Tag Archives: Writing tips

Skilled Writing: The Agony and the Ecstasy

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Oh, and, by the way, the ebook version of Practical Phrendonics is currently on sale for 99 cents.

Practical Phrendonics is Book One of the Heiromancer Trilogy
(to which The Demon of Histlewick Downs is a standalone prelude).

Acquiring expertise first requires recognizing the need…

Last year’s publication of Hanged Man’s Gambit, the final book of the Heiromancer Trilogy, was the culmination of over fourteen years of work. When I started, I hadn’t the slightest idea what I was in for. From years of running games, I knew a little something about developing characters and the elements that make a plot meaty and satisfying, but publishing is a different beast. After law school and a Ph.D., I was also under the impression I knew how to write. I didn’t – at least not at the level necessary to publish a professional-level novel. Of all the things I needed to learn, that was far and away the toughest. Writing well requires more than vision. It requires more than talent. It requires more than a basic grasp of grammar. It requires more than being widely read. While all these things are helpful, professional-level novel writing requires expertise.

How does one acquire expertise?

The first and hardest step is recognizing you don’t have it. If you haven’t had some training, you can safely assume that not only do you not have it, you aren’t in a position to evaluate whether you have it. That’s simply the nature of the game and a natural consequence of the Dunning-Kruger effect. All beginning writers go through this. Those who don’t get past it before they publish are responsible for the continuing truth of Sturgeon’s Law. Assuming that since you’ve read novels that you are now qualified to write them is like accepting a job as a master chef because you’ve eaten at a few fancy restaurants. Chefs train for years to master techniques and learn the subtleties of their craft. While you might be a good home cook, if you haven’t trained, you’re not a chef. Mastery of a craft like writing requires an understanding of the prevailing culture, an appreciation for what’s already been done, and a vision for the boundaries you intend to push. You need to know, for example, why certain approaches (like the main character describing herself in the mirror) are verboten; why info-dumps are problematic; why tense scenes require a more staccato delivery; what constitutes overuse (or awkward use) of dialogue tags; what makes for a workable inciting incident; the differences between good grammar and clear, strong prose; how to recognize and eliminate unnecessary repetition; how to identify and eliminate plot-irrelevant details; how dialogue is properly punctuated; and a thousand other things. Only once you understand these rules can you both employ them effectively and know when to productively break them.

The second step is to recognize that to achieve some measure of craft, you’ll need trained guidance. Books on the subject can help, but nothing gets the message across more effectively than feedback on your own work by someone who’s already acquired the requisite expertise. Your mother, even if she’s rigorously honest, might only be able to tell you something’s wrong. Without the appropriate expertise, she likely won’t be able to tell you why elements of your story rub her the wrong way or strike her as amateurish. Your best bet is to find a skilled editor who is willing to both edit your prose and explain the reasons underlying those edits. That, of course, is a huge challenge in its own right. Because you’re now aware of the Dunning-Kruger effect, you’ll realize that since you’re not in a position to evaluate the quality of your own prose, you’re probably even less well positioned to evaluate those edits.

So, how will you be able to evaluate whether the editor you’ve selected has any more expertise than you do? It is a bit of a chicken-and-egg problem. First, recognize that since there’s no regulatory body governing minimal competence for editors, anyone can hang out a shingle and charge you for the service. To complicate things further, some folks claiming to be editors are little more than scammers. Next, recognize that even non-predatory editors may be afflicted by Dunning-Kruger – they may simply not recognize their editorial skills aren’t up to par. My best suggestion is to attend writers’ conferences (such as The Southern California Writers’ Conference). Assemble a cohort of friends who are also trying to acquire writing expertise and get their honest feedback as a way to start acquiring some expertise that you can then use to help you evaluate editorial work. Professional editors also often attend writers’ conferences, and you can get an idea of whether some of these folks’ personalities would be a good fit. Check editorial credentials such as past clients and also check the Preditors and Editors website (once it’s back up and running). And most importantly, when you’re ready – when you feel you can’t possibly make those pages any better – get sample edits (preferably for the same pages) from multiple vetted editors. Many reputable editors will do such sample edits for free. Multiple samples will enable you to compare the editors’ methods and to see how their suggestions affect your prose. Even if you’re choosing from a group of highly capable editors, there’s as much art as science to editing – your artistic styles won’t always mesh.

