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Rules of Engagement

Posted in Fallen Cloud Saga, Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on 01 Aug 2012| Leave a Comment »

Obey the Kitty!Are there “rules” for genre fiction?

I’ve been called out by die-hard Alternate History readers for having “broken the rules” of the genre with my Fallen Cloud Saga. Charges that I “changed too much” or that “that’s not the way it was back then” were among the most common complaints. In response, I can only shrug. There are rules? I didn’t get any rulebook. What part of “alternate world history” is confusing these people?

When I sat down to outline the The Year the Cloud Fell (FC:I), I didn’t check to see what genre label it would sport. I had an idea, I worked on it, and I wrote the story I wanted to tell. My standalone novels, Dreams of the Desert Wind and Unraveling Time, are also good examples. Each one of those books blends elements of several genres: suspense, thriller, romance, time travel, adventure, historical fiction, etc. But I never set out to write a genre-bender. I set out to write a novel.

That’s because “genre,” as it’s used today, has nothing to do with writing, but it has everything to do with marketing.

Publishers want to make money; I can’t blame them for that, but in order to ensure the best return on their investment, they want to stack the odds in their favor. One way they do that is by giving books specific “genre” labels. Humor, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Romance, plus sub-categories like Alternate History, Steampunk, Police Procedural…these are all genre labels and yes, the fans of these genres have expectations about what will be inside a book that bears a specific label. That’s what makes the product predictable, and helps the publisher maximize profits by targeting their budget where it will do the best work.

But it has nothing to do with writing.

The book you have in mind might tick all the boxes for one of these labels. Many books do, and publishers (and agents) love that type of book because it makes their job easier. Unfortunately, none of my books fit so neatly into one category. So, should I change what I write? Should I “write to the market”?

Writing to the market is like setting out to write a blockbuster. You’re aiming at a sly, wily,  restlessly moving target. You’re having to guess, months in advance, what will pique the public’s interest, what will go viral, what will be trending upward on Twitter. In short, it’s a nearly impossible task, and if you succeed, it’ll be more luck than skill.

I write what I want to write. I build my characters, my worlds, my storylines specific to my needs, not the unwritten rules of bean-counters in marketing departments. Writing a novel is hard enough, without burdening myself with writing a book I’m not in love with.

k

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FC:V Progress Report

Posted in Fallen Cloud Saga, Writing, tagged , , , , , , on 31 Jul 2012| Leave a Comment »

Today was a good writing day.

Ilene and I have gotten into the habit of taking “rehearsing for retirement” mini-vacations. This weekend we took another, centered around our 29th wedding anniversary. We had plans of doing all sorts of things, going places, trying new restaurants, seeing a movie or two to see, but we ended up pretty much sticking around the house, reading, watching the Olympics, and (in my case) writing. I can barely wait until retirement.

I’ve been working on a critical section of FC:V (aka Beneath a Wounded Sky), and today I finally punched through to the other side. I know the Faithful Readers over on my Facebook page are sick of hearing about this “critical section” of the novel, but hey. It’s critical. It’s the difference between crying “Checkmate” in move 25 and making sure you have all the pieces in place so that it means something. That means a lot of work, and a lot of re-work. And then some re-re-work.

But it’s also been rewarding. Any time, in writing Book V, you can make a serious call-back to a scene in Book I, that’s a hell of a lot of fun. Challenging, too, though, primarily because nearly everyone in the chapter has conflicting emotions, and my POV character shifts emotional focus a couple/three times in the last scene alone. While it’s a simple matter to map the “top note” of each character’s main emotion, it’s a different kettle to ensure that all the underlying emotional content is logical as you move through the shifts each character experiences.

I feel particularly free, though, after today’s work. While this isn’t the emotional climax or the action climax, it’s the pivot. For those keeping count, I’m about 75% done. About another 100 pages to go in the main product, and the production work will be complete. Then I go into “post-production,” editing, reader feedback, re-editing, and then…well, you get the idea.

