Salome did a Q & A with Bees Make Honey Creative Cooperative yesterday. You can read the article here.
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by Tim Dedopulos Fiction requires conflict and adversity, positivity and negativity. It’s less immediately obvious perhaps, but so does the everyday world. While the ultimate poles of good and evil may be unhelpful abstractions, the struggle between them is played out in the storyverse through intermediaries. The side of good is typically positive, and that of evil negative, but the lines can blur, or even invert. The important thing is that the conflict endures. It is the engine of growth and development. The world is formed in the dance of creation and destruction. Negative experiences are required for growth and development. Without them, there is no stimulus to act, no chance to learn the difference between right and wrong, and certainly no opportunity to stretch your abilities. What hero could ever come into her own without a foe to push her to her limits? Conflict drives technology, social change, personal maturation, even evolution itself. To live, in the end, is to struggle – permanent euphoria is as counter-productive as permanent anguish. There have actually been real-world tests of this principle. In experiments pioneered by neurobiologist Jim Olds more than 40 years ago, rats were wired to give them the ability to directly stimulate the pleasure centres in their own brains. After a short period of adjustment to the sensation, each rat quickly turned all its attention to triggering bliss. Food, sex, physical pain and even exhaustion were ignored; the rats just kept on firing their pleasure stimulators until they passed out, or died. Similar factors are thought to be the primary issue in the biology and psychology of human addiction. We’re just not designed to be able to successfully exist in a perfect world.
Good and evil cannot meaningfully exist in the world in isolation. Either one would be so destructive to the patterns of life that we know that it would wipe us out. There’s no doubt that ultimate good would be a much more pleasant way to go, but in the end the final result is exactly the same. No more people. And that’s as true of the real world as it is of any story. On Sundays we'll answer questions that have been submitted during the week. Do you have important questions about what's best for your work? Are you getting ready to submit a piece to a magazine, agent or publisher? Are you attending a conference and have an opportunity to pitch someone? What burning questions do you have about getting achieving the success you want with your writing? Ask us in the comments section and we'll answer as many as we can fit into an hour every Sunday.
by Salome Jones
As far as I’m concerned you can’t read too much about the topic of voice in your writing. At least not until you actually get it. If you watch TV, you see examples of character voices all the time. Let’s say the American TV show Bones. You have Dr. Brennan. She’s very rational. She’s a little clueless about pop culture and normal social behavior. So she says a lot of brainy things that very few people understand. And then there’s Booth. He’s not stupid, but he’s not as smart as Dr. Brennan. Everything he says arises out of his character. He’s sympathetic, but he’s been a winner all his life. He takes certain things for granted. He was a jock. Every one of the characters in the show has a distinctive way of looking at the world, a distinctive way of talking. This is true for all good television, movies, and books. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that in books, it’s even more important, because in a TV show characters get some of the voice from the actors who portray them. But in a book the reader has to get the character out of the words. Here are some things that might affect a character’s voice: Their age. their generation, the time period, where they grew up, where they spent their young adult life, their socioeconomic level, their education level, their native language or languages, their ethnic background (for example if they’re first generation Americans and their parents spoke another language at home or if their cultural practices at home didn’t follow the ‘mainstream’), their gender, their birth/growing up family size, whether they came from a two parent or a one parent household, their intelligence, their mental health, whether they are introverted or extroverted, their values, their core beliefs, their personal history, their job history, their relationship status, the social groups they hang out with (such as geeks, nerds, science students, equestrians). You can find a lot of other things about your characters that might shape their voices. Now, voice doesn’t just mean how they talk. It means how they see the world. If you’re writing in first person, this can be particularly important because we can see inside the character’s thoughts. He or she is telling us the story directly. Is the character honest? Or does the character choose to conceal things? Even an honest character can have mistaken or biased views. How does this affect your character’s voice? A helpful exercise is to study the voices of various first person narrators. Ideally, you’ll study good writing, not bad. For example, I recommend