Tag: Failure

Why I’m Not Reading Your Book

I dabble with the idea of having a Reading All Right week here, but I can’t quite make the stab. This post gets close.

Speaking of close, that reminds me: I tried reading a book the other day. Couldn’t do it. It was as if the writer beckoned me not to take him seriously, such was his degree of fail. And I’m not the only one. People won’t read what pains them to read right away.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

I want people to read my book. What should I do?

—Brandt Bassett, Cadillac, Mich. 

Sorry BranBass, the path to self-discovery is not given by one who is not oneself. While I won’t go into what keeps people reading your book, I’ll do you one better.

Here’s what’s going to close the door on people trying to read your book. Do these things in the first few pages, and you’re done. Book closed, back on the shelf.

Clichés

“Avoid clichés like the plague.” Truer words may have been spoken, but the truth of that little cliché doesn’t ring as loud as it should. They stick out of your first pages like cankers, cold sores, and zits. Kill them all.

Pet words and phrases

If you like an uncommon word or phrase, and you brandy it about like it’s a word of common use, your reader will notice. A discerning reader will notice long enough to slam shut the book and whip their wallets and time at the more deserving. Found a great word plaything? Good for you! Stop using it over and over again right up front. Specificity. Vis-a-vis. All but [whatever]. Sinecure. Shut up.

Mirrors

If you describe your character by having him/her/it looking into a mirror, I will not read your book. You can do better than that. If you settle for the gimmick, I will settle for another work besides yours.

Weather

If I wanted a weather report, I would watch the Weather Channel. Unless your novel is about a meteorologist or weather conspiracies, then there’s no use for elaborating on the weather, unless you want to show off your lack of skills in opening a novel.

Waking up

If you begin with your character waking up, he’d better be an insect, and you’d better be Franz Frickin’ Kafka. If “no” to both of the above, please rethink your tactic.

Stage setting

Yes, you must set some sort of stage eventually. But if I’m reading a story, and there’s no story—only a stage—then I’ll read something that is a story instead. Thank you.

Opening the opening

You know it when you see it. “Our story begins with a herped derp…” “This tale begins with some dumb something…” “Our narrative unfolds in a classic fairytale princess castle…” If you’re stating the obvious, I’m shutting the book, turning off the Kindle, or deleting the iBook then and there. Insult your reader’s ability at your own peril.

Please tell me you aren’t making these mistakes. If you’re going to make them, make them later on.

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

8 Ways to Find an End to Your Story

Where to begin? With so many who never get around to that, the question stops many from putting pen to paper. But come now, you know everything, you’re off the ground when it comes to writing.

But where to end? Did you see that one coming?

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

Dear Writing All Wrong,

First, I have to say, I really enjoy reading your posts, both for fun and taking notes for my own writing. It makes me laugh and cringe at the same time, because, honestly, yes, I make some of those mistakes.

But, on to my question — How do you know when you’ve written enough? Sure, readers like to know details, but when is “the end”, the end?

—Nichole B., Pensacola, Fla.

Written enough to reach the end? I guess you’ll know when you get there – hah!

Fair question. You’ve many a factor to keep in mind when it comes to that notion of “enough.” It’s not all about where and when you stop, but what you stop. So we being:

1) Know your story

“Well, duh, W.A.W, I know my story.” Do you? Then do tell. Sum up. Whatcha got? When you’ve got that summary written down, circle the last sentence(s). End it there. You now have a “stopping point.” Get there. It’s not that simple, but it’s that simple.

2) Write only what serves the story

Not “write only the story.” Readers like details, pigments, shades, and hues of colors that paint a vivid picture. And a bit of backstory won’t hurt. But when those details lead you on the rabbit trails laid in brick and carved for miles? That’s beyond enough. I don’t care how interesting the trail is, or what scenic view it offers. Story. Not served. Back to it. Lose yourself in things that don’t serve the story, and you’ll miss that end in sight.

3) Creating appetite vs. creating “food”

Unless you’re in the special place where you can afford all sorts of extra details, backstory, and handouts via blatant authorial intrusion (see: Rowling, J.K., “Pottermore,” YHGTBFKM), don’t waste time cramming your narrative with excessive details. Create an appetite; let what is unsaid tantalize the reader. Get on with “just enough” detail to tease the senses. You’ll find that keeping to boundaries will keep the story marching to its desired end.

