Dedicated to the classic books on fiction writing. Learn to write short stories, novels, and plays by studying the classic how-to books. I believe fiction writing is a Craft. In the hands of a writer who has mastered the Craft, it can become more than that. It can become Art. Art = Talent + Craft But the bedrock is Craft. There are fundamental techniques to be studied, unfamiliar tools to be mastered, tricks of the trade to be learned. And it all takes time. (Writing Mastery) (Writing Craft)
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Writing is an art, but it’s also a craft that can be honed and perfected. The journey of a writer is filled with both triumphs and setbacks, and mastering the craft of writing is essential for navigating these ups and downs. This article explores how to make your writing better for the reader, easier for you to produce, and resilient enough to withstand future failures and successes.
Know Your Audience: Understanding who you are writing for is crucial. Tailor your language, tone, and content to meet the expectations and interests of your readers. This connection fosters engagement and keeps readers coming back for more.
Clarity and Conciseness: Readers appreciate writing that is clear and to the point. Avoid unnecessary jargon and complex sentences. Aim for simplicity without sacrificing depth.
Show, Don’t Tell: Engage your readers by showing them the story through vivid descriptions and actions rather than just telling them what happens. This technique makes your writing more immersive and compelling.
Strong Beginnings and Endings: Hook your readers from the start with a captivating opening and leave them with a memorable conclusion. The beginning sets the tone, and the ending leaves a lasting impression.
Establish a Routine: Consistency is key. Set aside dedicated time for writing each day. This habit helps you stay disciplined and makes writing a natural part of your daily routine.
Break It Down: Large projects can be overwhelming. Break your writing into manageable chunks. Focus on one section or chapter at a time to maintain momentum and avoid burnout.
Use Tools and Resources: Leverage writing tools and resources such as grammar checkers, writing software, and online communities. These can help streamline your process and provide valuable feedback.
Embrace the First Draft: Don’t aim for perfection on the first go. Allow yourself to write freely and make mistakes. The first draft is just the beginning; revisions and edits will refine your work.
Develop a Thick Skin: Rejection and criticism are part of the writing journey. Learn to take feedback constructively and use it to improve your craft. Remember, every writer faces setbacks.
Celebrate Small Wins: Acknowledge and celebrate your achievements, no matter how small. This positive reinforcement keeps you motivated and reminds you of your progress.
Stay Adaptable: The writing industry is constantly evolving. Stay open to new trends, technologies, and methods. Adaptability ensures you remain relevant and resilient in the face of change.
Build a Support Network: Surround yourself with fellow writers, mentors, and supportive friends and family. A strong support network provides encouragement, advice, and a sense of community.
There's a famous line in the movie COOL HAND LUKE:
"What we've got here is failure to communicate." The line comes twice, once said seriously by the evil prison warden and once said mockingly by the title character, Luke.
Failures to communicate are pretty common in real life, and in many cases, they're caused by different personality types. In last month's column, I talked about the Myers-Briggs scheme of classifying personalities into 16 different types.
This month, I'll look at a somewhat simpler scheme developed by D. Glenn Foster, who started his career as a polygraph examiner. What Foster discovered was that his own observations of his subjects told him a lot more about their guilt or innocence than his lie-detector machines could.
Foster's original idea was that there is no one best way to interrogate somebody. Methods that work on one personality type won't work on another. So if you want to get a confession, your first task is to "read" your prisoner's personality type. Then you use the appropriate methods to get your confession. Of course, if the prisoner isn't actually guilty, you'll discover that soon enough.
Eventually, Foster became an "interview consultant" who taught methods of interrogation to law enforcement agencies to help them get confessions from prisoners. I recently read his book, "HOW CAN I GET THROUGH TO YOU?" -- coauthored with Mary Marshall -- on the subject of interpersonal communication.
You might think that Foster's methods are only useful to novelists writing police procedural mysteries. Nope. An interrogation is only one of many ways that people communicate -- or fail to. The book by Foster and Marshall is actually aimed at anyone having communication failures. Whether you're not communicating with a friend or a family member, a co-worker or a Congress-critter, this book shows you how to read people and analyze what's gumming up the communication lines.