Also be aware that Dunning-Kruger applies equally those who will review your work. When you publish, you’ll be submitting your book to a broad range of readers. The majority won’t be in a position to meaningfully comment on your level of craft because they simply haven’t acquired the level of expertise that would enable them to evaluate it. You acquire that expertise because it provides readers with a smoother, less-jarring, more-immersive reading experience, not because you expect readers to recognize what a skilled craftsperson you’ve become. That you’ve improved the reader experience will increase the chances for positive reviews, but will not guarantee them. For some, burnt tater tots and TV dinners are the epitome of haute cuisine, and if that’s what they like, reviewing them accordingly isn’t necessarily wrong. That also means if you don’t serve tater tots, those folks simply won’t review you well, regardless of your facility with the foie gras. On the other hand, that smaller fraction of readers who have acquired a measure of writing acumen are likely to expect high-level craft as a matter of course. It therefore won’t occur to them to praise a work for its craftsmanship, but they will be among the first to crucify you should you fail to live up to their exacting craftsmanship standards. Thus, it’s predictably rare for a review to accurately recognize and appreciate hard-earned writerly skills, but when it happens, it’s an occasion to be cherished.

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Story Tools: The Perks of Adversarial Dialogue

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THE LION IN WINTER | Events | The Belcourt Theatre

HENRY: The day those stout hearts band together is the day that pigs get wings.

ELEANOR: There’ll be pork in the treetops come the morning. Don’t you see: you’ve given them common cause: new sons. You leave the country and you’ve lost it.

The Lion in Winter, for which Katherine Hepburn won the 1968 Academy Award for best actress, served up intensely dramatic performances from both Hepburn and Peter O’Toole despite the fact that, during the entire show, absolutely nothing happened. The characters were cooped up in Chinon castle for Christmas Court. No one died, nothing was destroyed, nothing was created, and no one was even injured. Somehow, screenwriter James Goldman crafted a hugely successful dramatic work from a puff of pure intrigue. How could such an artificial literary construct sustain itself without some form of external action?

As I see it, Goldman, recognized the dramatic potential inherent in adversarial dialogue. Often, literary works focus on the opportunity to deliver characters’ internal musings as a mechanism for keeping the reader apprised of needs, wants, and future intentions, and books are a medium uniquely suited to that approach. Once the reader and character bond, those internal descriptions can highlight the character’s priorities and generate empathy instrumental for holding the reader’s interest. Such internal dialogue is therefore a versatile tool in an author’s literary arsenal. However, it can suffer from the same limitations as other info-dump approaches – since internal dialogue is not inherently dramatic, the scene’s drama depends instead on external action.

Adversarial dialogue provides an additional tool for providing dramatic tension on those occasions when external conflicts wouldn’t advance the plot. It also provides ample opportunities to layer in subtlety. As readers, when we’re given a character’s internal thoughts, unless the narrator is unreliable, we tend to accept those musings as fact. Real life, however, tends to be more nuanced – people often significantly oversimplify their perspectives in ways that best suit their needs and biases and cast them in the most sympathetic light. Adversarial dialogue can therefore be a fantastic way to highlight a situation’s complexities in ways that would be difficult using internal dialogue alone. The aspects of a situation that a character denies (even subconsciously) can be every bit as defining as those accepted – and adversarial dialogue is a great way to draw those out.

Our culture has long appreciated the advantages of an adversarial approach for arriving at truth – indeed, that principle undergirds our entire justice system. The O.J. Simpson case exemplifies the adversarial process’s dramatic potential. That case – in essence an argument between the prosecution and a famous sports personality to convince an impartial observer to accept their version of the facts – riveted the entire country for months.

In the context of a novel, adversarial dialog can be used to wring drama out of almost any situation that has consequences based on a character’s decision, whether it is multiple characters arguing to convince an impartial observer or simply two characters arguing to determine a joint course of action. In both the O.J. case and the Lion in Winter excerpt above, the drama arises from the reader’s appreciation of the decision’s consequences – the tighter the connection between reader and character and the more severe the consequences, the greater the dramatic potential.

Of course, works that rely significantly on the use of adversarial dialogue also require more engagement from the reader. As with the O.J. case, readers will have to consider the evidence presented by various sides and use their judgment to determine whose worldview is more accurate. As a result, they will be less able to rely on spoon-fed incontrovertible truth delivered through internal dialogue. Such works tend not to be easy beach reads, and they won’t appeal to everyone. But if you crave complex nuanced situations and increased depth of character, you might find works that make ample use of adversarial dialogue, such as the Heiromancer Trilogy, worth the extra effort.

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