4) Write what’s interesting; don’t write what interests you

There’s a difference. If you have to convince a reader that your subject is interesting, you may be fighting a losing battle right away. Peanut butter in mousetraps, stegosaurus-grade shotguns, underground Monopoly tournaments, Murphy’s Law enforcers: I could write of such things until the sun spits out a flaming hairball. I find them interesting. But not everyone’s interested. There’s a story that needs telling. Leave out detours of obsessions and digressions.

5) Asking “Is this enough?” and “Is this too much?”

Nothing wrong with asking the “too much” question. The answer’s usually “Yes.” Edit down until you’re asking if it’s enough. If the answer to “enough?” is “Yes,” then you’re done writing. If “No,” keep writing. Add, subtract, edit, redact. Get to where you always answer “Is this enough?” with “Yes” and “Is this too much?” with “No.”

6) Don’t end when you’re tired

Your story, or whatever you write, doesn’t end when you can no longer expend the effort. A rushed ending screams in agony if cheated by the whim of fatigue. Ask why you’re ending the story. If your answer isn’t good enough, then your ending isn’t good enough. Don’t stop until the tale is concluded well.

7) Do end when the story has been told

Obvious much? If you’ve told all there is you set about telling, then go for the landing and get that plane taxied in. Don’t crash it (unless that was the intention). Don’t crash land (unless that was the intention). And don’t leave the plane on the tarmac for too long. If that was your intention, then you’re doing this wrong. End the story when the story ends. Happily ever after. END SCENE. Save writing the “ever after” for the sequel. Your duty is done.

8) Do you really have an ending?

That might be the problem right there. If there’s no end in sight, you may not have an end, period. Even after all that writing. Drink deep into the story and muster up the courage to write the ending. Just get it out there. Does it work? Good. Go write your way there. It’s not always about writing, then ending. Sometimes you’re writing the ending, then writing to the ending. Then you’re done.

How do you end up at the end?

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

Showing vs. Telling: Round Two

Last week on Writing All Wrong, we touched upon the ongoing battle between “showing and telling” in writing.

You may “know show,” but can you “tell telling?” They don’t call it “storytelling” for nothing. Perhaps we should find some unbribed referees and make this a fairer fight.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

Writing All Wrong:

I hear the “show vs. tell” mantra to know that telling something I shouldn’t be doing in writing. But should I? Doesn’t “telling” also have its place? How are they all that different. I figure you will have some smart answer to this so I await your response.

—Rachel Kovac, Thornton, Co.

And here’s where we let “telling” take Round Two. Can’t have one without the other, no matter how many pseudo-purists tell you otherwise. Heck, they tell you to show more. That should tell you something indeed. Some takeaways on telling:

Telling is underrated.

“Oh,” the pedant cries, “it’s writing, don’t you know! You can tell anyone anything. Showing is the sizzle of the steak, dear writer.”

This guy needs to sock it. Showing might be the sizzle and the shizzle, but telling is your beef. It does more with less (if done right). It keeps the car in gear. Compare:

“The fire raged to the last vestige of the house. The roof caved at last, crushing all his belongings with a punishing blow. He allowed an exasperated breath to pass from between his lips, carrying with it the air of long-held, pent-up desperation.”

You can just say: “He sighed.”

I think we get it. You tell a little, and you let your reader do more reading into it. Don’t do the thinking for your reader.

Telling hammers home the nail of showing.

“The stallion’s eyes become one with the black. The foaming ceased. He was dead.”

Anything past that, and you’re beating a dead horse. Literally. You don’t have to show it all when you can drive the point home with a forceful tell.

Telling is the soul of dialogue.

You may be a master showman, but you’re going to be a master cheesman as well if you don’t get your telling in line when it comes time to dialogue:

“‘How?’” she asked, barely hiding her confusion.

“With the spray cheese canister,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You can rig just about any of them to explode,” he explained, sensing the worry in her voice.

“But why?” Elena pressed. “Couldn’t he have gone . . . some other way?” Her voice trailed off, audibly conveying her hopelessness and dismay.”

You can show less, tell more, and fail much less if you stop trying to show the dialogue. Observe:

“How?”

“Spray cheese canister,” he said. “You can rig just about any of them to explode.”

“But why?” Elena pressed. “Couldn’t he have gone . . . some other way?”

Showing off your dialogue gets annoying. Don’t waste effort on annoying your reader, please.

Tell what you don’t have time to show.

It wasn’t about the money, he explained. She’d been unfaithful. Too many walruses and seals. Not enough orcas.

I don’t think you’d have the time nor space to “show” me all of that. I’m sure it’d be a fun read, but you’ve told me enough to keep me reading regardless. Nothing at all wrong with that.

Care to tell me about how you use your telling?

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