Starting Your Book

A popular post from August 2009

By Heather Moore

When I meet writers who are looking to get published, they often ask me how I decide where to start my story, who the characters will be, and how I plot.

So as I’m preparing to write my next book, I thought I’d give you some insight into my process.

1. Thinking. Maybe mulling is the more correct word. I have to have the main character pretty well defined in my mind before starting to write. The secondary characters come into the story to support the main character—and sometimes they surprise even me.

2. Creating a schedule. Writing, of course, is not always controlled by that effervescent muse (Annette—I’m probably using effervescent wrong). Writing is part creativity, and part science. Editing definitely falls into the science category, as well as actually completing a book. Like any writer, I’m constantly pulled in different directions. But once I decide on a book, I need to create the schedule to get it completed, and limit any other stories in my head that are trying to derail priority number 1. For example, if I decide to turn in a book on December 1st to my publisher and I start on August 1st, I divide the word count by the number of writing days. And I leave a couple of weeks in for editing. August: 25,000 words (average 1,000 words a day, 5 days/week). September: 25,000 words, October: 25,000 words, November: 10,000 (2 weeks), 2 weeks of edits.

3. Character sketching. This is an evolving process and changes and grows as I get further into the writing process. For instance, when I write my first draft, my character motivations aren’t usually ironed out. I’m writing mostly plot and dialog. About half-way through draft 1, I’ve had to make solid decisions about my characters, so I’m adding information to my character sketches as I go. So during the 2nd draft, I’m inserting more characterization to the beginning of the book.

4. Point of view & tense: I take into consideration who my audience will be and who the most important characters are. Will the story happen in real time (present tense) or past tense? Will my characters speak in first person (ideal for YA), or third person? It’s a lot of work to change this part of the process, so doing your research beforehand will save you a lot of time later.

5. Conflict. This goes hand in hand with character sketching. I have to ask myself what is the main conflict of the book, and of each character.

6. Beginning. Now that I have some basics going and I actually sit down to write, I usually concentrate on where I want the story to begin. Not to say that the first chapter I write will be the actual first chapter of the book, but I start pretty near the beginning. Before I start a chapter/scene, I ask myself: “What is the point of the chapter? What will be accomplished? What will it show that may/may not be relevant to the story as a whole?”

7. Creating a scene. I create scenes in several phases. Phase 1: writing and not caring too much about “fleshing out” the characters or the description, but I am nailing down the direction of the scene. Phase 2: revising the scene and inserting more description, making more concrete decisions about the character. Phase 3: this will happen when the whole book is drafted and maybe new developments have happened along the way. So I now have to go back through each scene to make sure the story is properly directed. As you can see, creativity has just been replaced by careful analysis (science).

Okay, looking over this list makes me wonder why I even start a new book. Every writer has what works for them. My style might be convoluted, but you never know, it might work for you as well.

Wait. Where Are We?

A popular post from March 2011

by Annette Lyon

One part of writing that I love is when I'm really in the groove and the story simply flows from my fingers, through the keyboard, onto the screen. It's like I'm watching and creating a movie simultaneously.

Sometimes those great bursts of creativity produce good work. Other times, well, the section needs revision.

Remember: What's in your head and what's on the page aren't always the same thing.

A common problem I see in beginning writers' work is not grounding the reader at the beginning of a new scene or chapter. The writer knows what the new scene looks like, but they haven't put it on the page. The reader may end up spending a page or two figuring out who all is present, where we are, how much time has passed since the last scene, and who's head we're in.

A good writer can jump right into the story, keep the pace going, and not leave the reader in the dust. It's a balancing act of giving out enough information but not too much.

The key is to remember as you write that your reader isn't in your head. They have no idea where or when this new scene is compared to the last one. The story could have jumped two minutes, two hours, or two years. We could be in the same room, outdoors, or on another continent.

If the writer doesn't orient us quickly, we're liable to close the book, annoyed and confused. This is especially important for speculative works, where one chapter could literally be in another world or time.

An example: John and James have a conversation. With speech tags, they're both identified. So far, so good. They're talking along for a couple of pages, when John signals and turns left into a grocery store.

Wait, what? When did we get into a car? Last time we saw John, he was at work.