Lolita by Nabokov.. It’s a scary book, but the voice is ridiculously compelling. There are plenty of great first person books out there. Here’s a list I found on a Google search. Weirdly the first book on it is Lolita. http://www.amazon.com/Novels-Written-First-Person-Perspective/lm/R2KULH2XG4O05S It’s a place to start. by Tim Dedopulos Crunchy bits are good. They’re the satisfying nuggets you can really get your teeth into in a story — the thrilling fight sequence, the spooky and mysterious ritual, the interesting chunk of real-world information. The sprinkling of crunchy bits determines the pace of the book, the genre it falls into, how hard the book is to put down, and how much fun the reader will have. Screenwriting guru Blake Snyder characterised the crunchy bits of a movie as justifying the price of admission, and it’s just as true for books, RPG supplements or anything else. Although it’s the ‘set pieces’ that tend to provide the main action sequences, other crunchy bits serve other functions. The most obvious is fitting into genre tropes. Just like certain styles of music require certain beats per minute in their definition, so certain genres of fiction require certain fictional conventions. You can’t have a mystery where the reader knows the answer; you need several plausible alternatives for the villain. So the crunchy bits of a mystery will include introducing a number of characters and making them slightly threatening. Similarly, horror almost always requires isolation, so horror crunchy bits tend to include scenes that mark the hero out as cut off from help and social contact. If you’re writing sf, then you need crunchy bits of futuristic tech. And so on. Obviously, crunchy bits are just one ingredient. They’re the stuff that the reader tends to remember as the good bits — but leave out character development and emotional tone, and the reader will think that the story is as flat as a pancake, even if they’re not sure why. You can’t have a sane book of pure crunchiness, any more than you can have a good movie that’s just never-ending CGI special effects marvels. The crunchy bits need dough, and spice, and icing, and all sorts of other little touches.
But crunchy bits can provide a great way to work out a plot framework for a story. Once you have a rough idea of the book you want to write, sit down with a pen and paper, and brainstorm a list of fun, exciting scenes you’d like to fit into the book somewhere. Include things that are relevant to the genre, things that you reckon show off your characters’ skills and talents, and above all, things that seem exciting, interesting or fun to you. Don’t worry about whether it makes sense at this point. Just get a list of crunchy goodness. Afterwards, try arranging your crunchy bits in different orders. Look at how one might link to another. If you’ve got a scene of a top assassin breaking into a really well-guarded home, and also a scene of a brutal killing, then there’s an obvious bridge. Where bits are less well linked, try out your various arrangements, and picture the story that links them all together. When you’ve got an arrangement you like, make notes of the scenes that are required to thread it all together, and check it makes sense. If something seems illogical, or doesn’t fit, you’ll have to tweak it or throw it out. Keep trying different options until it all feels right, and you’ll find you’ve got the plot of an exciting, crunchy story. by Salome Jones
I sometimes do research as I’m editing a client’s book. Sometimes this research leads to unexpected discoveries, like a little piece of inadvertent plagiarism. I have pointed out and altered bits of plagiarism in clients’ novels. I note, having read a client’s contract, this clause: “Any discoveries of plagiarism will result in immediate termination of the contract and will require the return of any payments made. Plagiarism includes: copying text from the Internet, other books …, and work written by you for another publisher (where they hold the copyright). Be advised that (the publisher) employs several software programs designed specifically for detecting Internet plagiarism.” (Yes, it is possible to plagiarize yourself!) So remember that a tiny piece of explanation copied from the Internet and not attributed can get you in serious trouble. by Tim Dedopulos There are a number of common plot devices that use objects to advance a story in a convenient way, by providing motivation, conflict or a needed resource later on. These plot tokens can be used to good effect, but all too often they become a lazy stop-gap to save an author from actually thinking out a stronger narrative structure. The best known is Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘MacGuffin’. This is a common staple of thrillers and crime stories, but it crops up in fantasy as well. The MacGuffin is an object of no inherent importance to the plot, but which all the major characters desire. It gives a reason for the protagonist and antagonist to come into conflict with one another, but usually ends up forming no more than an afterthought to the end of the story. Many MacGuffins are never actually described. “We must find the Last Seal before the Dark Lord gets to it.” One of modern cinema's best known (and most blatant) McGuffins Another common plot token is ‘Chekhov’s Gun’. The name comes from playwright Anton Chekhov’s famous declaration, towards the end of the 19th century, that “…if in Act 1 you have a pistol hanging on the wall, then it must fire in the last act.” Chekhov wanted to illustrate the importance of only showing relevant items on a stage, but the term Chekhov’s Gun is used with a slightly different emphasis now. It refers to any apparently-useless object provided early on in a story which will, fortuitously, turn out to be vital later on. Critics argue whether this is good use of foreshadowing, or a lazy form of deus ex machina. “Keep this locket with you at all times, my child.” The ‘Dingus’ is related to Chekhov’s Gun. Taking its name from the old High German for ‘thing’, is any implausibly useful technical device or magical artifact that just happens to be available when required. Almost always a clear misuse of deus ex machina, the Dingus is still a surprisingly common feature in fantasy stories. “We’ll never re-forge the sword without meteoric iron, but look, is that a crater I spy?”
The ‘plot coupon’, named by Nick Lowe, is an object which is the only item that will allow the protagonist to achieve victory, with that victory coming chiefly through possessing or using the item. Plot coupons are often broken down into several pieces; the joke then states that when the hero has collected enough of them, she can trade them in for a victory. “But now I have the Amulet of Rodney! Prepare to die!” All the various forms of Plot Token have their place, but be very cautious. They are often a sign that the story really has not been properly thought through, or that the plot is lazy and malformed. by Tim Dedopulos NaNoWriMo? Pah. Try NaNoWriWeekend. Michael Moorcock is a highly influential English writer. His career has mostly specialised in fantasy and sci-fi, and whilst some of his novels have been highly literary, he was a firm exponent of sword-and-sorcery, particularly in the sixties and seventies. He has often commented on the craft of writing, but one of his most unique and interesting techniques is his plan for writing a book in three days. He was talking about sword-and-sorcery at the time, the fantasy inheritor of pulp fiction, and the books in question were typically 60,000 words, but even so, there’s a lot to be said for his methods. Despite the general medium, the power of his work has been huge, and his best-known character, Elric, is one of fantasy’s great standouts. Anyway. Here is Mike’s technique for writing a book in three days:
Elric with his evil, sentient, soul-drinking blade Stormbringer. You’ll also need to know the Lester Dent Master Plot Formula. Lester Dent was a hugely prolific writer of pulp fiction stories, and is particularly remembered for the Doc Savage tales, which he created and wrote the great bulk of. His masterplan is a blueprint for classic pulp fiction stories, and it retains a lot of power, even today. Lester Dent’s penname is Kenneth Robeson. He is the creator of Doc Savage and author of that successful book-length magazine since its birth. He has been writing five years and often turns out 200,000 words a month. He has not had a rejection in the past three years. This article describes the master plot that Mr. Dent uses. This is one opinion. It is opinion of one who believes in formula and mechanical construction, for a pulp yarn. It is opinion of one believing: 1—Majority of pulps are formula. 2—Most editors who say don’t want formula don’t know what they are talking about. 3—Some eds won’t buy anything but formula. Framed over this typewriter, on a bulkhead of my schooner now anchored off a bay in the Caribbean while we attempt to raise a Spanish treasure, is an object which tends to make the convictions mentioned appear to be facts—or an unexpected hallucination. The object on the bulkhead is a formula, a master plot, for any 6000-word pulp story. It has worked on adventure, detective, western and war-air. It tells exactly where to put everything. It shows definitely just what must happen in each successive thousand words. No yarn written to the formula has yet failed to sell. A year or so ago, a rough form of this master plot was handed to a man who still had a first sale to make. If recollection is correct, he sold his next six yarns written to the master plot. The business of building stories seems not much different from the business of building anything else. The idea is apparently to get materials, get a plan, and go to it. The rough form of this story plan, this master plot, will follow. But first, it might be a good idea to consider some of the materials. It seems likely that “character” rates as one of the principal story-making materials. Many a yarn comes back with “Inadequate Characterization” pencilled on a rejection slip, and a scribbler works up a headache trying to figure out what the hell that meant. It might help to glance over some barn door variety characterization gags that most professionals use. A fair idea is to make out a list of characters before starting a yarn. Then it’s conceivably a better idea to try to get along with half the list. For a detective yarn, several characters may be handy, to wit: One hero. One villain. Various persons to murder. It may not be a sure-fire thing to murder women, some editors being finicky