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Novels are Too Big to Write

novels

Novels are Too Big to Write

Many writers are daunted by the thought of tackling a novel. Takes too much time, I don’t know how to do it, I don’t have the creativity for a whole novel, etc. etc.

What do you like to read? If you live exclusively on a diet of short stories, you can skip this post. But if you also read novels, why aren’t you writing what you like to read? Because, it takes too much time, I don’t know how, yada, yada, yada.

But here’s a secret that famous authors such as Alice Munro and Carol Shields know.

Long pieces of writing are made up of short pieces somehow sewn together. [1]  

I know Alice Munro is known mainly for short stories but her novels, e.g. Lives of Girls and Women, are a series of long short stories woven together.

Novels are little stories sewn together

The problem is that, as a reader, good novels don’t feel like just a series of short stories hung together. They flow, they have a plot which runs the course of the novel, they feel as if they have sprung out of the head of the author as one perfect piece.

They have not. Okay, maybe there is a Mozart equivalent who can go directly from head to finished product, but for everyone else, it’s a more piecemeal activity.

I’m going to break down an example in quite a mechanical way just to show you how it’s done.

An example—Martha, the ruthless

Martha, a ruthless, self-absorbed woman, walks over everyone at work and at home. The novel will end with Martha getting her comeuppance. What are the little scenes you need to write?

Establish Martha character

Near the beginning, you need a scene where Martha shows her character. So, what event or situation would demonstrate this? Humiliating a young colleague in front of co-workers? If important, you also need a scene of Martha being destructive in her personal life.

What happens to this character?

  • She identifies her goal (getting her boss’ job?). Show how she comes to that decision.
  • She trades on her boss’ weaknesses. She sets him up to look indecisive or incompetent to his boss. Probably need a series of scenes on how she engineers this. As the big boss probably needs more than one incident to decide that Martha’s boss has to go, she sets these up, too. Also several scenes.
  • Is it smooth sailing for Martha or does she run into shoals? Shoals are always more interesting. Who or what might impede her? Does her boss catch on? Need a scene where he realizes this. Does he need to make sure he’s right? Another scene where he tests his hypothesis.

How does she get her comeuppance?

How does her downfall come about? Who is doing it and why? Scene needed. What is the plot to bring her down? A series of scenes. How does the comeuppance roll out? A big climactic scene.

As I said, this description is more mechanical than the writing process would actually go. I did this only to show how a story can be broken down into a series of scenes, all of which are manageable length. Writing them puts you on the road to a novel. There is, however, how you sew the scenes together into a novel. Next post.

[1] Shields, Carol, Startle and Illuminate: Carol Shields on Writing Random House, Canada, 2006 p.24

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Write What You Want to Read

Write What You Want to Read

I know we all want to write works with Big Thoughts and Deep Conclusions. Because when we read these types of novel, they inspire us with what is possible.

But news—I think novels whose writer started out by thinking, ‘Right, this is going to be Big and Deep and Meaningful,’ often (I would say ‘always’ but I don’t want to exaggerate), end up with works which are also pedantic, boring, stilted, and forced. How come?

Well, pedantic because the writer (let’s call him Tom to save me typing and getting caught in the his/her thing)—so, Tom—because he has already decided the message he wants to convey, can easily slip into Telling rather than Showing, exposition, and even lecturing. While telling and exposition can have their place in a novel, their overuse will bore the reader.

In addition, since Tom has decided what he wants you to think, an efficient—I’m not saying effective—way to do it is have his characters spout his philosophy. Which often leads to stilted set pieces which don’t come out of the character’s personality and growth, but straight from Tom himself. So, we have an airhead character suddenly quoting Spinoza accompanied by a thoughtful reflection on his application to her life.

Same with plot. Because of Tom’s plan, he must often twist the plot line to meet his objectives. The hero purposely goes to a rough part of town so that he can be beaten up so that he can wax philosophical on the brutality of humankind.

Write what turns your crank

What do you typically read? Mystery, romance, scifi, westerns? Each genre has its own rules—I’ve talked about the rules of mystery in a previous post—and if you already read that genre, you have an instinctive understanding of it. You have a leg up when you start to write as you already know something of the typical settings, characters, plots, and actions.

If you are trying to decide what to write, at least start out there. I have a mystery novel hidden in a sock drawer which will never see the light of day but from which I nevertheless learned a huge amount about writing and myself as a writer.

Shouldn’t I be aiming for higher? Or lower?

 I know there is still a niggle. Shouldn’t I be trying for Greater Things? Or alternately, shouldn’t I be aiming for a more commercial market?