Shake the head to clear it. Create new mental picture: John and James are in a car. John is driving. He pulls into a grocery store parking lot. Got it.

They keep talking, go into the store, and as they reach the produce section, Jennifer adds her two bits to the conversation.

Whoa. Where did she come from? Oh, she was in the car with them? The writer didn't show us that. We redraw the entire scene in our heads, adding Jennifer to the car as a passenger.

And so on.

As the writer, you're seeing it all. You know who's present. You know what everyone is saying and doing. Heck, you probably know what they're all wearing and had for lunch. You know precisely what the environment looks like and could describe the sights, sounds, smells.

But if you don't describe those things, we don't know any of it.

A similar problem with a scene opener is when we're put into a character's head, thinking about the current situation and what to do next. But we're not in a scene. There's no location, no action. We're just floating around in someone's head. That's not only confusing, it's boring.

So create a scene from line one. A scene requires, at the very least, a character, a location, and action (and preferably conflict). Then we can get into someone's head and think. (But not for long, flowing paragraphs, unless you're looking at literary fiction.)

The tricky part, of course, is knowing how much to show on the page. You don't want to bog down the narrative showing every turn the car makes, every detail of the dashboard, or the color, style, and designer of each passenger's shirt, and every business they pass on the road.

But we do need to know we're in a car, driving somewhere. A few specifics about the type of car, plus a sight, a sound, or smell, are all great additions that help make a scene pop. Sprinkle those in with care.

Likewise, there's no reason to spend paragraphs on every character present, but the reader must know who's there. And make sure we are somewhere doing something.

Remember: set a scene, which means having both location and action.

You'd be surprised at how easy it is to open a chapter or scene without either. Don't.

By the same token, avoid simply stating who's present, plus where they are and where they're going. That's telling, not showing.

Fixing this kind of problem really comes down to show, don't tell (as so many writing problems seem to).

In our example scene, where John and James are talking (and we have no idea where they are), we have a "talking heads" situation. That means we hear voices that might as well be disembodied, because we don't have solid details that ground the "movie" in our heads. Talking heads = telling.

We can fix the dialogue by adding "beats," such as facial expressions, gestures, thoughts from the POV character, and more. That breaks up the talking heads, and it creates a showing environment. The movie in the writer's head is more fully on the page.

The reader figures out the location not by being told what it is but by watching how the characters react to and interact with their environment. If every character is reacting and interacting, we get no surprises when Jennifer speaks in the produce section.

Perhaps James nervously flips the lock/unlock button back and forth. John moves the visor to block the sun then gets annoyed at the guy in the Lamborghini who cut him off. Jennifer tells James to stop it with the lock button already, because it's driving her crazy. All of those details show us where they are (and we get a peek into their characters to boot).

A challenge: Open your WIP to any scene. Read half a page of the opening. Is it clear where, when, and with whom we are? For that matter, are we in a scene or just floating in a character's head?

Look at every scene opener in your story. Revise them as needed to be sure the reader will come away with a clear movie in their heads: the one you want them to be watching.

Reading Like a Writer

A popular post from September 2010

by Annette Lyon

We've mentioned it before many times here: writers should read a lot. And they should.

Even inferior stuff.

Awhile ago, I finished some less-than-stellar novels. I pushed myself to finish them, even though I was afraid of losing brain cells in the process, for one big reason: reading bad stuff even to the bitter (sometimes literally) end can be a powerful teaching tool.

Now, I don't recommend finishing every single book you don't like, but finishing some can be worth it purely for the education you get as a result.

By finishing an entire bad book, you get to see poor plots (and how they don't resolve well) firsthand. How to make flat character arcs (you can't tell that from a few chapters). How conflict can fizzle when it's supposed to be ramping up. How dead wood flattens a story. How telling instead of showing weakens the entire effect.

Any time I purposely read bad stuff, I make a point of analyzing it. Why is this bad? Specifically? What could the author have done to fix this part? That one? Why does the voice drive me crazy? Why can't I connect to this character? Why am I bored during what's supposed to be the climax?

If I ask those questions and try to find the answers, then the time I spent on the book isn't wasted. I can apply what I've learned to my work, avoiding problems I might have made if I hadn't seen close-up how this or that doesn't work.

