of Denver did in erecting their Capitol building entirely out of an orange-sized ball of solid gold.

When to say “No” to a good idea:

1) When the idea shines brightest in its purest form. 

“Zombies bite into brains, seeking the Holy Grail of flavor.” (STOP THERE) You can go on and on about the strains of succulence in brain tissue, but that is ‘polishing the diamond,’ nothing more. It’s a fabulous thought: Tweet it instead.

2) When it delves into idiosyncratic interests.

I would read a story about the underworld dealings in Ty® Beanie Babies™ – picking up on the endless inside jokes about the “pellet density” in the Princess Di bears and the alchemy involved in creating dye to fabricate the rarest version of “Peanut, the Royal Blue Elephant.” And your readership would be me, and me alone. Don’t waste the effort.

3) When it works better as part of a grander idea.

Don DeLillo’s concept of a college professor serving as the chair of Hitler Studies is almost a story unto itself. The concept? Marvelous. But does DeLillo take this and run with it? Not quite. The genius is in its restraint, its tucking away into a larger fabric that works as a narrative. Even if that narrative (White Noise) puts the “stmo” in “postmodern.”

When have you benefitted from saying “No” to a good idea?

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and tossed into the wide-mouthed rubbish bin of fantastic ideas and fantastical narratives.