Good news everyone

My science fiction book Brendan’s Way — the one I recently had an agent asking for pages from — made it to the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest.

Okay, so that puts it in the top 500 science fiction books submitted. And the first round is based solely on the pitch for the novel; I don’t think they even look at anything else at this point. It’s not as though I’ve really won anything yet.

But still, it’s good news. We gotta take what we can get it this biz. So hooray, and go Brendan!

Swimming with the Query Shark

I’ve been reading the archives–the incredibly extensive archives–of the Query Shark, a literary agent who selflessly tears apart people’s query letters and posts them on her blog. It’s a lot nicer and more useful than I’m making it sound, I think.

So I came across this one, where she says:

One of the very first things to remember about any query is you’ve got to make sure your protagonist sounds like someone I’ll want to spend some time with. Either cause I like them, am rooting for them, am fascinated by them, or can’t wait to see if they get eaten by wolves.  What they can’t be is a two dimensional cartoon.

This did two things for me. First, it pointed out what I’m supposed to be doing with my queries in a way that I’ve never really figured out before. Make the reader want to spend time with the character. Excellent.

And second, it immediately pointed out to me what I could do to improve my own query.

Not that it’s a bad query, I’ll add: I got an e-mail from an agent, asking for pages, just last Friday. So it’s not a lost cause or anything.

But it could have been better, and now it is. All I have to do is read through the other two hundred queries posted by the Query Shark, and then I can send in my own.

The Oxford comma

I find it hard to disagree with this article. The strongest point is here:

If we were to universally accept the Oxford comma, there would be no instances where you would suddenly have to omit the Oxford comma for clarity.

The Oxford comma is more consistent and more clear. That just makes the tech writer in me ache to use it. A lot of the article is argument from authority, but this point actually gets to the meat of it.

I didn’t know that the Oxford comma is an American standard, though. Now if only we could get Americans to put their dates in a logical order, we’d be getting somewhere…

Incidentally, if we do go to war for the Oxford comma, I intend to be a profiteer.

On writing what you know

Dismiss that woefully misguided maxim ‘Write What You Know.’ Instead, and I emphatically believe this, write what you don’t know. Write about what confuses, enrages, haunts and confounds you. The writer who has the answers is penning propaganda; the writer on a quest for them is the one I’d rather read.

Apparently this is from a speech by playwright Doug Wright, though I can’t find a source. Whether he said it or not, he’s absolutely correct.

From a good thread on r/writing about dodgy advice for writers.

(I also weighed in with my least favourite, but almost ubiquitous, writing advice too.)

How much of being a great writer is natural talent?

A writer on Reddit asked the following question:

How much of being a great writer is natural talent?

I just finished reading Stephen King’s “On Writing” and I’m having second thoughts on pursuing anything related to writing. Although the book was inspiring, I found it to be somewhat depressing, especially King’s thoughts on improving as a writer. He mentions the possibility of becoming a better writer, but rejects the notion that anyone can become a good writer, even with lots of practice.

What do you guys think about this? Does it really come down to natural talent?

I’ll answer the question with a “no”, but I’ll add the caveat that I think that there’s a problem with the word “talent”, as well as with the word “great”.

What is a great writer? Where’s the bar? It’s kind of a meaningless distinction. If by “great” we mean a huge seller like King or Rowling, eternal popular success like Tolkien, or eternal literary respect like Shakespeare, it’s probably not even worth having the conversation; these writers’ careers are all combinations of ability and luck that don’t really translate into success for the rest of us.

But if by “great” we mean successful, then it’s really all about goals, isn’t it? It might be worth spending more time considering what our goals are–and revisiting the question from time to time as well, because your goals might change over time–than it is considering what “great” might mean.

As for “talent”, I hate to bring up the old cliche, but it’s funny how the more you practice, the more talented you get.