A few gems from some recent reading:

• Make your hero/heroine ACTIVE participants. Having your MC react to everything and not take action is boring.
• On the flip side, don't make your MC act rashly. If you must get them into a dangerous situation, find a way to do it that doesn't make your reader think the character is a total blockhead.
• Assume your reader is at least as smart as your MC. Or smarter. Readers will get it. No need to spell things out. They'll also catch plot holes the size of Alaska. And even ones the size of Rhode Island. Remember, readers are smart.
• Keep the pace clipping along, especially if the story is supposed to be suspenseful. Nothing like your MC spending weeks or months (and wasted paper and words) on, well, nothing.
• BEWARE OF DEAD WOOD.
• Show. Show. Show. No, really. SHOW!
• Make conflicts big enough for the MC. That means not building it up to be something big and then having it resolved in one paragraph like magic.
• Make sure the MC's actions are properly motivated. Just because you need X to happen doesn't mean that readers will buy it when the MC does W to set the wheels in motion. (See the "man, that character is a blockhead" bullet above.)
• After the cool, intense, climactic part hits, don't spend another 80 or more pages wrapping things up and trying to throw in additional minor conflicts for the sake of tying up every little detail.
• Don't belabor points. We got it the first time. And the second. By the ninth time, I'm trying to find a hot poker for my eyes. (Remember that "readers are smart" bit?)
• Make each character unique. They must sound different, not all like versions you.

Anything you've learned from reading crappy stuff lately?

Show Not Tell Homework

A popular post from February 2010

by Annette Lyon

I'm stealing from myself today. I thought some of the material from the creative writing class I taught last week might be useful for Writing on the Wall readers.

We talked about the old adage, "Show not tell" and how to apply that in your writing.

What I didn't know early on in my writing journey is that there are lots of ways to show. Had someone explained it to me clearly, I could have been spared a lot of grief (and likely, rejections).

Showing Scenes

Sometimes we need a mini scene to see and learn that this character is a workaholic or this one is a computer genius or that one is a great chef. Put your characters into the moment and let us watch them do their thing.

Let us see that Phil is the only person in the company who can find and fix the bug in the program. We'll figure out that he's the smart computer dude.

Alternately, if someone has a personality trait, a scene revealing that trait is far more effective than just telling us the person is kind or loud or simply a jerk. In other words, give the reader a scene where the character is interacting with others and behaving in a kind way or being loud or treating others like a jerk.

In other words, give your reader the breadcrumbs (the clues) and assume they're smart enough to figure out that this behavior in this scene means that Ashley is a snob. But you never ever used the word, "snob."

This does a couple of things: your reader isn't talked down to (you're assuming they're smart) and you're making the story alive. You're breathing life into the characters.

In other words, you're showing, not telling.

Specificity

I did an entire post some time ago about specificity. In short, it's a micro way of showing. In these cases, we don't need an entire scene or even a paragraph here. Sometimes all you'll do is replace a single word with one or two more specific ones.

A bird didn't fly overhead; a seagull did.

A car didn't drive pull into the driveway, but a yellow Jeep did.

Your character isn't enjoying a great meal; he can't get enough of the 3-cheese lasagna and garlic bread.

The more specific you are, the more your reader can be immersed in the story.

Sensory Details

Sensory details are another great way to show. They put the reader right in the same location with your POV character. The reader experiences the same thing vicariously because you made it so real.

Imagine a specific location: say parking garage, a hospital, or a cemetery.

What do you notice about it besides things you see?

Smell: The parking garage might smell of oil, the hospital of disinfectant, and the cemetery like freshly cut grass or flowers.

Sound: In the parking garage, you'll likely hear fans blowing out the exhaust fumes, car engines, squealing tires, the click-click of high heels on the concrete and maybe even voices echoing. Depending on the area of the hospital, you could hear beeps of machines, announcements over the intercom, elevator doors, beds squeaking along the halls, TVs in patient rooms, and more. And the cemetery could be silent save for the breeze in the oak over there (we're being specific, right? So it's not a tree) or maybe there's the hum of cars on the street in the distance or a single mourner crying next to a headstone.