that way. Somebody for the hero to rescue is often handy, too. Female. Not female, though, if the editor has what he is wont to quaintly call a “no woman interest” mag. Characterizing a story actor consists of giving him some things which make him stick in the reader’s mind. Tag him. A tag may be described as something to recognize somebody by. Haile Selassie’s sheet and drawers might be called an appearance tag. So might Old John Silver’s wooden leg in Treasure Island. And movie comic Joe Brown’s big mouth. The idea is to show the tag to the reader so that he may thereby recognize the actor in the story. Instead of marching the character in only by name, parade the tag. Mannerism tags may cover absent-minded gestures. Perhaps the villain (villainy at this point unknown) is often noted rubbing his eyes when in private or when thinking himself unobserved. At end of yarn, it turns out the color of his eyes has been disguised by the new style glass opticians’ cap which fits directly on the eyeball, and cap was irritating his eyes. It’s nice to have tags take a definite bearing on the story. Not all can, however. Disposition tags should not be overlooked. Is the character a hard guy? Does he love his women and leave ‘em—and later help them over the rough spots? This tagging might go on and on and become more and more subtle. Characters usually have names. Occasionally an author is a literary Argus who writes a yarn carrying the actors through by their tags alone, then goes back and names them. This procedure is not necessarily to be advised, except a time or two for practice. It is not a bad idea to use some system in picking names. Two characters in the yarn may not necessarily need names which look alike. Confusing the reader can be left to villains. If the hero’s name is Johnson, “J” and “son” names for the others might be avoided. Too, it may not be the best idea to go in for all very short names exclusively. And a worse idea is to go in for all long ones. Telephone books are full of names, but it’s an idea to twist them around, selecting a first name here, second one there. If nothing better is at hand, a newspaper, possibly the obit page, can help. Now, about that master plot. It’s a formula, a blueprint for any 6000-word yarn. A rough outline can be laid out with the typewriter, although some mental wizards may do it all in their heads. About a page of outline to every ten pages of finished yarn might serve. Here’s how it starts:
Devise one or more of the following:
A different murder method could be–different. Thinking of shooting, knifing, hydrocyanic, garroting, poison needles, scorpions, a few others, and writing them on paper gets them where they may suggest something. Scorpions and their poison bite? Maybe mosquitos or flies treated with deadly germs? If the victims are killed by ordinary methods, but found under strange and identical circumstances each time, it might serve, the reader of course not knowing until the end, that the method of murder is ordinary. Scribes who have their villain’s victims found with butterflies, spiders or bats stamped on them could conceivably be flirting with this gag. Probably it won’t do a lot of good to be too odd, fanciful or grotesque with murder methods. The different thing for the villain to be after might be something other than jewels, the stolen bank loot, the pearls, or some other old ones. Here, again one might get too bizarre. Unique locale? Easy. Selecting one that fits in with the murder method and the treasure–thing that villain wants–makes it simpler, and it’s also nice to use a familiar one, a place where you’ve lived or worked. So many pulpeteers don’t. It sometimes saves embarrassment to know nearly as much about the locale as the editor, or enough to fool him. Here’s a nifty much used in faking local color. For a story laid in Egypt, say, author finds a book titled “Conversational Egyptian Easily Learned,” or something like that. He wants a character to ask in Egyptian, “What’s the matter?” He looks in the book and finds, “El khabar, eyh?” To keep the reader from getting dizzy, it’s perhaps wise to make it clear in some fashion, just what that means. Occasionally the text will tell this, or someone can repeat it in English. But it’s a doubtful move to stop and tell the reader in so many words the English translation. The writer learns they have palm trees in Egypt. He looks in the book, finds the Egyptian for palm trees, and uses that. This kids editors and readers into thinking he knows something about Egypt. So. The Master Plot itself. Divide the 6000 word yarn into four 1500 word parts. In each 1500 word part, put the following:
Is there a MENACE to the hero? Does everything happen logically? At this point, it might help to recall that action should do something besides advance the hero over the scenery. Suppose the hero has learned the dastards of villains have seized somebody named Eloise, who can explain the secret of what is behind all these sinister events. The hero corners villains, they fight, and villains get away. Not so hot. Hero should accomplish something with his tearing around, if only to rescue Eloise, and surprise! Eloise is a ring-tailed monkey. The hero counts the rings on Eloise’s tail, if nothing better comes to mind. They’re not real. The rings are painted there. Why?
