An honest approach to my writing

Do I really know anything about writing? I mean: sure, I make a living putting words on screens for clients, but does that make me a competent—much less excellent—writer?*

To answer this, let’s look at what I’m comparing myself to:

I have a client who shops the more “creative” work they have out to me. This is a technical writing company with serious props when it comes to editing and cohesive communication. What I get back, when I submit work to them, is a largely red, reworked piece. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the red is legitimate, and the piece is all the better for it. 

Clearly, they know a thing or two about writing—and even what an emm dash is for—but does their excellence demote my sophomoric attempts? Is their proof damning my evidence? Indeed, the edits I receive could be the nail in the coffin of my writerly hopes. 

But one thing keeps nagging me: They keep on hiring me. 

Second point: I teach writing to art students. Some may say this is a clear sign that I know what I’m doing. After all, those who can… (or was it can’t?) Anyway, the point is, I build curriculum that several students and colleagues have told me is revolutionary in getting artists to form ideas in text. One could argue this is a true test of one’s knowledge; to communicate the idea well enough to educate another. But I continually read those books on writing and, wouldn’t you know it? I learn something new on every single dang page! 

I don't need yo skills

Writing, as I’ve come to know it, is one of those “life skills” everyone is always going on about. And, of course, by that I mean “a skill that will take your life to understand it.” Both figuratively and literally, by some measures. My back is hunched, my eyesight poor, and my fingers numb—all because I spend my days pecking at keys. If I don’t die soon, it’ll be only because the words I’ve written aren’t amounting to enough.

I can say unironically: that I know where a preposition lives, that I can canter across alliterative areas in printed paragraphs, and that I unequivocally side with the Oxford comma. And, if you read that sentence with some perspicacity, you’ll also see I can adroitly use big words and stuff. 

So, it comes to this: do I really know anything about writing? Well, the truth is, after five years of feeding my family on the proceeds obtained by spewing words all over pages, I know for a fact that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

 *don't answer that.

Clean Doesn't Have to Mean Boring

 

I write clean fiction... on purpose. I know that may shock some authors out there--as well as some readers--but the truth is, good fiction doesn't have to be filled with gore and gratuity. A bad guy can be truly evil and still not curse like a sailor. Trust me, I've seen it happen...

But I digress. What Makes Good Fiction would be a better way to address this topic. Is it intense emotion? Solid characters? Or maybe it's unique story. In my humble opinion, I think it's a little of all that, and good writing, to boot.

Notice, however, that the list does not include: zombies, vampires, heavy cursing, gratuitous scenes,
adult issues, death, or internal awakenings. Those things are not core to good fiction. So here is my official list of what it takes to write good fiction:

Good Writing - first on my list is dealing with the craft itself. Not much time is spent on this with author blogs, for some reason. But without good mechanics, even great stories can fail to impress. As I've taught in my classes, the best writing rolls along on two rails of being impressive and being effective. Overly impressive (like this blog) and readers get hung up on the lovely loquaciousness that is your language (see?). Too effective and it's dry as stereo instructions.

Don't freak out, I'm the hero.

Great Characters - once the writing is tight, second in-line for good fiction are characters that make the story worth reading. Even bland plots can shine when affable, well-rounded characters step up to speak their lines. We love a good hero and evil nemesis, and, for the most part, regardless of what they're doing.

Emotional Ethos - feeling beyond ourselves is the principle reason most readers read. I've not met a bookworm who didn't want to feel something in what they read. Be careful with this; it can be too easy to heap on the emotional triggers to compensate for lacking in other areas (like this blog). In fact, I would argue that when emotions are handled well, the more mundane the event, the more powerful the story can be.

Unique Story - obviously, simply retelling the Lord of the Rings with different characters won't  win your writing any awards. Even re-tellings that are done well have a hard time becoming lauded tomes. Every once in a while, a unique enough spin can be put on something that it catches on, but a good rule-of-thumb is to deviate as much as possible from whatever inspiration you've drawn from* for your story.

Intellectual Honesty - Readers are highly perceptive and--to my dismay--tough critics. To keep readers interested and to avoid scrutiny, make sure whatever you write--whether about an alien race on a distant planet, or teens from inner-city Cleveland--keep things honest. If that teen from Cleveland has never had a computer class, don't suddenly make them an expert hacker.

