After a week spent living, breathing, eating and sleeping my story, I’ve finally completed a draft. I feel pretty happy right now, but that’s because I haven’t gotten any comments back on it yet. I sent it off to my three editors extraordinaire about an hour and a half ago, and am now waiting on pins and needles for them to get back to me.

This is the first serious prose I’ve ever really written, so I am a bit anxious. I have always known—not to be immodest—that I have the inclination and some small talent for writing. Now is when I find out if I can back up that big talk, if I can tread water with the rest of them. Wish me luck!

PS – No, I’m not going to post the draft. I did, to some extent, write about the draft now just to be mean to you non-editor people. Neener.

will be spent in workshops. That is, we’ll be spending that time reading and discussing our fellow students’ stories. Kind of a scary—but exhilarating—prospect. All other things being equal, I expect that fully half of the student stories we read will stink; and which, moreover, will be irretrievably stinky. And yes, I concede that mine could be one of them. Anyway, for the class, every time we read a story, we’re to compose a letter to the author describing our impressions of the story, and containing our suggestions for improvements—which, the instructor admonished us, are to be specific and helpful, and which, moreover, will have to be copied to the instructor, who will use them to help decide the author’s grade (if they’re taking the class for one). One student suggested that we do it like a sandwich; that is, begin and end with some praise for the story, and leave the bad stuff for the middle. The instructor quite liked that idea, and so that’s how we’re doing it.

But here’s my problem. When you’ve got a terrible story—and we’ve got one this week—how do you find something good to sandwich the bad? I’ve spent all weekend agonizing about this, and am no closer to a solution. When I talked to a friend about my predicament this past weekend, he said I should say something like “You have a very unique voice,” and leave it at that. Ha! He also suggested that I should, in my letter, draw a piece of bread at the top, put in my criticisms, and then draw another piece of bread at the bottom. An amusing idea, to be sure, but not one, alas, that will be any good to me.

Sigh. The things I have to deal with.

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my writing class, but this one is my favorite: Steven Koch’s The Modern Library Writer’s Workshop. It takes a very back-to-basics approach that seems both very intuitive and completely revelatory. I’m finding reading it to be a very inspirational experience. And here’s my first revelation:

“But”—you may say—”I don’t even know my story yet.” My answer is: “Of course you don’t know your story yet.” You are the very first person to tell this story ever, anywhere in the whole world, and you cannot know a story until it has been told. First you tell it; then you know it. It is not the other way around. That may sound illogical, but to the narrating mind, it is logic itself. Stories make themselves known, they reveal themselves—even to their tellers—only by being told. You may ask how on earth you can tell a story before you know it. You do that by letting the emerging story tell itself through you. As you tell it, you let the story give you your cues about where it is going to go next. At first, you must feel your way, letting it be your guide. You may eventually be able to plan the whole scope of the work down to its smallest details, as J.K. Rowling is staid to have done with all her Harry Potter books. But in the very first phrase of its creation, any story must be teased out from the shadows of your imagination and unconscious.

<Ted “Theodore” Logan>Whooaaa</Ted “Theodore” Logan>. I didn’t know that. I didn’t know you could start with just a glimmer of an idea. I thought you had to have the whole thing outlined out before you even started. You mean I can just…start writing? Excellent.

And that’s exactly what I ended up doing. The first week of class, the instructor assigned us the opening scenes of our stories. I was, to say the least, alarmed. I thought I’d get the chance to ease into it, not be required to jump into the freezing ocean all at once. I had no ideas, no stories I wanted to tell, and I started to panic a little. So I decided to get my mind off it, because, even untrained as I am, I know that panic would bring me no closer to a solution.

I was reading Charlie Huston’s Already Dead at the time, and so I picked it up; I had, in fact, just begun it. Now, Huston, along with Lee Child, is just the sort of writer I’d like to emulate. Clean, immersive writing, great dialogue, addictive plots. And maybe I was unconsciously keeping that in mind when I read that night, because I read a scene near the beginning of that book where the main character is sleeping and gets woken up by a phone call. And boom, I had my idea.

And it was enough to get me through the opening scenes. I had a couple of vague ideas about what would happen after the first two scenes—but not, you understand, the whole story—and I started writing. But then I hit a wall. I wrote myself into a sort of corner. If I went with my original vague idea, the beginning of the story wouldn’t work anymore. It wouldn’t make sense. I had to start seriously thinking about the story, the plot, the structure (the meanings and differences of which terms, by the way, I had not known until I read further in the Koch book):

The way—the only way—to “find” your story is to tell it. Nobody in the whole world has ever before told the story you are about to tell. You yourself have never told it to anyone, not even to yourself. You may have lots of intuitions about what the story is going to be, and you may even have a sort of summary overview of it. These are good and useful things to have; they are fine places to start. They are not enough. Until you actually tell the story, the whole story, it will be nothing but smoke. Moreover, you probably will not tell the story exactly right the first time you try. You’ll make wrong turns, use the wrong key, or use the right key in the wrong door. After all, you have nobody to guide you. If you are like most people, you will have to tell this story more than once—maybe even several times—before you really get it down.