Does the MENACE grow like a black cloud? Is the hero getting it in the neck? Is the second part logical? DON’T TELL ABOUT IT. Show how the thing looked. This is one of the secrets of writing; never tell the reader–show him. (He trembles, roving eyes, slackened jaw, and such.) MAKE THE READER SEE HIM. Characterizing a story actor consists of giving him some things which make him stick in the reader’s mind. TAG HIM. BUILD YOUR PLOTS SO THAT ACTION CAN BE CONTINUOUS.
Is the MENACE getting blacker? The hero finds himself in a hell of a fix? It all happens logically? If so, fine. These outlines or master formulas are only something to make you certain of inserting some physical conflict, and some genuine plot twists, with a little suspense and menace thrown in. Without them, there is no pulp story. These physical conflicts in each part might be DIFFERENT, too. If one fight is with fists, that can take care of the pugilism until next the next yarn. Same for poison gas and swords. There may, naturally, be exceptions. A hero with a peculiar punch, or a quick draw, might use it more than once. When writing, it helps to get at least one minor surprise to the printed page. It is reasonable to to expect these minor surprises to sort of inveigle the reader into keeping on. They need not be such profound efforts. One method of accomplishing one now and then is to be gently misleading. Hero is examining the murder room. The door behind him begins slowly to open. He does not see it. He conducts his examination blissfully. Door eases open, wider and wider, until–surprise! The glass pane falls out of the big window across the room. It must have fallen slowly, and air blowing into the room caused the door to open. Then what the heck made the pane fall so slowly? More mystery. The idea is to avoid monotony. Suspense must be the sugar which draws the flies. And possibly it’s coupled up with the MENACE, a slightly intangible thing at first glance. Menace shouldn’t be hard to recognize in a story. It’s that feel of terrible things to happen to the hero and every other decent person. It might be built up by repeated references, a word dropped now and then, and by making the villain particularly bad. Villians don’t necessarily have to be inhuman, though. ACTION: Vivid, swift, no words wasted. Create suspense, make the reader see and feel the action. ATMOSPHERE: Hear, smell, see, feel and taste. DESCRIPTION: Trees, wind, scenery and water. THE SECRET OF ALL WRITING IS TO MAKE EVERY WORD COUNT.