Foster categorizes people into four basic types:
Let's look at each of these in turn:
When two people are talking, they tend to treat the other person the way they expect to be treated. This works fine, if they're both the same personality type, because they have a common idea of how to communicate.
A Feeler talking with a Feeler will get along fine, because they both want the other person to feel good about the exchange. Each will bend over backwards to accommodate the other. No hard words and at the end, everybody's happy.
A Driver talking with a Driver will also do great. They'll likely get into a spirited argument, each giving no quarter, hacking away at each other until one of them wins or they reach a happy stalement. Plenty of hard words, but no hard feelings, because shouting is just part of the game, and at the end of the game, everybody knows who won.
An Analyzer talking with an Analyzer will have a terrific time. They'll get into a deep discussion about ideas. It may or not be an argument, but even if there's a strong difference of opinion, each will take care to attack the other's ideas, not his person. No hard words, no hard feelings, and at the end, one or both of them may have changed his mind, but both will feel like they learned something.
An Elitist talking with an Elitist rarely happens, because there just aren't that many Elitists. Each will recognize that the other is someone special and rare, because all Elitists are special and rare, but always in different ways. Elitists most likely won't share their feelings, not even with another Elitist. If necessary, they may argue like a Driver or reason like an Analyzer, but at the end of the game, they're really above all that.
When members of two different groups talk, it's a different story. Each will treat the other the way they want to be treated. But neither will be treated the way they want. Let's look at what can go wrong. We'll be brief here, because we have six different kinds of pairs:
When a Feeler talks with a Driver, she may very well be irritated by the Driver's "pushiness." Feelers see Drivers as being "control freaks" who want to "run over everyone else." The Driver will be annoyed by the Feeler's wimpiness. Drivers expect push-back, and when a Feeler just gives in, where's the fun in that? Drivers see Feelers as being "spineless" slugs who "beat around the bush" and "won't stand up for themselves."
When a Feeler talks with an Analyzer, she'll be annoyed by the Analyzer's "coldness." Feelers see Analyzers as being "too much in their heads" and as eggheads who "don't care about other people's feelings." The Analyzer will be irritated by the Feeler's "mushy-headed" approach to life. Analyzers see Feelers as "uninterested in ideas" and "losing their heads in a crisis."
When a Driver talks with an Analyzer, he may be annoyed by the Analyzer's cautious "look before you leap" foot-dragging. A Driver wants to forge ahead, because "he who hesitates is lost." The Analyzer will be especially infuriated when a Driver makes a "personal attack" in an argument. The Analyzer is sensitive to personal criticism and wants to "focus on ideas, not personalities."
When a Feeler, Driver, or Analyzer talks with an Elitist, they'll be put off by the Elitist's "arrogant and condescending" attitude. Since Elitists generally dress with excellent style, Feelers, Drivers, and Analyzers may criticise the Elitist for being "aristocratic." Elitists have elements of the Feeler, the Driver, and the Analyzer, so they have all sorts of ways to cross communications. The Elitist may see the Feeler as "weak" or "spineless"; may see the Driver as "pushy" and "overbearing"; may see the Analyzer as "cold" or "smart, but lacking vision."
There's a lot more to be said on Feelers, Drivers, Analyzers, and Elitists. I highly recommend the book "HOW CAN I GET THROUGH TO YOU?" by D. Glenn Foster and Mary Marshall for vastly more information on how these personality types work. Their interest is in helping people understand their own type and the types of others, so they can learn to get along.
Our interest, as novelists, is in learning how to understand our characters so we can pick a fight. Fiction is about characters in conflict. The more you know about what causes conflict, the more realistic your fiction will be.
I thank my friend, Mark Mynheir, a working cop and novelist, for alerting me to the Foster Method.
This article is reprinted by permission of the author.
Every character in your novel has a past, a present, and a future.
The future is fuzzy and out of focus, but your characters think they know what they want their future to be.
The future that your protagonist wants is called the “story goal” for your novel, and it drives your story forward.