Likewise, if the alien creature has four legs, don't have them levitate halfway through the story. Even science fiction operates within the rules of most physical laws. This allows the reader to believe far into fantasy without having to ignore their intellect.


This list may not be exhaustive, but I thought it important to start laying some groundwork for how I write before unleashing my drivel onto the masses. I speak about being clean and zombie free, but it is never at the expense of telling a good story.

*like this blog 


image credit: thinkstockphotos

I’m still not one of the cool kids…

“Good luck with that *deliberate, sarcastic pause* …project.”

These were the last words I heard from the author who had come to my hometown to promote his book; a hefty, hardback tome about a river and the deaths that it carried with it. During the reading portion of the event, I started getting the feeling that this author was a like soul, a brother in the field, so-to-speak. He waxed on about how creating twists in his fiction just sort of “came to him,” and that establishing the prose was a process more akin to art than science. 

Man, he’s cool, I thought. And he thinks like I do! That must mean… I’m cool!

But, I’m not cool. Never was. It never occurred to me to change who I was around people, and that—it seems—is a prerequisite for being cool. To put on a show of affable disinterest. Only, if that’s what being cool is, then no one, it seems, is truly cool. Are they?

Flash-forward to the end of the event. I typically lurk in the corners until the onslaught of raving fans dissipates and I can have a more one-on-one conversation with the celebrity. To me, giving them the common decency to connect on a human level is what is most important. And, I don’t change that to be cool. 

So, I walked up to him and we chatted for a few minutes. I explained how I was a fledgling author (to position my commentary as more than just anecdotal) and then marveled at his book tour going so successfully. He seemed cheery enough. But then, with his answers, I began getting the feeling like he was not interested in talking with me. 

Of course, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do; his fan-base had dwindled and the store was closing soon—presumably he had a hotel bed waiting for him somewhere. Although, he made no motion of getting up from his table, or indication that he was done. It was just an attitude, perhaps.  

And in that moment, the feeling of uncoolness began to settle on my psyche in the same way wisps of snow settles on a rose bush. It wasn’t so obvious that I understood what was happening at that moment, but the feeling started to erode my generally pleasant disposition. 

A few moments later, after talking to someone I knew who was also there, I crossed the room to reach the exit. As I passed by his table, I said over the small bookshelf between us, “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

You're just jealous I'm so kind.

That’s when it happened: with an audience of only one or two other people, the “cool” author had to keep up appearances. Forget any altruistic notions, or congenial discourse—this had to have bravado. Apparently, he thought we were fighting for a mate, because with no just cause, he deftly minimized my existence in deference of his own with the insincere salutation, sarcastic pause, and weaponized word “project.” 

My book, my platform, my hopes of a future as an author was, to this author, a mere “project.”

Still thinking that he and I were two equal humans sharing a moment with each other, I didn’t quite process the sarcasm until I was in my car and on the road. To me, we were just chatting. To him, it was a reinforcing of status. And that left me wanting. 

For the next two days, I pondered why I suddenly felt that all my relationships on social media, my (albeit sparse) blogging, my writing in general was a complete waste of time. Why didn’t I just go get a real job? And then, it hit me. I was shivering in the aura of coolness. 

Only, it wasn’t, well, cool. Even days later, this author was syphoning off my passion, my interests, my love of crafting words into drivel to propagate his own superiority. All it managed to do was motivate me to focus on my own lack, and to long for—maybe even design for—that lack to be filled. 

Aha—that was it!

Being cool is service of self. It’s arrogance in a nice package. It is selfishness to such an extreme that it feeds off the self-confidence and altruism of anyone around it. The author wouldn’t ever see me again, so what did it matter if he took a little more for his pride that night? It’s not like I needed it, after all, I’m not a NYT best-selling author. 

But I see now, with even more clarity, that for myself being cool is not the aim. This is not new to me, of course, but at least it offers a better perspective for me than just thinking—however distantly—that I’ll never achieve it. It is nice to know, after all, that turning your back on societal acceptance has its merits. I don’t want to be selfish about my writing. I don’t want to be cool. I prefer altruism. I prefer generosity. I prefer being hot. Er, wait… that didn’t come out right… 

If I don’t sell a single book, but I can rest at night knowing that I made people feel better about themselves, allowed them to connect on a human level with me, and/or gave them something of myself that might help them better understand the world, then I would call that a success. Even if I reached the level of this author, I’m not sure I would—at least I HOPE I wouldn’t—be cool.