The MENACE held out to the last? Everything been explained? It all happen logically? Is the Punch Line enough to leave the reader with that WARM FEELING? Did God kill the villain? Make SURE it was the hero. There it is. Take it, do what you can with it, while I go on deck, put on the diving hood, and have another try at that galleon, with the wife up the mast to keep an eye on the reefs for sharks and barracuda. Note: Most published articles have interesting histories behind them. This one might interest some of you. Lester Dent sent us a modest little six-page article just about the time this magazine was going to press. The last line of the article mentioned his master plot formula; the famed master plot that has fed every Lester Dent story for the past several years. We wondered if Mr. Dent would share that formula with the fraternity. We phoned his hotel in New York. “Sorry, Mr. Dent has gone to La Plata, Mo.” We phoned the village postmaster at La Plata. “Sorry, Mr. Dent is on his yacht, the Albatross.” “Where?” “Off Miami someplace; my goodness, why?” The long distance operator in Miami, a student of human nature if there ever was one, asked us a question: “How long has Mr. Dent been on his yacht?” “Why?” we were glad to ask this for a change. “Well, you see if he’s just bought a yacht he’s on deck running up flags, and then running them down again.” “Oh.” “But if he’s had it for a while, he’s below listening to his radio. If you want, I’ll have the police put out a call for him on short wave.” We demurred. The operator coughed, letting us know she knew we were a plain sissy. To invade the privacy of an author anchored God only knows where by belching into his radio: “L-e-s-t-e-r D-e-n-t, Lester Dent call Miami police station. Yachts at sea off Miami, flag the Albatross. Owner wanted by police.” What a rummy we’ve turned out to be, we thought, as we gave the operator, who was by now politely sneering at us with her conversational coughs, the go ahead. About two hours later a startled voice called us from Florida and asked what the hell we were up to. It seemed that every yacht off Miami caught the call and began signaling the Albatross while the rest of that busy little city came down to the wharf to see L-e-s-t-e-r D-e-n-t, a man obviously wanted by the police. We explained demurely. And of such stuff are authors made that Mr. Dent agreed to send along his famed formula, although he added, with a touch of homespun: “I hadn’t ought to.” It’s a pretty fine thing for an author to share such a hard-won secret with his competing professionals, so if you like this piece, we have a mild suggestion to make. Buy a copy of Doc Savage on the newsstands and if you like the lead story, tell the publishers so in a letter. If you're a writer, have a look over our new range of editing services while you're here. by Salome Jones
People come to me for help with various writing issues. I'm familiar with all the standards of modern publishing, at least for fiction. Mostly the same standards apply to all writing. Mostly, but not exactly. A lot of these things are easy to plug in to a manuscript that's already completed. It's normal to spend a few rounds revising a draft into a finished manuscript. I can easily mark and correct punctuation, change incorrectly used words to the correct ones, point out areas where there's too much summary narration (or telling) or not enough (or less often too much) explicit detail. But the key to whether a story really stands out is the voice. The writer's voice. In the nineties, I used to go to book stores at least a couple of times a week looking for books that would appease my particular reading cravings. I would stalk up and down the aisles, mostly in the fantasy section, but also in any section where I'd had luck finding something good before. I would pull books off the shelves and flip them open to the first page of the story and begin reading. Whether I left the book store with a given book in hand was utterly dependent on whether the author's voice resonated with me. I would read far outside my comfort zone in terms of substance or genre if the voice held my attention. So what is this voice thing, anyway? The voice is the writer's particular style, the quality of the writing that makes the writer unique. It's an expression of the way the writer thinks, her viewpoint and values, his way of looking at the world. This is the quality that makes you love a writer's work. It's kind of an invisible or barely noticeable aspect of writing. It's not anywhere you can specifically see it, in the way the plot is. It permeates the work. It's in the word choices. It's in the subtext. It's in what's left out. It's in the delicate details and the broad strokes. Voice is, for me, the measure of a writer's mastery of craft. Many other aspects of writing are technical. They can be fixed with rules. But voice isn't like that. It's like the flavor in a particular wine, depending on the grapes, the soil they grew in, how long it was fermented and in what kind of container. It's not predictable when you start out as a writer. You won't know what your voice is going to be like. It depends on how you develop it. I had a conversation with Dan Wickline some time ago about acquired tastes. Numerous things that I like to eat I didn't like at first. Coffee without sugar. I was in my twenties before I actually liked its