Feeling: This one can go a couple directions, both toward emotions (what's the overall FEEL of the place?) as well as the actual sense of feeling or touch. The parking garage may be cold, with dim lighting, and feel claustrophobic. The hospital could feel sterile (in more ways than one). A writer could describe pushing open a heavy door to see a patient, the hard mattress, the thin blankets. And since a cemetery is outside, what you feel would depend largely on the season (summer versus winter, rain or hail, a breeze or sweltering heat, etc.).

Taste: A sense writers often forget about. It's a powerful one, so I don't recommend using it all the time, but it's one to remember because it can pack such a great punch. Think through the locations and what someone might taste in them: the parking garage (even the flavor of a person's gum might taste different with the fumes in there), the hospital (oy, the food . . .), and the cemetery.

General rule of thumb: Try to use at least one other sense besides sight on every page. And change up which sense you're using: don't always use sound, which comes in second behind sight. Be creative: try for taste and smell too, and don't forget touch.

A Challenge:

Here's the homework I gave to my class this week. It's a great exercise to learn how to show rather than tell.

Write THREE showing paragraphs:

1) An emotion. But you aren't allowed to say what it is. (For example, show fear without ever using "afraid" or "scared" or anything like them.)

2) A location or setting. Don't ever name the location; we should be able to figure out where you are by the fantastic showing description.

3) An act. Show a character doing something. We should be able to know what it is without the act being named. (Examples: baking cookies, changing oil in the car, putting on makeup, mowing the lawn.)

Specificity

by Annette Lyon

Once again I'm inspired for my post by A Conversation on the Writing Life by Julia Cameron and Natalie Goldberg.

This time the topic could be called, “show, don’t tell,” but to me (and especially the early writer me), “specificity” describes it so much better.

I can’t remember how many times I’d get the comment that I was telling instead of showing, and I’d want to scream, “I thought I was showing!”

Showing has several elements, but specificity is one of my favorites. The gist is to take a general noun (such as a car) and tell us more. Make us see it.

Is it a VW Bug? Is it a little red Toyota truck with rusted wheel wells? Is it a sleek, black Jaguar? A yellow Jeep with fuzzy, pink dice hanging from the mirror?

The more specific you are, the more clearly readers will see the “movie” in your head—and be drawn into your imaginary world.

If I say I walked into a yard with beautiful, fragrant flowers, you might have a certain image in mind. But it’s probably pretty vague, and the picture in your head is going to be very different than the one in mine.

What if instead I say that I walked under a arch of pink climbing roses and then past a hedge of violet-colored lilacs, and that a vase along the winding gravel path was full of yellow irises?

Ah, now we’re picturing the same thing. And it’s a lot more specific and memorable than plain old “flowers.”

So the girl in your book isn’t just a girl. She’s a six-year-old red-head with pigtails and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks—and a black eye.

The man isn’t tall—he has to duck to get through the doorway.

The woman isn’t tired—instead, her eyes open and close heavily, her gait is slow and measured, and she rubs her eyes with her fingertips.

Granted, you can take specificity too far. You don’t want to describe each and every passing character and landscape in total detail, resulting in what’s often called, “purple prose.” (You know, the kind of thing where a sunset lasts two pages and you’re ready to scream at the author to get on with it already!)

But in general, writers tend to err on the side of being too vague.

Think about J. K. Rowling’s first description of Snape’s classroom. Yes, we know it’s a dungeon, so it’s obviously dim and dank. She doesn’t go on much about that. Instead she drops in a creepy detail about jars on the shelves that hold floating dead things. She doesn’t need to include much more than that. We get the picture, and we want out of the classroom as much as Harry does.

Take a piece of your work and circle every noun and every adjective. Look them one at a time. Is there a way to make them more specific? Can you focus your mental “movie” a bit more and give the reader something that’ll convey your world to them more clearly?

In general, two or three details when introducing a new major character or location are plenty, provided you’ve picked good, solid ones that can represent the rest of the person or place.

Now I’ll head to my kitchen, where I’ll open a dark alder wood cupboard for a glass, and then I’ll take out the Winder Farms chocolate milk from the stainless-steel fridge. Mmm. Good.


(Can you see it?)