Got a basketful of books from the library yesterday, all with that blue library tape on the spine that reads "NEW" and the hopeful smell of glue and ink and tape still hovering about the covers. I've already gone through four.
Now, what I mean by that is that I tried to read them... but I just couldn't find myself committing beyond the first few dozen pages.
I choose my books based on several criteria, in loose order by impact:
1. Cover/Title/Author
2. Jacketflap
3. The first 2-3 paragraphs
4. Page 70
Now, I admit that Cover/Title/Author shouldn't be more important than what's inside. But let's be honest, if I find a cover attractive and/or the title sounds interesting, I'm going to pick the book up and look inside. The opposite is true if I'm not pulled in by those things. Face it, would you pick up a book whose title was, A STORY ABOUT SOMETHING or HAPPY? Would you spend time and/or money on a book whose cover was about as exciting as the generic food labels back in the eighties?
All things being equal - meaning, you're looking at a shelfful of books vying for your attention - the one with the catchy title and cover is the one you're going to pick up.
As far as page 70 goes, it's a random metric. Basically, I want to know whether the promise made in the first few paragraphs is being delivered at least through the first several chapters of the book.
Now let's assume a book has made each of these cuts, how much time should I give it at home? Well, that's a tricky question because it relies on so many other variables: Was it recommended by someone whose opinion I respect? Is it an author whose work I admire? Is the writing off but the subject interesting (or vice versa)? Do any of the other books in my pile look more interesting?
Short answer: roughly 2-3 chapters.
I have a fairly low tolerance for writing that doesn't grab me, grab me and shake me and doesn't let me go. It's a high bar to set for a writer, I know, and more than 80% of the books I take home don't end up attaining this mark. But the other truth about being an overly critical reader is this: there are more than enough quality writers out there to satisfy my tastes. Why waste time reading stuff just to slog through it?
So, why am I bringing all this up? Because I try to keep these things in mind when I write. Does my writing grab and shake and not let the reader go from the first page to the last (acknowledging that I have no control over the cover and little input on final title and jacketflap)? And what if it doesn't? It's also helpful to remember my own tastes aren't universal; many of the books I've found to be blase are or end up being quite popular and well regarded.
So, where do you say "Enough is enough?"
Showing posts with label beginning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beginning. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
WRT: Putting Horse Before Cart – Why You Should Consider Writing Your Query Letter Before Finishing Your Manuscript
You know, you really should write your query letter summary paragraph before you sit down to write the first words of your next project.
Say what?!
Let me explain what I mean.
Anyone who has ever finished a novel and sat down to query an agent or editor knows what it’s like to freeze in front of the keyboard, unable to summarize key story points and characters in 250 words or less. Why is that? Well, aside from the obvious reason (you know your story so intimately that pinpointing the most critical elements sometimes seems like an exercise in arbitrariness, though it’s really more like not seeing the forest for the trees), I think a lot of the difficulty derives from our writing habits.
Maybe the problem stems from holding onto outdated perceptions of what the story is about. While you might set out to write with certain objectives in mind, you don’t adapt those objectives as the story matures. It’s so easy to forget that those unexpected and compelling twists of plot or character insights that waylaid you along the way have also commandeered your story. It’s no longer what it started out to be. While discovery is so intrinsic to the organic nature of writing and why we derive so much pleasure out of the act of doing it, it makes writing the summary a bit more challenging. Now, you have to go back and reassess with the mindset not of a writer, but of a reader.
One of the biggest reasons I struggle with querying comes from realizing I haven’t spent enough time developing the most commercially relevant aspects, whether it be story arc, conflict, character... whatever. I get to the query and, for the first time, am forced to think about this character’s role, the purpose of that character’s personality strengths or flaws, the reason for structuring the story a certain way, or defining the conflict as I did, from a purely market-driven point of view. I often find then that the most compelling attributes haven’t been well developed or even incorporated.
Arguments aside about whether you should outline or synopsize before writing, you might find it useful to write that brief query letter summary both before and frequently throughout the course of writing your book. This will help you focus on those oh-so-important key elements and make writing the real query afterwards a piece of cake. (For those new to writing queries, a few keystrokes and your basic search engine will reward you with a trove of helpful resources :blogs, boards, articles....)