bitterness. Yogurt. It took me several times of tasting it over a couple of years to like it. Now I love both unsweetened coffee and yogurt. Developing your voice is in some ways very much like developing your palette. In order to get the most out of it, you need to experiment with what you like and don't like. You need to do this in your writing and in your reading. When it's not there yet. Sometimes people send me things to edit which don't feel ready to be edited. Truthfully, I can edit anything. I can make anything better (unless it's already so good it just needs a light copy edit or a proof read.) Some things I can make much better. But one thing I can't fix in a novel is the writer's voice. If it's not there yet, I can only point it out. The stories that I see that I think are very likely to get interest from publishers have a very strong and interesting voice. These stories attract publishers and agents in spite of flaws, sometimes quite significant flaws. There are many aspects of the writing craft that you can fake. You can get there with an editor or a book or a class. You can do the grammar stuff. You can get rid of passive voice, you can get rid of tags, you can get rid of slips of point of view. But voice is the martial arts aspect of the writing. It's a very individual practice. It will come when it comes. You can get closer to it with work and reading and breaking down things that appeal to you. But it's not something you're likely to get a grasp on overnight. It requires work. And an underdeveloped voice is the most likely reason a story won't appeal to an agent or publisher. As much as good grammar and lovely sentences are important, they are not the thing that will make people want to read your story. YOU are the thing that will make people want to read your story. The way you tell it. The way you think. When you write, you're showing people the inside of your head. If you haven't quite developed this skill yet, the writing will seem flat and awkward. Even if all the sentences are perfect. Even if, on the surface, the story is interesting enough. Reading is receiving information on a lot of different channels at once. Our minds are delicately tuned to a vast array of indicators of meaning. A story does not tell itself. A book doesn't tell a story. A person tells a story to another person.If you remove yourself from the writing, it will lose its magic. Find your persona as a writer in the same way you would as an actor, except find it in the written word instead of the spoken word. Generally, there are phases to this finding. Most writers start out trying to sound writerly. Bigger words. Particular words. Because they've seen them somewhere or because this is how they perceive writing to work. That's a stage you have to get over. And you will if you continue down the path. Writers who have a very defined, very appealing voice have generally worked at it for years. I use Warren Ellis as an example. It doesn't matter what he's writing, he has a very fetching voice. You want to know what he's going to say next because his manner draws you in on the page. You feel like he's telling his story directly to you. Now, when Mr. Ellis was a young teenager, he had a severe knee injury. He wasn't very mobile for a few years. And because he's from eons ago, there were no internets back then, so he was forced to read and write or go stark raving mad. So now he's been writing for thirty years. And you can tell. But really, do I have to wait thirty years? No. Of course not. But just expect your voice not to necessarily have reached its full potential. Write a lot. Read a lot. Everyone says it and I'll say it again. Read widely. Make yourself read things that are outside your narrow tastes. Acquire new tastes. Read books translated from other languages. Don't be a genre snob (including literary, which is as much a genre as any other.) Write and get feedback on your writing. A mentor or a writing course can help you progress faster than you will on your own. But you can do it on your own if you're dedicated. It will come in layers, as little epiphanies and as disappointments when the epiphanies don't come. The only thing that seems to be a requirement is that you be open to your writing changing, growing, and you put the time and effort in by giving your brain the proper food (books of good writing and books about writing) and outlet: write.Those who are determined not to change anything, but to prove that their way is THE way are, in my experience, least likely to make progress in developing their voices. I wrote a lot when I was a kid. I thought I was good at it then, of course. I had no idea what I was doing. I have two graduate degrees in writing. During the first course, I learned a huge amount. During the second course, I learned just how amazing the first course had been. But my skills at writing and editing have been developed over most of the past twenty years. Of course, I'm not done learning. You will never be done learning. And the moment you are, you might as well turn in your golden pencil. It's ongoing. It's about the instant of perception. Your voice turns on who you are moment to moment. Further reading: If you want something cogent with specific exercises to help you and not my ramblings, read this: http://hollylisle.com/ten-steps-to-finding-your-writing-voice/ |
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