Here’s the thing—you can start out with a project based on what you like to read and as you progress, the magic that is writing will help shape your views. For example, writing the mystery novel made me realize that I was impatient with the need, inherent in mysteries, for the characters to be assigned roles such as victim, murderer, suspect, detective, and sidekick. I wanted to be able to play more with their growth or decay.

Similarly, if you read only Booker and other literary prize winners, start trying to emulate what you admire. You may end up being the next Jane Austen or you may find that the novel is turning into a comedy.

What matters is not where you start but where you end. And the truth that you tell along the way. I leave the last words to Carol Shields.

 Straining for seriousness almost invariably looks bogus while simple adherence to the truth does not.” [1] 

[1] Shields, Carol, Startle and Illuminate: Carol Shields on Writing Random House, Canada, 2006 p. 19

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There’s a Book in Everyone. Isn’t There?

book

There’s a Book in Everyone. Isn’t There?

Is there a book in you?

Absolutely. I think that everybody’s life has the thrilling components of a book. Think of the timeworn stories you drag up when you’re with family and old friends. Aren’t they funny, poignant, inspiring, exciting, nostalgic, etc.? Otherwise, why do you tell them? The possibility that you are a repetitive bore I will ignore since I know none of you are.

And, in the quiet moments of life, on a long car journey or just before you fall asleep, don’t reflections on life lived or should be lived come to you? Wishes, aspirations, wisdom, regrets and longings—all the stuff of novel or memoir.

So why does Carol Shields believe that it is a myth that there’s novel in everyone[1]?

Because she knows about people like Amanda.

Amanda

This is an honest-to-god conversation I had with a would-be author (given artistic license, of course).

“So, you’re interested in writing?” I asked. “Fiction or non-fiction?”

Amanda passed a hand through the recently revamped blackness of her hair. “Oh, either one.”

“Oh, well…articles or a long piece?”

She shrugged. “Novel, articles, whatever.”

“What are you working on now?”

Her eyebrows went up high. “I’ve got a full-time job. I couldn’t do anything now.”

Of course. “Have you ever taken a writing course?”

“Do you think I should?”

I made a deprecating little noise. “Writing takes a lot of craft.”

“Oh, really? Well, maybe I’ll do that.” She smiled. “So, should I get an agent first or go directly to publishers?”

“Ah…I think you need to write something first.”

She waved that away. “Of course. That’s not a problem.” She tapped the side of her head in a significant way. “It’s all up here.”

Great. When wordless novels are the new wave, she’ll be ahead of the curve.

She continued. “Should I publish through a regular publisher or on-line?”

“Actually, I think you need to write it first.”

“Can you deduct research trips?”

“I suppose, although the tax department needs proof that you’ve written—”

“What about car expenses? Mileage, gas, repairs, car washes?”

“Well, writers aren’t in cars a whole lot. They’re usually at a computer.”

“But you must have to meet with your agent and publisher—”

“It’s mostly done on-line—

“On-line…” she seemed disappointed but took it well.

I make one last effort. “Amanda, I think you can deal with all of this once you’ve written something.”

She waved it and me away. “But I need to be prepared. Because it’s all up here.”

Do you know how to bring it out?

So that’s why Carol Shields calls the book-in-everyone thing a myth. We all have the stories but sadly, that’s not enough. As it turns out, the skill of writing things down in an interesting way is completely different from those of a good raconteur.

You need the ideas and stories, yes, but you also need to master the craft of writing enough (ADV for this blog) to shape them into compelling reading. You also need the perseverance to stick with a lengthy and sometimes frustrating process. And, unlike our friend Amanda, you need the courage to begin.

If you need a bit of encouragement or nudging, you might want to read my posts, Do I Start the Story at the Beginning? Or How to Start an Autobiography or Memoir. To address the stick-with-it-ness that you will need, read The Muse and the Piano Tuner.

And for daring and audacity, don’t take my word for it but Winston Churchill’s

Courage is the first of human qualities, because it is the quality which guarantees all the others.

[1] Shields, Carol, Startle and Illuminate: Carol Shields on Writing Random House, Canada, 2006

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Self-Censoring

self-censorship

Self-Censoring

Self-censoring is pernicious, mostly because the people who do it most are often the ones who least realize it.

What does self-censoring look like?

I was in a writing group with a woman writing about a personally difficult topic—meeting a long-lost relative. She wrote effectively about her fears and hopes for the encounter. And about her reactions to it. But nothing about the meeting itself. It was as if she closed the door to her readers on what was the emotional core of the story.

The problem is that this writer was surprised (and threatened and offended) when it was pointed out that she had written around the story rather than about it.

I get it, I do. And have some sympathy for the woman who seemed to have felt that depicting the meeting was a bridge too far. But you can see how her unconscious self-censoring affected the quality of her story-telling.