Oh, and one last thing: those early query letter summary paragraphs? Nobody should ever see them except you.
Happy RoadTripping.
Say what?!
Let me explain what I mean.
Anyone who has ever finished a novel and sat down to query an agent or editor knows what it’s like to freeze in front of the keyboard, unable to summarize key story points and characters in 250 words or less. Why is that? Well, aside from the obvious reason (you know your story so intimately that pinpointing the most critical elements sometimes seems like an exercise in arbitrariness, though it’s really more like not seeing the forest for the trees), I think a lot of the difficulty derives from our writing habits.
Maybe the problem stems from holding onto outdated perceptions of what the story is about. While you might set out to write with certain objectives in mind, you don’t adapt those objectives as the story matures. It’s so easy to forget that those unexpected and compelling twists of plot or character insights that waylaid you along the way have also commandeered your story. It’s no longer what it started out to be. While discovery is so intrinsic to the organic nature of writing and why we derive so much pleasure out of the act of doing it, it makes writing the summary a bit more challenging. Now, you have to go back and reassess with the mindset not of a writer, but of a reader.
One of the biggest reasons I struggle with querying comes from realizing I haven’t spent enough time developing the most commercially relevant aspects, whether it be story arc, conflict, character... whatever. I get to the query and, for the first time, am forced to think about this character’s role, the purpose of that character’s personality strengths or flaws, the reason for structuring the story a certain way, or defining the conflict as I did, from a purely market-driven point of view. I often find then that the most compelling attributes haven’t been well developed or even incorporated.
Arguments aside about whether you should outline or synopsize before writing, you might find it useful to write that brief query letter summary both before and frequently throughout the course of writing your book. This will help you focus on those oh-so-important key elements and make writing the real query afterwards a piece of cake. (For those new to writing queries, a few keystrokes and your basic search engine will reward you with a trove of helpful resources :blogs, boards, articles....)
Oh, and one last thing: those early query letter summary paragraphs? Nobody should ever see them except you.
Happy RoadTripping.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
WRT: The Importance of First Words - What Does Your Character Crave?
It's a rookie mistake to introduce your main character as a flawless, perfectly content human being. Who cares? Well, you do. You love your protagonist and you don't want anything bad to happen to him. But your reader does. That's what makes your reader come back for more. There are two things you, as a writer, will naturally resist doing to your character.
1. Make them want something.
2. Put obstacles in their way to getting it.
The first is called Craving, and it's what I'm focusing on today. It's what compels your character to act, and what compels your reader to connect. Which is why it's so important to define what your MC wants very, very soon after you introduce them.
In Markus Zusak's Fighting Ruben Wolfe, Cameron Wolfe, Ruben's brother, is the narrator. In the book's opening page, we find them at the track making illegal wagers on the dogs:
A girl walks past.
Jesus, I think.
"Jesus," Rube says, and that's the difference.
Zusak immediately shows us the kind of person Cameron is. He idolizes and wishes he could be more like his older brother. This is how Zusak sets up the story, which we know almost from the start (if you haven't read the jacket blurb), entails an eventual boxing match between the two Wolfe brothers. Zusak helps us connect with Cameron by showing his weaknesses, because, like the rest of us, we all wish we were better and stronger and smarter than reality reminds us we are. (Although the next First Lines subject is about conflict, it's worthwhile to point out the irony in how Zusak provides it here: in order for Cameron to prove he's more like his brother, he'll have to beat him).
In the English translation of his book, the invisible, Mats Wahl tells us in the very first sentence what minor character (but the story's focus) Hilmer Eriksson wants:
It was on one of the first days of May that Hilmer Eriksson discovered he had become invisible.