Okay. So I kept writing, tweaking here and there—at that stage I was pretty happy with what I’d actually written; it was just the backstory I had to figure out, to assign motivation to one of the characters—and thinking hard. Then I found it, the thing that would fix my problem, and I had another crutch. Something to get me through the next couple of scenes and into my other vague idea. For a little while, I had clear sailing.

And somewhere in the middle of that writing, the stuff that I had sort of a plan for, everything clicked. I saw the shape of the whole thing, maybe the major turning points, and—this is very important—the final scene. And now I know where I’m going, and, pretty much, how I’m going to get there. The details are still a little sketchy, but that’s okay. The sort of exploratory writing I’ve been doing so far, letting the story do the work, has been working pretty well up till now. May as well stick with it.

Charlie Huston’s Caught Stealing – 5 stars.

It exceeded all my expectations (which were pretty high after I finished Already Dead); just fabulous.

Next up: Six Bad Things.

have very different tastes in books. Put simply, she reads real books and I don’t. As I’ve said, I stick mostly to genre fiction, namely sci-fi and fantasy. But she knows that when I insist she read a book, she’ll usually love it as much as I do. So, late last year, after I had gotten her well and truly hooked on Lee Child’s fabulous Jack Reacher novels, and she’d finished all of them that are currently in print, she said to me, “What are you going to find for me to read next?” After backing up to a safe distance, I said, “I’m working on it?”

So I racked my brain, and I came up with a couple of good possibilities, but I hit the jackpot around Christmas. For stocking stuffers, I got my sister three books with my solid-gold guarantee. One of them, the only one which I hadn’t actually read, was Charlie Huston’s Caught Stealing. I found it through one of those “best of 2005″ lists on Amazon*, and after having read the first few pages in an excerpt, I was totally sucked in.

So I got it for her. And when I got back to California at the beginning of the new year, I ordered all of Huston’s books for myself. Caught Stealing is his first novel (of three) and so far I’ve only received his second and third books. Now, the second book, Six Bad Things, is a sequel to Caught Stealing, and so I couldn’t very well read that without reading the first one. But the third book, Already Dead, was fair game, and is the book I finished about an hour ago.

I loved it (5 stars). It was a great book, one of those grab-you-by-the-throat ones that doesn’t let you go until you’ve closed the book on the last page. Six Bad Things was described by one reviewer as a “cold, slit-eyed mother of a book,” and the description is apt for this one too; it’s brutal, bleak, and beautiful. Now I can’t wait until Caught Stealing arrives.

* I actually found Six Bad Things on that best-of list; Caught Stealing was published in 2004. But the description for the former said that it “fulfilled the promise of his first novel,” so I got intrigued and went looking for the first novel, and the rest is history.

read my blog will know that I recently signed up for a creative writing class, and that the first meeting was last Tuesday. That night, the instructor asked us to write the opening scenes of the short story we’ll be working on throughout the class. As promised, I’m going to be blogging my progress on the story, and this is the first post. I’ve completed a draft of the first couple of scenes, and it is posted below. Please note that it is still raw and has only undergone the barest minimum of revision, so read accordingly. Also note that this is the last time I’ll be posting an extensive sample of the actual story until it’s finished; giving away the game in the middle sort of ruins the drama of the final unveiling, don’t you think? Enough yakking already. Here it is (click the “more” link):

(more…)

something up on the criteria page. I’d been composing a post about the importance of dialogue for a couple of months now, and I finally finished tonight.

I had to say that three times, for emphasis. I feel smooth dialogue is extremely important in a good book. Unfortunately, so very few authors really do it well. This is, no doubt, because dialogue is one of the most difficult things to get right when writing prose. Well, the best way to illustrate is by example, so without further ado:

Bad Dialogue (From Robin Cook’s Acceptable Risk)

“Relax, cousin,” Stanton said after the hostess had departed. He reached across the table and poured Kim a glass of white wine. “As usual you’re wound up like a banjo wire.”

“Telling me to relax only makes me more nervous,” Kim said. She took a drink of the wine.

“You are a strange one,” Stanton said playfully. “I can never understand why you’re so damn self-conscious, especially sitting here with family in a room full of people you’ll never see again. Let your hair down.”

“I have no control over what my hair chooses to do,” Kim joked. “As for your inability to understand my unease, it’s entirely understandable. You’re so totally self-assured that it’s impossible for you to imagine what it’s like not to be so.”

“Why not give me a chance to understand?” Stanton said. “I challenge you to explain why you are feeling uncomfortable right at this moment. My God, woman, your hand is shaking.”

