He was the youngest of six, and that pony and saddle had been given to him by his adult brothers, already a couple of cowpokes (and, coincidentally, the men my own son is named after). My grandfather loved that pony. When it was struck by lightning and killed only a few weeks after they arrived in Fort Davis, it caused him such intense pain it could still bring tears to his eyes to write about it seventy years later.

My grandfather wrote his memoirs in the 1970s, in his final years before he died at the age of 86. He worked on a typewriter with dirty keys, pounding so hard he punched the o’s through the paper. Now whenever I see graphics of typewriting with the circles of the d’s and p’s greyed in and crescents of extreme dark along the edges of the o’s (nobody ever shows them completely punched through), I always think of him. A West Texas cowboy crouched over a typewriter on a formica table in his 1940s kitchen, out in the dusty fields of the California San Joaquin Valley, his bushy eyebrows bristling and a cigar between his teeth. He said he became a cowpoke as a young man because he didn’t care what he did as long as he got to ride a horse. He used to play the old cowboy songs on his harmonica for us when I was little.

He also said, in his old age, that he’d read both Louie L’Amour and Zane Grey, and one of them knew exactly what he was talking about, and the other was an idiot.

Unfortunately, when my aunt relayed this opinion to me thirty years ago, I immediately forgot which was which.

Read the full essay on The Art & Craft of Fiction.

“I don’t get what’s going on here.”

I did a Copy & Line Edit on the opening pages of a very beautiful novel this past week. I did a Developmental Edit—along with a Copy & Line Edit of the climax—of this novel last year, after the author came to me with numerous responses from agents saying, “This is so beautiful, and so very close, but it just doesn’t quite make it.” She has a prominent agent now and already had her book accepted for publication by a small press (although she eventually chose not to go with them). Now we’re polishing her hook with some advice from all the agents who offered to represent her in her last round of submissions (yes, she got multiple offers), as well as from her beta readers.

I cut a whole bunch of stuff.

She wrote back saying, “I’m so glad you cut those bits! I only added them because readers said they didn’t get what was going on, although I thought it was perfectly clear in the first place.”

What do you do when you’ve written your prose as cleanly and concisely and tellingly as possible, and then your beta readers say, “I don’t get it”?

Say, “Thanks for your feedback!” It’s always good to be polite.

Then go directly to the greats and see how they handled it.

The problem with non-writers—or even writing non-editors—giving advice to writers is they very often don’t understand what the issue is. The issue is always one thing and one thing only:

* reader investment

So let’s talk about “clarifying” what’s going on. Then we’ll talk about NOT “clarifying” what’s going on. . .

Read the full essay on The Art & Craft of Fiction.

Not till the knife of love gained sufficient edge could he cut out her figure from its surroundings.
—Elizabeth Bowen, “Ivy Gripped the Steps”

Exposition: the necessity for it to be sharp and succinct ties it intimately to line editing. . .yet it is simultaneously tied to artistic vision and also to the simple mechanics of plotting.

What is exposition for?

Exposition is for stepping outside of the reader’s vivid experience of living this story—summarizing what could almost always be better said in scenes—and in a way that both moves the plot forward, creates layers and complexity, and illuminates the story beneath the plot, the real, hidden agenda.

All that?

Yes, all that.

You can see why fiction has moved away from exposition (nineteenth-century novels are chock full of the stuff) toward scenes. Because, as hard as scenes are to write, they’re a thousand times easier to do right than exposition. . .

Read the full essay on The Art & Craft of Fiction.

Bouncing like a yo-yo. kaboing. kaboing. kaboing.

Macrocosm. Microcosm. Macrocosm. Microcosm.

Cosmology. Quantum physics.

The holography of fiction.

In the cosmology of your novel, you’ve got a Hook (big bang!), leading into Conflict #1 with its plot point that snaps your characters’ heads around and drives them in a new direction, which leads to Conflict #2 and the significant apex of your story, which leads to Conflict #3 with its really, really, complex, multiple, and deformed plot point that snaps your characters’ heads around yet again and drives them in another new direction, leading fortunately to your Faux Resolution.

Whew! Pause and mop your brow. Because your Faux Resolution drop-kicks your characters right into the Climax.

Ta-dah! You fixed them.

And you know what else? This process works on each layer and sub-layer, as well, down through each individual Conflict, each episode in each Conflict, each chapter in each episode (or vice versa), each scene in each chapter, each chunk of action or dialog or description or exposition in each scene. . .each sentence. . .

Quantum physics.

Say you’ve got a scene in which your protagonist and their antagonist/love interest are hashing over a long and rather complicated argument absolutely vital to your theme. This conversation needs to convey a lot, you’ve designed your chapter for a good, long wallow in the discussion, and it’s time these two simply had it out.

But after you’ve determined the points to make and the order in which to make them and then you’ve sat (sitten) down and written it all in marvelous, pointed, contrasting and ultimately poignant lines of dialog. . .

I’m so sorry. That sucks so bad. it reads like a fricking script. . .

Read the full essay on The Art & Craft of Fiction.

Bouncing through an action scene

Let’s try microcosm with an action scene.

You know what the set-up is, the plot point this scene needs to fling the reader at. You know who’s in the scene, what fuels the action, the moves they have to make during the course of it, and where they have to wind up at the end. You’ve got it choreographed in your mind.

So you sit down and write it:

move #1
move #(1+ <= n – 1)
move #n

(I think that’s the right code. It’ been a lot of years since I wrote incrementation. Anyway, you get the gist.)

Then you go back and read it. And you know what? It’s just like with dialog. It reads like an instruction manual. . .

Read the full essay on The Art & Craft of Fiction.

Bouncing through description

And let’s wind up our exploration of microcosm in scene with a bounce through description.