It's obvious what Hilmer wants: to be visible. Why? And is he really invisible? And if so, what made him invisible? We shortly discover that Hilmer is missing, later presumed dead. During the investigation, Hilmer "haunts" the novel's main character, Inspector Fors. Which leads to an even greater craving by Hilmer: he wants to know what happened, for his disappearance to have meaning. Who among us hasn't at one time or another feared disappearing without leaving some kind of trace behind, for our lives to have meaning? (In fact, I would have to say that that is one reason so many of us write.) Reminds me of a quote by Jim Morrison (of Doors fame): "The appeal of cinema lies in the fear of death." It's what makes the invisible so appealing to read.
So, dear Writer, make sure you know and show what your main (and even secondary)characters want in your story's First Words.
Next time: Conflict.
Happy RoadTripping.
1. Make them want something.
2. Put obstacles in their way to getting it.
The first is called Craving, and it's what I'm focusing on today. It's what compels your character to act, and what compels your reader to connect. Which is why it's so important to define what your MC wants very, very soon after you introduce them.
In Markus Zusak's Fighting Ruben Wolfe, Cameron Wolfe, Ruben's brother, is the narrator. In the book's opening page, we find them at the track making illegal wagers on the dogs:
A girl walks past.
Jesus, I think.
"Jesus," Rube says, and that's the difference.
Zusak immediately shows us the kind of person Cameron is. He idolizes and wishes he could be more like his older brother. This is how Zusak sets up the story, which we know almost from the start (if you haven't read the jacket blurb), entails an eventual boxing match between the two Wolfe brothers. Zusak helps us connect with Cameron by showing his weaknesses, because, like the rest of us, we all wish we were better and stronger and smarter than reality reminds us we are. (Although the next First Lines subject is about conflict, it's worthwhile to point out the irony in how Zusak provides it here: in order for Cameron to prove he's more like his brother, he'll have to beat him).
In the English translation of his book, the invisible, Mats Wahl tells us in the very first sentence what minor character (but the story's focus) Hilmer Eriksson wants:
It was on one of the first days of May that Hilmer Eriksson discovered he had become invisible.
It's obvious what Hilmer wants: to be visible. Why? And is he really invisible? And if so, what made him invisible? We shortly discover that Hilmer is missing, later presumed dead. During the investigation, Hilmer "haunts" the novel's main character, Inspector Fors. Which leads to an even greater craving by Hilmer: he wants to know what happened, for his disappearance to have meaning. Who among us hasn't at one time or another feared disappearing without leaving some kind of trace behind, for our lives to have meaning? (In fact, I would have to say that that is one reason so many of us write.) Reminds me of a quote by Jim Morrison (of Doors fame): "The appeal of cinema lies in the fear of death." It's what makes the invisible so appealing to read.
So, dear Writer, make sure you know and show what your main (and even secondary)characters want in your story's First Words.
Next time: Conflict.
Happy RoadTripping.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
WRT: The Importance of First Words - Character Clues and Cues
I see a lot of writers write about when and how to introduce characters into a story (not too many too soon, provide unique clues to aid the reader, avoid multiple characters whose first names share the same first letter, etc, etc ...). One thing you don't see a lot of is how do you use character introduction - and I mean in the first paragraphs of your first chapter - to help readers connect with the story and to provide a sense for where the story is going to take them.
Most likely you, as the writer, will want to introduce your main character(s) very, very soon after the reader opens your book to that magical first page and reads, "Chapter One." There are exceptions to this general rule, of course, but unless you're intentionally delaying this critical introduction for a very good reason, then seriously consider adhering to this guideline.
To see how successful authors introduced their characters, let's look at a couple examples, randomly pulled from my bookshelf.
Here's the first paragraph from Kim Edwards' The Memory Keeper's Daughter:
The snow started to fall several hours before her labor began. A few flakes at first, in the dull gray late-afternoon sky, and then wind-driven swirls and eddies around the edges of their wide porch. He stood by her side at the window, watching sharp gusts of snow billow, then swirl and drift to the ground. All around the neighborhood, lights came on, and the naked branches of the trees turned white.