Your front-story is whatever is happening right now as your protagonist tries desperately to reach his or her story goal.
The front-story is the reason your reader reads. Without a front-story, your novel is dead in the swamp. As much as possible, you need to always keep your front-story on center stage in your novel.
But your character has a past also—all the things that happened in their life that made them the person they are today. That past is called “backstory.”
Backstory matters a lot. Nobody just walks onto the stage of your story without a past. Everybody carries baggage. The older you get, the more baggage you carry, unless you learn to let go. And nobody ever lets go of it all.
But backstory can be a story-killer. Reading a novel that begins with a huge lump of backstory is like going out on a first date and spending the whole time hearing about the other person’s miserable, horrible, no-good, very bad childhood.
There’s a place for backstory. That place is not at the beginning of the story. At the beginning of the story, you want to be focusing on the front-story. The stuff that’s happening right now.
In Star Wars, we spend quite a lot of time getting to know Darth Vader before we ever learn that he’s Luke’s daddy. If we found that out in the first ten minutes, we wouldn’t care. Because we wouldn’t know Vader and we wouldn’t know Luke enough to care yet. But at the right place in the story, that little bit of backstory carries the force of a proton torpedo.
So how do you know when to bring in backstory?
Here’s are two simple rules I use that guide me well most of the time:
These are not iron-clad rules. They’re useful rules of thumb. Use them when they improve your story. Ignore them when they don’t.
The TV series Lost used backstory heavily. Lost had a very large cast of characters, and it took many episodes to get to know them all.
Typically, each episode highlighted just a few characters, and one or two of those would have a flashback that showed off some essential piece of backstory in their lives.
When I say “some essential piece of backstory,” I mean that piece is essential to understand the episode in which it appears.
Over the course of six seasons, we saw more and more backstory about each character, and understood them better and better.
If you liked Lost, I suspect that part of the reason you liked it was that the backstory was strong. The backstory served the front-story.
There are two basic ways that novelists use to create their backstory:
People who like to plan their novel before writing it (such as outliners or Snowflakers) usually figure out most of their backstory before they write their novel. Of course, during the process of writing the story, they’ll think up new bits of backstory and add that to whatever they started with.
People who like to write their novel without preplanning it (such as seat-of-the-pantsers and edit-as-you-go writers) usually make up backstory as they’re writing scenes. Then when the story is finished, they may need to do some work to make it all consistent and fill in any gaps.
It really doesn’t matter which way you do things. Your brain is wired to favor one method over another, and I don’t recommend fighting the wiring in your brain. Work with your brain, not against it.
But however you prefer to work, I strongly recommend that you spend some time making sure your backstory is strong. It should be a reasonable explanation of how your character came to be the person they are. It should increase the conflict your character feels during the front-story.
I also strongly recommend that when you edit the second draft of your novel, you should fire-test each chunk of backstory as it comes up in the story. Could you delay telling this bit of backstory until later in the story? Would that improve things? If the backstory is essential right now, could you tell less of it? Would that improve things?
The goal here is not “to get rid of all the backstory.” That would be like cutting off your nose to improve your smile.
The goal here is “to use the backstory to make the front-story as good as possible.”
In the intricate dance of storytelling, one of the most effective techniques for maintaining reader engagement is the use of red herrings. These clever misdirections not only keep readers guessing but also enhance the depth of your narrative, allowing for surprising twists and enriching character development. When executed skillfully, red herrings can lead readers to draw false conclusions, creating a satisfying sense of surprise when the truth is finally revealed. Here’s how to skillfully incorporate red herrings into your fiction writing.
A red herring is a literary device designed to mislead or distract readers from the actual plot or truth. It can take the form of misleading clues, character behaviors, or seemingly significant events that divert attention away from the real narrative thread. The key to a successful red herring lies in its subtlety; it should feel plausible enough for readers to believe in its significance while still allowing for the eventual revelation of the truth.
To effectively employ red herrings in your writing, consider the following strategies:
For a red herring to work, it must be grounded in the story’s context. Introduce elements that appear relevant but ultimately lead nowhere. For instance, if your plot revolves around a mysterious murder, you might introduce a character with a suspicious background who seems to have a motive. Readers will naturally begin to draw connections, only to be led astray when the truth is unveiled. Ensure that the clues you plant are believable and align with the story’s overarching themes.