Believe me, though, “production” is the hardest part. When I get that done, pop the champers.

k

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Redefining Failure

Posted in Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , on 26 Jul 2012| 6 Comments »

Often, when someone learns that I am a published novelist, they give me a puzzled look. I know what they’re thinking.

Why are you still working that day-job, living in that house, driving that car?

I used to think that, too. I had already figured out where I’d be teaching (after receiving my honorary degree), had already picked my house on the shores of Green Lake,  and had chosen the flash car I would use to zip around town.

Then I sold my first novel. Nothing changes your worldview more than achieving your dream.

As a writer, I have had some successes: eight novels published, four by a large NYC publishing house, plus a smattering of published short stories, articles, and essays. I’ve also had—I used to call them failures, but now after “periods of redefinition,” I think of them as successes, too. You see, when I started out, anything other than a bestseller was a failure, but soon I would only fail if I got anything other than a solid sale. In time, I accepted any sale as a success, and then…you see where this is going.

A long time ago, Dean Wesley Smith asked me, “If you knew you would never sell another story, would you still write?” My answer was flippant. “Of course,” I said, “but tell me now so I won’t worry about it.” I was green as springtime grass, back then, and had yet to feel the heartbreak that only publishing can provide. Today, my answer still stands, but it stands on its own; it doesn’t need the cocksure attitude to prop it up.

When I started, I wrote as a way to achieve fame and fortune. Sure, some people make gazillions at it, but you can count those who do it consistently on your fingers. In reality, writing is a hard way to make a living, and if you’re in it only for the money, my advice is to get out, now.

Here’s what people don’t get: writing is an art, but publishing is a business, and publishing doesn’t give a toss whether your book is good or bad, it cares whether your book will sell or sit on the shelf. Your novel can be total crap, but if it’s the kind of total crap that sells, it’ll get snapped up. But good or bad, if it does get snapped up, there still isn’t a lot of money in it, and one sale is no guarantee of future sales.

Today, I don’t write for fame and fortune, nor do I equate not having them with failure. I write because I want to tell stories, and tell them well. If a book of mine doesn’t get finished, that’s a failure. If I just hammer out some words and have a lackluster product, or write something I don’t love, that’s a failure. If the faithful readers who do love my books don’t get to read any more of the stories I want to tell, that’s a failure.

Of course, if a publisher thinks I’m putting gold on the page, or Hollywood wants to option my novels, I sure as hell won’t complain. But that’s gravy, and I am able to succeed just fine without gravy.

k

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Autopilot Disengaged

Posted in Fallen Cloud Saga, Writing, tagged , , , , , , , on 25 Jul 2012| Leave a Comment »

Yesterday, I set my brain to percolate on the chapter I’m writing in Beneath a Wounded Sky. I know it’s working because my autopilot has been disengaged.

We all have one. For instance, I have to pay close attention to where I’m going until I get at least 5 miles from the house. If I don’t, say, because my wife and I are discussing last night’s movie, the autopilot kicks in and we end up taking the exit for the transit station I use.

I am very dependent on my autopilot in the mornings. I’m an “early bird” at work; I come in at around 6:15am. I do this because it gives me a good chunk of time before all the damned meetings start up, and it also means I get to leave earlier, and can have some daylight at home to do chores, etc.

But at 5:20am, going through the routine of ablutions and departure prep, I need that autopilot, and when my brain is silently stealing processing power to percolate on a problem, I end up with a broken routine. I forget to shave, or I forget my bus pass, or I leave my mobile on the credenza. At critical points in this book, I’ve had arrived at the bus stop only to turn around and go home because I’ve forgotten something critical.

This morning, as I was reaching into the medicine cabinet, I really didn’t have a clue what I needed to do next. Shave? Brush my teeth? What did I just do, and what comes next? Have I done everything I need to do?

As annoying as this is, it’s a good sign. And already the dam is starting to crack. I won’t give any clues away, but this is a transitional chapter in Beneath a Wounded Sky, and the way through it needs to feel right. I’ve already figured how all the characters are feeling at this point, and that’s a big hurdle; now I can start putting them in motion.