Kim put down her glass and put her hands in her lap. “I’m nervous mainly because I feel thrown together,” she said. “After your call this evening, I barely had time to take a shower, much less find something to wear. And, if you must know, my bangs are driving me crazy.” Kim blindly tried to adjust the hair over her forehead.

“I think your dress is smashing,” Candice said.

“No doubt about it,” Stanton said. “Kimberly, you look gorgeous.”

Kim laughed. “I’m smart enough to know that provoked compliments are invariably false.”

“Balderdash,” Stanton said. “The irony of this discussion is that you are a sexy, beautiful woman even though you always act as if you haven’t a clue, which, I suppose, is somewhat endearing. How old are you now, twenty-six?”

“Twenty-seven,” Kim said. She tried more of her wine.

“Twenty-seven and improving with each year,” Stanton said. He smiled impishly. “You’ve got cheekbones other women would die for, skin like a baby’s bottom, and a ballerina’s figure, not to mention those emerald eyes that could mesmerize a Greek statue.”

I could go on, but it just gets worse from here. This dialogue sucks. It’s awful. Terrible. Hideous! There are so many things wrong with this passage that I scarcely know where to start. But I shall, heroically, try:

• Never say “joked”. If you have to tell your reader that your character is joking, you’ve missed the point.
• “As for your inability to understand my unease…” Who talks like that?
• “Balderdash”? Who talks like that?
• Men do not smile impishly. They do not, moreover, notice cheekbones (unless they are in the business of scouting models), let alone compliment women on them. They do not say “baby’s bottom”. They do not say “emerald” when they could say “green”. And why is the statue Greek? How does one mesmerize a statue? Are Greek statues more difficult to mesmerize than, say, Roman statues?

This is why I will never read a Robin Cook book if I can help it. All his books are like this. And he’d been writing for, what? Twenty years by this point? Yeesh.

Mediocre Dialogue (From Fiona McIntosh’s Myrren’s Gift)

“But, Wyl, a word of caution. It would not do to whip the backside of the young Prince. You may find it politic to play second fiddle to a king-in-waiting.”

Wyl’s gaze rested firmly on Gueryn. “I understand.”

“Good. Your sensibility in this will protect you.”

“Do I need protection?” Wyl asked, surprised.

Gueryn wished he could take back the warning. It was ill-timed but he was always honest with his charge. “I don’t know yet. You are being brought to Pearlis to learn your craft and follow in your father’s proud footsteps. You must consider the city your home now. You understand this? Argorn must rest in your mind as a country property you may return to from time to time. Home is Stoneheart now.” He watched the sorrow at those last words take a firm hold on the boy. It was said now. Had to be aired, best out in the open and accepted. “The other reason the King is keen to have you in the capital is, I suspect, because he is concerned at his son’s wayward manner.”

“Oh?”

“Celimus needs someone to temper his ways. The King has been told you possess a similar countenance to your father and I gather this pleases him greatly. He has hopes that you and his son will become as close friends as he and Fergys were.” Gueryn waited for Wyl to comment but the boy said nothing. “Anyway, friendship can never be forced, so let’s just keep an open mind and see how it all pans out. I shall be with you the whole time.”

Wyl bit his lip and nodded. “Let’s not tarry then, Gueryn.”

This is certainly not the worst dialogue I’ve ever read, but it’s really not very good.

• First, it’s too flowery and stilted. Just plain awkward: “You may find it politic to play second fiddle to a king-in-waiting.” Politic? Second fiddle? That just doesn’t seem like something a soldier would say, let alone to a boy.
• Too much exposition in the dialogue: “The other reason the King is keen to have you in the capital is, I suspect, because he is concerned at his son’s wayward manner.”
• Unnatural speech patterns: “Anyway, friendship can never be forced, so let’s just keep an open mind and see how it all pans out. I shall be with you the whole time.” “Let’s just keep an open mind” and “see how it all pans out” are modern expressions, and just don’t fit well with “I shall be with you the whole time.”

Good Dialogue (From George R.R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones)

“There is no shame in being a steward,” Sam said.

“Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life washing an old man’s smallclothes?”

“The old man is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Sam reminded him. “You’ll be with him day and night. Yes, you’ll pour his wine and see that his bed linen is fresh, but you’ll also take his letters, attend him at meetings, squire for him in battle. You’ll be as close to him as his shadow. You’ll know everything, be a part of everything…and the Lord Steward said Mormont asked for you himself!

“When I was little, my father used to insist that I attend him in the audience chamber whenever he held court. When he rode to Highgarden to bend his knee to Lord Tyrell, he made me come. Later, though, he started to take Dickon and leave me at home, and he no longer cared whether I sat through his audiences, so long as Dickon was there. He wanted his heir at his side, don’t you see? To watch and listen and learn from all he did. I’ll wager that’s why Lord Mormont requested you, Jon. What else could it be? He wants to groom you for command!”