Talent is such an indistinct concept, and so many things feed into it: the stuff you read, the stuff you write, the things that happen to you in your life, the things you do in your life, the people around you, the way you think about things… all of these affect your writing. Are they, taken as a whole, “talent”? What do we mean by “talent”, and if it exists, is it more important than all those other things?

It’s probably a lot more useful to take the time we would spend discussing and thinking about the things we lack as writers, and use it to read, or write, or do anything that will actually help us improve as writers.

We don’t want to find excuses for why we can’t write well enough; let’s use our energy to write better instead.

On Orwell’s “Writing Tips”

A user on Reddit’s r/writing board posted a link to George Orwell’s “Politics and the English Language” with the headline “Awesome writing tips by George Orwell”.

I would suggest that the value in Orwell’s essay is not the list of “tips” or rules, but in understanding his point. The important things to learn from this essay, to me, are things like this:

This mixture of vagueness and sheer incompetence is the most marked characteristic of modern English prose, and especially of any kind of political writing. As soon as certain topics are raised, the concrete melts into the abstract and no one seems able to think of turns of speech that are not hackneyed: prose consists less and less of words chosen for the sake of their meaning, and more and more of phrases tacked together like the sections of a prefabricated henhouse.

It’s important to start to recognize when one’s writing begins to slip into this kind of lazy mode, where one starts to use phrases not because they are right, but because they are easy.

I absolutely believe Orwell is correct in thinking that our language affects our thoughts, and our thoughts affect our language. We need to be on guard, especially, when we talk about the things that we believe in most strongly. We get into the warm bath of friendly ideas and it’s easy to just say the things that confirm them; they keep us from thinking, from challenging our assumptions, from doing the hard mental work that has to be done sometimes.

Poor writing is often a product of poor thinking. That’s what Orwell is really talking about in this essay. The list of “tips” are pointless if we do not acknowledge and seek to address this root problem.

Soul Fuel and Soul Refuelling

Rose Bianchini has an excellent post on Soul Fuel, “the work we do that keeps us going, that uses our creative selves and makes us feel good.”

This is an important thing for artists — we don’t want to get into the mode where we’re beating our heads against the wall, trying to get the goddamned art to come out. I like the idea of doing things that fuel, rather than empty, our artistic souls.

One thing Rose doesn’t mention is the possibility of pulling off the road and refuelling sometimes. Seeing live music or theatre, walking around galleries or museums, reading outside one’s comfort zone, going to conferences or other events where we can talk to other artists about art and craft and all that stuff.

It’s important to keep the tank full, one way or another.

New work posted: At the Barricade

My short story “At the Barricade“, recently published in the Windsor Review, is now available in the Sample Work page.

The Vanishing Setting

I came across this blog post recently and I agree with the sentiment: less skilled writers often don’t let the setting come through in their story.

Because we can’t see the setting, we also can’t visualize the characters’ interaction with the setting. How are they moving within this space? Are they both sitting down? Is Annie sitting while Marjolaine stands? Or is Annie scooping papers from the printer as she rushes to leave on assignment? Not only does this scene give the reader nothing but white walls, it also turns the characters into talking heads.

The author of the post does a good job of showing the difference between a scene that is a talking-heads conversation with no setting at all, and a fully-fleshed-out scene where actual characters are conversing. I agree with her completely on her points.

But the problem that I find with a lot of writers isn’t that they don’t provide any setting, but that the setting is remarked upon, then forgotten. Writers seem to love to paint their detailed picture of the setting, the colours, the weather, and then, the first paragraph of the chapter or scene complete, description is conveniently shelved.

If you want to put characters in a setting and have them move around there, that’s the way to do it. If you want them to actually inhabit their world, then you need to make it part of every scene, and have them act like it’s there.

 

In the mail today…

Oh, what’s this?

Looks like the latest literary mail… let’s see who’s in it this month…

Hmm… someone in there looks familiar…

Hey, I know that guy!

Woo hoo! Short story published in the Windsor Review!