Now…where did I leave my pen?

k

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Percolation

Posted in Fallen Cloud Saga, Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , , on 24 Jul 2012| 2 Comments »

Kurt R.A. GiambastianiNo, not coffee (though as a Seattleite, I have my opinions on that, too). Mental percolation.

Today, I pulled out my pen and pad, and read through the last bit I wrote yesterday. As I was reading I realized that I didn’t know where I had been taking the scene. Going further back, I read more. Still, no clue as to where I was going.

You might think that, after yesterday’s post about outlining techniques, I have it all down on paper, but even a detailed outline won’t tell you everything about a scene. I may have a five-page outline for this FC:V, with chapter breaks and notes on POVs, but there’s still a world of difference between that and the words and action in an actual chapter. The outline gives me the plot, but it doesn’t give me the subplots, the little “side trips,” or the variations from the original that pop up while I write a novel. It will give me the main characters and their general thoughts, but it won’t give me those subtle interactions or the conversational threads that are the fabric of the book.

In short, I knew where I was going, but didn’t know what road I had been paving to get there. 

Today, therefore, is a “percolation” day.

A percolation day is a day with more thinking than writing, where I remind myself throughout the day of where I want to go, and let my subconscious mull on the exact path I want to take.

It’s a strong tool. I use it to retrieve old memories (What’s that actors name?), figure out the answer to a question (Where are my keys?), or solve a problem (What is really happening in this scene?) It’s also a useful tool when I’m just starting to flesh out a story idea; percolation taps into creative processes that work best in the background, where the noise of language and logic is silenced, and where symbols and concepts can be swapped freely.

So, the pen and paper went away, and I pulled out my outline. I’ve changed a lot, as I’ve been writing Beneath a Wounded Sky, and have deviated from the outline at several points, but re-reading the original outline is still helpful. The original outline still has the excitement of that new idea, and the purest rendition of the roadmap I envisioned, so even after I hare off on a wild tangent, I can use that original outline to course-correct back toward the goal.

I’ll keep that outline at hand, today, and use it to keep the problem fresh in my mind. By this evening, then, I’m pretty sure I’ll know how I want to finish off this scene and close the chapter.

Percolation, baby…Percolation.

k

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Freewheelers and Tactitians

Posted in Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , on 23 Jul 2012| 2 Comments »

I know, I know; it doesn’t have the same ring as Swoopers and Bashers, but when it comes to outlining, Freewheelers and Tacticians describe the two major approaches.

When I used to go to conventions, Freewheelers were the ones on the panel who would say something like, “I just put my characters into a situation and then I see what happens.” No outline, no synopsis, nothing like a roadmap. Just whip up some characters, plunk them into a dilemma, and off you go!

To its credit, Freewheeling is a very organic method of writing, and is very well suited to the “Swooper” technique. Plot twists are created on the fly, and ancillary characters pop up ad hoc. It’s a quick-start method and works like a charm for many, many writers. But its strength is also its weakness. In my discussions with Freewheelers, they’ve admitted that Freewheeling can lead them up dead ends where, despite their best efforts, they’ve essentially written themselves into a corner. In such situations, the Freewheeler has to throw out a large section of the work and go back to a pivotal point where they should have zigged instead of zagged.

As you can tell, I am not a Freewheeler. I am a Tactician, and I find the Freewheeling method bewildering.

Tacticians write outlines. Short story or Novel, if it has a plot, it has an outline. The level of detail in the outline can be pretty high, and Tacticians often have trouble knowing when to stop outlining and start writing. This method is as bewildering to Freewheelers as theirs is to me. “What do you mean, you know how it’s going to end before you start?” they ask. My response is always the same.

Ever read a book that just falls apart at the end? Where suddenly things happen in a blur or characters do something entirely out of, well, out of character? Or where the action just fizzles, as if the writer got bored and had to wrap it up? I’ve read plenty of books like that, and I’m pretty sure they were written by Freewheelers.