Jon was taken aback. It was true, Lord Eddard had often made Robb part of his councils back at Winterfell. Could Sam be right? Even a bastard could rise high in the Night’s Watch, they said. “I never asked for this,” he said stubbornly.

“None of us are here for asking,” Sam reminded him.

And suddenly Jon Snow was ashamed.

Dialogue in period pieces and medieval fantasies is very difficult to get right. Often it ends up being too flowery and formal, bordering on incomprehensible (see above). But Martin hits just the right balance of the formal speech patterns of medieval times and realistic dialogue.

Fabulous Dialogue 01 (From Lee Child’s The Enemy)

“Reacher here,” I said.

There was a long pause.

“I thought you were in Panama,” he said.

“I got orders,” I said.

“From Panama to Fort Bird? Why?”

“Not my place to ask.”

“When was this?”

“Two days ago.”

“That’s a kick in the teeth,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Panama was probably more exciting.”

“It was OK,” I said.

“And they got you working duty officer on New Year’s Eve already?”

“I volunteered,” I said. “I’m trying to make people like me.”

“That’s a hopeless task,” he said.

“A sergeant just brought me coffee.”

He paused. “Someone just call you about a dead soldier in a motel?”

“Eight minutes ago,” I said. “I shuffled it off to headquarters.”

“And they shuffled it off to someone else and I just got pulled out of a party to hear all about it.”

“Why?”

“Because the dead soldier in question is a two-star general.”

This is pretty close to perfect. It’s spare and effective, natural and smart; it advances the plot without sounding too much like exposition, and doesn’t add in unnecessary detail (often the death of many a written verbal exchange).

Fabulous Dialogue 02 (From Jennifer Crusie’s Faking It):

Then, since it was Friday, he dutifully punched in his sister’s number, and his niece answered on the second ring. “Hey, Dill, it’s me,” Davy said.

“Excellent,” Dillie said. “I need some advice from a guy.”

“Right,” Davy said. “I reserve the right to bail from this conversation at any time.”

“Don’t be wimpy,” Dillie said. “Jamie Barclay quit the softball team. She says boys don’t like girls who compete with them. Mom says that’s garbage. But she would say that. I mean, you know Mom. But Jamie’s mom says it’s true. And she’s been married to a lot of guys. So I need to know. Is it true? And don’t give me any of that after-school-special stuff.”

“Well, yes and no,” Davy said, following with some difficulty. “Some guys don’t. That’s not the point. You like softball, right?”

“Yes,” Dillie said. “But–”

“Well, what kind of loser guy would make you give up something you liked so he could feel better?”

“Yeah, I know,” Dillie said. “That sounds good, but–”

“Got your eye on a seventh-grader, too?”

“No,” Dillie said. “He’s in my grade. His name’s Jordan.”

“And he doesn’t want you to play?”

“I didn’t ask. He doesn’t know I like him. He doesn’t know I exist.”

“Okay, I’ve got it.” Davy thought for a moment. “I think you have to look at the big picture here, Dill. This guy, whoever he is, is a practice swing.”

“Huh?”

“Very few people mate for life with the people they fall for at twelve. Doesn’t mean it isn’t real, doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter, but basically, we’re talking a practice swing in the big game of love.”

Dillie groaned.

“So he’s temporary. But softball is permanent. You can play softball forever if you want to. Softball is not a practice swing. The things you love are never practice swings.”

“Okay, yeah, that’s good,” Dillie said, sounding overly patient, “but I like Jordan. You know?”

“Right.” Davy looked at the ceiling and sighed. “I’m going to explain something to you, so listen carefully. And don’t ever tell your mom I told you. Or God knows, your dad. They’d never let me near you again.”

“Okay,” Dillie said. “Cool.”

Boom! This has it all: humor, flow, a natural feel, everything. It’s a good example of dialogue between people who know each other well…so many times you get dialogue that goes something like this: “Your uncle, Bob, said the other day that his roof is leaking, and that he’d get his son, Jim, to fix it for him.” This example, like the one before, gives valuable insight into the characters without overt exposition or any awkwardness whatsoever.

In conclusion, I don’t really need to add anything; the examples more or less speak for themselves. The better the dialogue, the more interested you are in reading the book, the more you get into the book, the more you enjoy the book. That’s it, really.

C.S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia. I just finished The Magician’s Nephew and started The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I’m quite enjoying myself. I think I’ve said before that in the past few years, I’ve been rediscovering children’s literature; it takes me back to the days when I was first being introduced to the magical world of books. Lewis’ writing style has that wonderfully whimsical quality you can find in all great British children’s literature, like Diana Wynne Jones’ Howl’s Moving Castle (which I finished reading a few months ago but neglected to post about), and Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden and A Little Princess.