Character actions and motivations can serve as a rich source of red herrings. A character who acts suspiciously may seem guilty of wrongdoing, but this behavior could stem from personal issues unrelated to the plot’s central mystery. By crafting complex characters with multifaceted motivations, you can mislead readers while simultaneously deepening their understanding of the character’s psyche. This not only creates tension but also adds layers to your narrative.
The setting of your story can also provide fertile ground for red herrings. Introduce elements within the environment that seem to hold significance. For example, a seemingly innocuous object found at a crime scene may lead readers to believe it’s a crucial clue, when in fact, it serves only to mislead. By weaving setting details into the narrative, you enrich the story while steering readers towards false conclusions.
Red herrings thrive on suspense. To maximize their impact, maintain a steady build-up of tension throughout your narrative. Here are a few techniques to consider:
Subplots can serve as excellent vehicles for red herrings. Introduce secondary storylines that seem important but ultimately distract from the main plot. By weaving these subplots into the narrative, you can create a sense of complexity that keeps readers engaged while leading them astray.
Strategically reveal your red herrings at a measured pace. Avoid overwhelming readers with too many clues at once; instead, allow them to piece together information gradually. This not only heightens suspense but also encourages readers to invest time and energy into solving the mystery themselves.
While red herrings are designed to mislead, it’s crucial to balance them with genuine clues that contribute to the plot’s resolution. Readers should feel that they are on the right track, even if they ultimately arrive at a false conclusion. This balance keeps the narrative engaging and encourages readers to remain invested in the outcome.
The true artistry of red herrings lies in the payoff—the moment when the truth is revealed and the misleading clues are unraveled. To ensure this moment is impactful, consider the following:
The truth should emerge at a pivotal moment in your narrative, ideally during a climactic scene that ties together all plot threads. This revelation should feel like a natural progression from the buildup of clues and character arcs, allowing readers to experience the shock of realization while still feeling satisfied with the narrative’s coherence.
After the truth is unveiled, take a moment to reflect on the red herrings that led readers astray. This can be achieved through character dialogue or narrative exposition, allowing readers to appreciate the intricacies of the plot. Highlighting how the misleading clues shaped their understanding of the characters or setting can lead to deeper reflections on the story’s themes.
In conclusion, incorporating red herrings into your fiction writing can elevate your storytelling by creating intrigue and surprise. By planting plausible clues, leveraging character behavior, and utilizing setting details, you can skillfully mislead readers while enriching their understanding of the narrative. The key is to maintain a delicate balance between misdirection and genuine leads, ultimately delivering a satisfying revelation that leaves readers both surprised and enlightened. Mastering the art of red herrings will not only enhance your plots but also engage readers in a thrilling journey of discovery and reflection.
In the realm of fiction writing, tension is the lifeblood of storytelling. It stirs emotions, propels plots forward, and keeps readers on the edge of their seats. Building tension effectively requires skill, patience, and an understanding of the psychological mechanics that keep readers invested in the narrative. Once the tension reaches its peak, delivering a satisfying "snap" can lead to a powerful emotional payoff. Here’s how to master this essential technique in your writing.
Tension in fiction can be defined as the emotional strain that arises from conflict, uncertainty, or anticipation within a story. It can manifest in various forms, including interpersonal conflict, suspense, or the threat of impending doom. The key to building tension lies in creating stakes that matter to your characters and, by extension, your readers.
Before you can build tension, you need to establish what’s at stake. Whether it’s a character’s safety, a relationship, or a significant goal, readers must understand why they should care about the outcome. For example, if your protagonist is trying to save a loved one, the stakes are clear: failure could mean loss, heartbreak, or even death.
Conflict is the engine of tension. Introduce it early in your narrative to hook readers and set the stage for escalating stakes. This conflict can be external (a looming threat, an antagonist) or internal (a character grappling with their fears or desires). The interplay of these conflicts will create a rich tapestry of tension.