We meet the story's two main characters immediately, husband and wife, not by name (in fact, we never learn their names until Chapter Two), but by a sense of how they see the world. How does Edwards clue us into the wife's character? The imagery she uses is soft, low-contrast, gentle ("snow started to fall" "few flakes" "dull gray" "swirls and eddies"). In contrast, the husband is cold and unfeeling. He watches out the window (why isn't he watching his wife as she labors to have their children?). He comes to us in a sentence where the first adjective is "sharp." Not directly defining him, but those "sharp gusts" tell us how he sees the scene outside that window. Interestingly, Edwards uses the same word twice ("swirl/s"), surprising us with our contrasting response to it (first, as something soft; second, as something cold). In those first four sentences, we have everything we need to know in order to move forward with the story.
The opening line of Jeffrey Eugenides' Middlesex is:
I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkable smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974.
Eugenides deftly uses contradiction to tell us about his main character. First, he emphasizes the miracle of a smogless Detroit day to underscore the mistake of Calliope Helen Stephanides' birth. He then tells us that she became Cal in a venue we associate with accidents: the ER. How does this make the reader feel? Sympathetic. Why? The idea of a transgender main character is enough to make most people squeamish (even more a decade ago when this was written). And yet, by giving us some insight into Cal's mind, we can't help but feel sympathetic.
Do your character introductions fall flat? Do they provide a sense of the person you mean them to be without actually describing them in such terms? Do you help your readers connect with your characters by showing their flaws, by giving them something to yearn for, by making them human, no matter how foreign the subject matter might be to the reader?
Speaking of yearning, that's the subject of the next FIRST WORDS discussion: CRAVING.
Most likely you, as the writer, will want to introduce your main character(s) very, very soon after the reader opens your book to that magical first page and reads, "Chapter One." There are exceptions to this general rule, of course, but unless you're intentionally delaying this critical introduction for a very good reason, then seriously consider adhering to this guideline.
To see how successful authors introduced their characters, let's look at a couple examples, randomly pulled from my bookshelf.
Here's the first paragraph from Kim Edwards' The Memory Keeper's Daughter:
The snow started to fall several hours before her labor began. A few flakes at first, in the dull gray late-afternoon sky, and then wind-driven swirls and eddies around the edges of their wide porch. He stood by her side at the window, watching sharp gusts of snow billow, then swirl and drift to the ground. All around the neighborhood, lights came on, and the naked branches of the trees turned white.
We meet the story's two main characters immediately, husband and wife, not by name (in fact, we never learn their names until Chapter Two), but by a sense of how they see the world. How does Edwards clue us into the wife's character? The imagery she uses is soft, low-contrast, gentle ("snow started to fall" "few flakes" "dull gray" "swirls and eddies"). In contrast, the husband is cold and unfeeling. He watches out the window (why isn't he watching his wife as she labors to have their children?). He comes to us in a sentence where the first adjective is "sharp." Not directly defining him, but those "sharp gusts" tell us how he sees the scene outside that window. Interestingly, Edwards uses the same word twice ("swirl/s"), surprising us with our contrasting response to it (first, as something soft; second, as something cold). In those first four sentences, we have everything we need to know in order to move forward with the story.
The opening line of Jeffrey Eugenides' Middlesex is:
I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkable smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974.
Eugenides deftly uses contradiction to tell us about his main character. First, he emphasizes the miracle of a smogless Detroit day to underscore the mistake of Calliope Helen Stephanides' birth. He then tells us that she became Cal in a venue we associate with accidents: the ER. How does this make the reader feel? Sympathetic. Why? The idea of a transgender main character is enough to make most people squeamish (even more a decade ago when this was written). And yet, by giving us some insight into Cal's mind, we can't help but feel sympathetic.
Do your character introductions fall flat? Do they provide a sense of the person you mean them to be without actually describing them in such terms? Do you help your readers connect with your characters by showing their flaws, by giving them something to yearn for, by making them human, no matter how foreign the subject matter might be to the reader?
Speaking of yearning, that's the subject of the next FIRST WORDS discussion: CRAVING.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
WRT: Your Publishing Horizon - Hey, isn't that it right there?
