Tag: Fiction

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).

Ten Ways to Move from “Wannabe Writer” to “Writer”

Quit wasting your life as a “wannabe” writer. Be the “is-be” writer.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

I’ve always wondered what it would take for me to move from “wannabe” writer to an aspiring—[DELETED]

—Lawrence Axelrod, Des Moines, Iowa.

Well, I scarce made it through that one without a volcanic rage eruption.

Let’s take it through the logical gauntlet. Am I paying any mind or insurance to an “aspiring” doctor? Good Lord, no. How about an accounting “wannabe?” Again, if you “wannabees” wannabe earning my coin, then you need to shed that tag and move into legitimacy.

Your motives, dreams, purpose, aspirations—they’re nothing until you make something of putting pen to paper, pure and purer. Here are a few gracious helpful nice things to keep in mind as you pursue the craft.

1. Shut up about what you’re going to write. Just do it.™

If I had a nickel for everyone I hear who writes more about what they plan to write, then I’d have a lot of nickels. 

2. Success is in doing, not dreaming.

I read a novel the other day, written by an “hopeful” novelist. Wait, no, that never happened. Come to think, I read nothing of the hopeful, the dreamers, the wannabes. I read those who “did it.”

3. “Having good ideas” is like spinning your wheels, only less effective.

Good to know you have some good ideas, chief. Mind paying me to do something with them? You don’t have good ideas unless you have them on paper. And even then, you’re still not writing about them. Turn the Post-It note into something of substance, or get lost. (P. S. – You can still pay me for them. Don’t toss them yet.)

4. “One of these days” = NEVER 

When you say you’re going to write about it/get around to it/write a novel “one of these days,” then you won’t.

5. In writing, you’re either doing or failing. There is no in-between.

Your writing might fill a molded paper bag in a rusted dumpster within a dystopian landfill, but at least you did something. May have sucked at doing it, yes, but that puts you a cut above the empty shelves containing the Collected Works of Brannon Pug-Ugly, Aspiring Novelist. 

6. Quit knocking lesser writers (unless you plan on taking them down with something better).

That’s self-explanatory. If you can write better, don’t say you can. Take two sheets of paper. Wad the first, stuff it in your mouth so you’ll stop talking. With the next, start writing.

7. Quit puffing and promoting other writers.

Because it’s an open tell. Getting the thrill of another writer’s acknowledgment of your over-the-top, effusive praise won’t do a thing for your craft. That’s not how they started, but that’s how you’ll never get started.

8. Writing thoughts > thinking thoughts.

You’re a relevant person. You’ve got a Twitter. Maybe even a blog. Cool. You probably think. And sometimes you might think about writing. That’s not cutting it. Enough of “thinking about writing.” Write one of those thoughts down and step out of the crib. Repeat. Make it a habit. That’s where “writers” begin.

9. Change the approach to “It would make a good story.”

How? Cut out the “it would” and stick with “make a good story.” Even if you don’t have the ability to write it. Maybe you should beef up and unlock that ability.

10. Stop kidding yourself. 

You’re not a writer if you are not writing. Quit deceiving yourself. You’re tagging yourself with a designation that does not belong to you. Yes, you might think, talk, speak, joke, sound, carry yourself about, and communicate like a writer, but you’re not. Unless you write.

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

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.