Holding back affects the quality of writing

I’ve written before of the tough necessity to appear naked on the page. Being embarrassingly, shamefully, and completely honest is the only way I know to achieve the emotional truth which readers recognize and respond to. Readers know if you are giving the straight goods even if you don’t. Being readers not writers, they don’t think, “She’s not emotionally honest.” More likely, they’ll say “I just couldn’t get into it.” And not read what you have to say.

Are you repressing your writing?

I think we all do a bit of self-censoring. To capture a real person on paper, we might change the hair color or leave out the most obvious tic or quirk.

But the real self-censorship comes which you find yourself thinking, I can’t say that! and write away from that spot. The fear of exposing yourself or hurting others can happen at any time but is very common in memoirs. Self-censorship is death to the creative process. Without knowing it, you avoid some topics and choose others. You write charming travel logs rather than the abuse at the time of the travel.

What if I’m going for charming?

Nothing wrong with then but, while they might provide light entertainment, they rarely stir a reader’s soul.

But more importantly, here’s the thing. In a way I don’t understand, my finished product is almost never as deep, affecting, true—whatever words you want to use—as originally hoped for. Many writers have that experience. The piece may be good, even very good, but there is almost always some indefinable way in which you had yearned for more.

So, if you start out aiming for shallow or good enough, you’ll end up with even less. And your readers will know it.

What can I do?

I wish I could be prescriptive or even descriptive, but mostly this consists of being able to be—hidden under covers or in the middle of a forest—honest about your work. Ask yourself questions like: are there moments where I have ducked the real issue? Or have I glossed over a messy bit because it seems too hard or painful to write?

If your aim is to be a better writer, allow yourself to fully immerse in the scene in question—allowing uncomfortable feelings to surface, staying with them rather than pushing away.

I’m not saying it’s easy but it’s the only route I know which ups the possibility that you are writing as truthfully as you can.

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Avoiding Predictability

Predictability

Avoiding Predictability

In the last post, I said that I hated Downton Abbey because of its predictability. I want to spend this post on how to keep your stories fresh.

But isn’t all fiction about predictability?

So here is where it gets complicated. Kurt Vonnegut, author of many iconoclastic, often sci-fi, novels like Cat’s Cradle and Slaughter House Five, maintained there were only six basic plots. Boy Meets Girl, Cinderella, etc. So readers, however unconsciously, are looking for your novel to fall into one of these formats.

If you buy this idea, and perhaps surprisingly, I tend to, then you’ve gotta think that it’s one for predictability and zero for freshness.

However, I don’t think that’s true. As Vonnegut also points out in A Man Without a Country, it is the unique perspective you bring to the writing which makes the work exceptional and worth reading.

So my writing should be unpredictable

Not that either.

Not if it means that your calm, cool and collected protagonist suddenly grabs a kitchen knife and stabs her calm, cool and collected husband. Because one of the annoying things about readers is that they also have unconscious rules for your characters. And one of them certainly is that what they do has to make sense in the context of the personalities you have already established for them.

Otherwise, the reader will find the action puzzling, erratic, and even unbelievable. And if so, you kick them out of the continuous dream you’re trying to create.

Creating surprising/fresh stories

Now, I’m not trying to suggest that your characters can’t or shouldn’t do surprising things. Not at all. But they can’t come out of the blue. One of the most convincing ways to do that, I find, is to imbed clues in your narrative which might not be noticeable to the reader. Then when the character does something startling, the reader should be able to remember those non-obvious moments so that you can retain the element of surprise while still making it consistent with the traits established thus far.

I know that’s a bit wordy but here’s an example.

The spouse of an abusive husband seems to just take it and even, in that sickening but common tendency, does all she can to please him. A friend comes over when she is doing the dishes. The friend urges her to leave him but she maintains she loves him. Right about then, she drops a plate which breaks. You might have the wife be terrified of her husband’s reaction to mask this clue.

Later, the wife notices that her husband’s suit jacket is split at the back. She widens it. He makes an important presentation without realizing the problem. He returns, boasting of how well it went. That evening, she quietly repairs the jacket and rehangs it.

So, if she eventually stabs her husband, while it might be surprising, it doesn’t come out of the blue nor would it seem unbelievable.

A unique perspective which keeps your writing fresh doesn’t mean erratic.

A final note

The problem with writing is that there are almost always exceptions to prove the rule. While generally, readers expect continuity in the story, techniques such as stream of consciousness have worked, James Joyce’s Ulysses being an oft-cited example. The movie Moulin Rouge starring Nicole Kidman is another example where a coherent story is lacking and it totally works. That’s writing for you.