Once the stakes are clear and conflict is introduced, it’s time to build tension gradually. This can be achieved through a variety of techniques, including:
Varying the pace of your writing can significantly impact the tension. Short, clipped sentences can create a sense of urgency, while longer, descriptive passages can prolong the suspense. As the story progresses, alternate between these styles to maintain a dynamic rhythm that keeps readers engaged.
Uncertainty is a powerful tool in building tension. Withhold information from your readers, introduce red herrings, or present characters with difficult choices that have no clear right answer. The more uncertain the outcome, the more tension you create. Keep your readers guessing and invested in the result.
As the story unfolds, amplify the emotional stakes for your characters. Show how the conflict affects them personally and emotionally. Use internal monologues, character backstories, and relationships to deepen the reader’s connection to the characters and their struggles.
After meticulously building tension, the moment of release—the "snap"—is crucial. This is where the tension culminates in a dramatic event, revelation, or twist that provides a satisfying payoff for the reader.
The timing of your snap is essential. Too early, and the tension feels unearned; too late, and your readers may lose interest. Aim for a climax that feels both surprising and inevitable, allowing readers to reflect on the buildup as they process the outcome.
The snap should resonate emotionally with your readers. Whether it’s a shocking twist, a character’s sacrifice, or a hard-won victory, the outcome should feel significant. This emotional payoff is what lingers in readers’ minds long after they’ve finished the story.
After the snap, provide a moment for readers to catch their breath. Allow them to process the consequences of the climax. This moment of reflection can deepen the impact of the story and give readers a chance to appreciate the journey they’ve taken alongside your characters.
In conclusion, building tension and delivering a snap is an art form that can elevate your fiction writing to new heights. By establishing clear stakes, introducing conflict, creating uncertainty, and delivering an emotionally resonant climax, you can craft stories that captivate and thrill your readers. Remember, the journey of tension is just as important as its resolution. With practice and attention to detail, you’ll master the delicate balance between suspense and satisfaction, leaving your audience eagerly awaiting your next tale.
Writers are like archaeologists of the soul, digging through layers of memory, emotion, and experience. They unearth their obsessions—the persistent ghosts that haunt their minds—and transform them into stories that resonate with readers. Natalie Goldberg eloquently captures this process: “Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released.”
In this article, we delve into the significance of writing from obsession, how it fuels creativity, and the delicate balance between catharsis and craft.
The Unforgettable Echoes: Our obsessions linger like half-remembered dreams. They tug at our sleeves, demanding attention. Whether it’s lost love, childhood trauma, or an unfulfilled desire, these echoes shape our narratives. Writers channel these emotional imprints into characters, settings, and plotlines.
The Authentic Voice: Obsessions bypass the censor. They bypass the rational mind and tap into raw, unfiltered emotions. When writers embrace their obsessions, their prose gains authenticity. Readers recognize the truth in those words—they’ve felt it too.
The Fine Line: Writing from obsession can be therapeutic, but it’s a tightrope walk. Too much personal catharsis risks self-indulgence. Too little, and the writing lacks depth. Finding the balance is an art.
Transmutation: Writers alchemize their obsessions. They take pain, longing, and joy, and transmute them into universal themes. The heartbreak becomes a character’s grief; the longing becomes a quest. This alchemy bridges the gap between writer and reader.
Digging Deeper: Writers must excavate their obsessions. Journaling, introspection, and meditation help. What memories cling like cobwebs? What fears lurk in the shadows? These are the seeds of powerful stories.
Symbolism and Metaphor: Obsessions find expression through symbols. A recurring image—a broken mirror, a locked door—becomes a motif. Metaphors weave the haunting threads into the fabric of the narrative.
in conclusion, Natalie Goldberg’s wisdom reminds us that writing isn’t just about plot twists and clever dialogue. It’s about unearthing our obsessions, those buried treasures waiting to be released. So, fellow writers, embrace your ghosts. Let them whisper their secrets. Write from the marrow of your bones, and your fiction will resonate far beyond the page.
Remember: “Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released.”
What haunts you? Share your thoughts in the comments below.