I see so many beginning writers making the same mistake: holding totally unrealistic expectations regarding their journey to publication. The problem is not one of misinformation -- that would imply the writer has bothered to imform herself beforehand. No, it seems more an issue of mass disillusionment, and it's shared by anyone who hasn't traveled some fair distance down that road. For example, friends and family who ask me how long I've been writing fiction for publication (7 years off and on; 2.5 years nearly full time; all stemming from a lifelong fascination with the art) always seem so surprised to hear it's taken so long. I realize it's the same naivete I once held, thinking my first children's picture book text would be available for the Christmas rush the year I finished it.
That was six years ago. Who knew there wasn't a market for flatulent frogs?
A published friend of mine once remarked to me that oftentimes a rookie writer can't see the horizon they're working toward because of all the dips and hills they must traverse to get to it. They mistake the first crest for the finish line.
I disagree. While I see his point, I don't think most beginning writers even know about the hills and valleys. That's because we often forget to map out the trip in any meaningful way. Or, if we do, we're in denial about those obstacles. We fool ourselves into thinking we'll somehow be lucky enough to find a way around them. But you might as well wish upon a star. There are no shortcuts or secret backroads to hasten the journey for beginner writers.
Let me repeat that: There are no shortcuts or secret backroads to hasten the journey for beginner writers.
What is the source of this disillusionment?
It's complicated:
First, it doesn't help that writer's mags and other sources recount the exceptional stories of successful first-time authors whose journeys were short, sweet, and swift. It doesn't help to be reminded of Chris Paolini's story. Or others like him. But part of the blame is our own, stemming from our own self-deception. We've all heard about how J. K. Rowling struggled, but we choose to forget that. We only remember her success. At times like these, it helps to remember one definition for "exceptional" is rare.
It's also easy to forget the difficulty of the journey whenever we're taken in by the siren song of a well-written book. Invisible to us are the years of toil, the revisions and re-revisions, the queries and rejections. And rejections. And rejections. Back to revisions. And how many times does this cycle have to repeat itself, dammit?
In the coming weeks, I'll be talking in more detail about the publishing jouney, about mapping it out fully in the beginning writer's mind, about having realistic expectations for where your horizon is. Why? Because there's nothing worse than seeing a writer lose hope. I've been there. It's not a nice place to be. But it can be much more easily avoided with a little realistic mental preparation.
Writing is a solitary endeavor, but the writer's journey doesn't have to be.
In the meantime, happy roadtripping.
That was six years ago. Who knew there wasn't a market for flatulent frogs?
A published friend of mine once remarked to me that oftentimes a rookie writer can't see the horizon they're working toward because of all the dips and hills they must traverse to get to it. They mistake the first crest for the finish line.
I disagree. While I see his point, I don't think most beginning writers even know about the hills and valleys. That's because we often forget to map out the trip in any meaningful way. Or, if we do, we're in denial about those obstacles. We fool ourselves into thinking we'll somehow be lucky enough to find a way around them. But you might as well wish upon a star. There are no shortcuts or secret backroads to hasten the journey for beginner writers.
Let me repeat that: There are no shortcuts or secret backroads to hasten the journey for beginner writers.
What is the source of this disillusionment?
It's complicated:
First, it doesn't help that writer's mags and other sources recount the exceptional stories of successful first-time authors whose journeys were short, sweet, and swift. It doesn't help to be reminded of Chris Paolini's story. Or others like him. But part of the blame is our own, stemming from our own self-deception. We've all heard about how J. K. Rowling struggled, but we choose to forget that. We only remember her success. At times like these, it helps to remember one definition for "exceptional" is rare.
It's also easy to forget the difficulty of the journey whenever we're taken in by the siren song of a well-written book. Invisible to us are the years of toil, the revisions and re-revisions, the queries and rejections. And rejections. And rejections. Back to revisions. And how many times does this cycle have to repeat itself, dammit?
In the coming weeks, I'll be talking in more detail about the publishing jouney, about mapping it out fully in the beginning writer's mind, about having realistic expectations for where your horizon is. Why? Because there's nothing worse than seeing a writer lose hope. I've been there. It's not a nice place to be. But it can be much more easily avoided with a little realistic mental preparation.
Writing is a solitary endeavor, but the writer's journey doesn't have to be.
In the meantime, happy roadtripping.
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