I want to know how my book ends before I start because I want to make damned sure that it’s got a good ending, from the start. Also, as a Basher, I don’t want to waste the time (or if under deadline, can’t afford the time) it takes to go back and rewrite two or three chapters when I end up in a literary cul-de-sac.

There is a hybrid method, though. I saw it in action, and I’ve adopted it for use in developing ideas and writing synopses for unwritten works. It’s called The Hardy Boys Outline, and it’s dead easy. Back in the old Hardy Boys books, chapters had a title that basically told you what was going to happen. You could read the chapter titles and get a really good idea of the entire plot. The Hardy Boys Outline is just that. Here’s how it works.

Jot down your character names and a phrase that describes them. Then start writing the chapter titles. For example, “On the Hunt for Jessie” or “Captured!” is all you write, and that’s what the chapter will be about. One colleague used to put them on yellow-stickies so he could rearrange them or pop a new one in between two others as he developed his plot.

I used this method to outline Books II-V in the Fallen Cloud Saga. It helped me define the arc of the series, and the scope of each novel. I went on to write a detailed outline of each book as I began them, but that’s me.

k

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The Good, the Bad, the Idiotic

Posted in Writing, tagged , , , , , on 20 Jul 2012| Leave a Comment »

There’s a lot of chatter on the blogs about bad reviews and what to do about them (like The Misfortune of Wondering). Bad reviews are a fact of writing life; they cannot be avoided. You’ll get them from critics, from readers, from family and friends, and at times, from fellow writers (those are the worst). But no matter the source, there is only one acceptable response.

What is that acceptable response? Well, it isn’t is to fire off a flaming bitch-fest where you call the reviewer an illiterate berk and question his paternity. Despite the immediate satisfaction this activity provides, it is definitely not the way to go. If you must, write it and then delete it.

However, neither is it acceptable to write a reasonable, point-by-point rebuttal to the critique, noting how this scene is obviously an allusion to Homer’s “The Odyssey,” depicting the character’s inner journey, and how your hero’s deformed limb is a device to mirror Richard III, which should be clear to anyone with an education. These refutations always come across as whiny and insecure (yes, pompous can and often does come across as insecurity).

In short, a response is never acceptable, because (a) you never convince the reviewer you’re right, and (b) because you (the writer) never appear in a good light. A response always makes the writer look silly, pedantic, immature, petulant, patronizing, or just plain stupid. There are as many reasons for a bad review as there are bad reviews. Some people just don’t like the sort of stuff you write. Some may like the genre, but just didn’t like the book. Some nitpickingly comb through any book and tag the writer for any flaw, real or imagined. Some reviewers, including a few professional ones, are bitter, small-minded people for whom tearing down someone else’s work is a way to make them feel better about themselves. And then there are some reviewers who have read the book, considered it with a well-educated mind, and simply found it to be flawed.

No book is perfect. No book will please every reader. No book is immune from the bad review. Just go out on Amazon; even the critically-acclaimed and best-selling titles have bad reviews. I’ve had bad reviews a-plenty. One reviewer panned my entire novel because of one perceived factual error (it wasn’t an error). Another reviewer panned me because he didn’t like the historical Custer, and didn’t want to read a novel with him as a character (this is substantive?) I’ve had bad reviews of every stripe, and responding to these bad reviews is futile, useless, and possibly career-damaging.

The only acceptable response is to read them and consider them. Just like you would consider the feedback from a fellow writer or a writers’ workshop, consider the feedback from a bad review. In both cases, the feedback may be meaningful; the reviewer may have touched upon a flaw you hadn’t seen before. If the feedback is valuable, use it; if not, dump it.

Here’s the crux: if someone doesn’t “get” something you wrote, if someone doesn’t understand that character’s motivation or what that scene really meant, then you screwed up, not the reader. The book is perfect in your head, but it’s never perfect on the page.

k

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