You’ve got a spot where you need a little breather. You’ve just come out of an intense piece of action or dialog, you want to give the reader a second to let it fully sink in, but you always have to keep moving the story forward. So you take a glance around, setting the stage for the next rush.

What’s your hook?

Remember Kanen and the sharpened hunting stick? Remember what was significant about it? That’s right—foreshadowing.

What’s the climax of the upcoming scene (the one you’re setting up with description)?

Read the full essay on The Art and Craft of Fiction.

“Tell me again,” Assuipe says, clutching his quill and preparing to write laboriously as you speak. He’s not very literate.

“It’s the story of a genius of a writer whose greatest idea, the most extraordinary premise, the pinnacle of a brilliant career, is stolen by a—by a—well, a pirate.”

“I like it!” Assuipe belches into his fist. “Go on.”

“It starts in a little seaside village, where the writer lives. He’s down in the waterfront pub with his friends, when he hears the story of this terrible pirate. It’s his best friend, Panther Jack, who tells the story—”

“Screw that,” says Assuipe. “Tell me about when the pirate steals the idea.”

“That’s at the end.” It’s obvious Assuipe knows nothing about the art of storytelling. What a cretin. “Panther Jack is this kind of maverick sailor. He could be a ship’s captain, he’s so experienced, but he’s not into power or authority, so instead he roams the seas on whatever adventure strikes his fancy. He and the writer grew up together—”

“Screw Panther Jack,” says Assuipe. “I want to hear about the pirate.”

“I’m trying to tell you—”

“Your idea about a pirate.”

“NO. The pirate’s not even in most of it. He only comes in at the very end, when he wrecks everything. He’s just part of the climax. He’s not the actual story.”

“I like him.” Assuipe grins, and you immediately wish he hadn’t, because his teeth are the worst. “Your climax is the whole point of your story. Bozo.”

“Assuipe—” You suddenly realize why nobody ever says this guy’s name out loud.

And so you go back and forth for hours, dickering over your genius idea.

“—so the writer goes overseas to think this all out, and while he’s there the pattern of everything he’s been through crystalizes in his mind, and—bingo!—Panther Jack’s story of the pirate comes back to him, and he realizes it’s the kernel to the most brilliant premise—”

“—which is that a terrible and swashbuckling pirate king steals a stupid story so he can live happily ever after—” Assuipe is trying to massage the cramp out of his writing hand.

“No.” You shake your head. “Living happily ever after isn’t part of the climax. It’s the resolution.”

Assuipe sighs and puts down his quill. “Living happily ever after’s the resolution to the story. But before that, the resolution to the climax is me letting you get down off that plank.” He hawks with a revolting sound and spits into his empty flagon. “You know, for a famous writer, you sure don’t know squat about structure.”

Read the full essay on the Art and Craft of Fiction.

The climax of your novel is, bizarrely enough, the premise. It’s the point of the entire story.

Suppose you’re a writer working intensely on an incredibly deep and meaningful story. You’re an eighteenth-century American who’s been in Europe and are on your way home, so you have to do this work on shipboard. But that’s okay because you’re so completely immersed in it that you could work on it anywhere. Or else you’re a European who’s been in America. But, anyway, you’re on a ship, working, working, working away as towering waves crash over the prow and the tang of salt wafts to your nostrils.

Now, news of this extraordinary story has leaked out into the general public. Since you have a huge international reputation as a storyteller, everyone knows this story is worth a fortune. It’s rumored to be the pinnacle of your career. It’s the most amazing production of a brain that’s already produced stories greater than Homer’s, plot twists more baffling than Cervantes’, audience investment more powerful than Shakespeare’s. Anyone who possesses it will be richer than Croesus. But of course you keep it top secret so no one can steal it from you. It is—as Bertie Wooster would say—a real pip.

But disaster strikes. Oh, no! Your ship is hailed and, in quick order, boarded by pirates. They kill everybody on board and take command. You are hauled up in chains before the pirate captain, the notorious Assuipe, with his reputation for collecting strange and unusual treasures and selling them to buyers of enormous wealth known only to him. This guy could sell snow to Eskimos. He’s that good.

And he wants your story.

“No!” you cry. “I won’t tell you! I’d rather DIE FIRST.”

He’s okay with that. In an instant, his minions have flung out a plank, and you are encouraged at sword point to climb up on it and begin your promenade. They’re leaning over the side of the ship tossing edibles into the depths to attract sharks. This guy’s mean.

“Well?” he calls when you’re a third of the way down the plank.

“I won’t!” you yell furiously over your shoulder. You rattle your chains above your head at him.

Poke, poke go the points of the swords.

“What do you think?” he calls when you’re two thirds of the way down the plank.

“Never!” you bellow, yanking futilely against your chains. One foot slips, and you jerk it back with a private whimper.

Poke, poke go the points of the swords.

“It’s time, matey. Will you tell me or won’t you?” he calls when you get to the end of the plank.

The pirates lift, and the plank begins to tip. Below your feet, shark fins are circling. The tang of salt wafts to your nostrils. You shriek.

“It’s—!”

What?

Read the full post on The Art & Craft of Fiction.

But of course you already know you can’t show everything.

Remember Ramona the Pest? Beverly Cleary’s masterpiece? As it happens, we used to have a couple of neighbor kids who were just like Ramona and Beezus, right down to the blunt-cut hair on the Ramona girl’s beetly little brow. And every time that child came over to play, I thought of the day Ramona’s teacher read Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel to her class, and Ramona was the only one who asked the obvious question about Mike settling down in the basement at the end: “How did he go to the bathroom?”

Yeah. Lots of your characters’ daily lives you’re going to skip right over without even mentioning. Even Mike Mulligan’s. In spite of Ramona.

But what if something simply has to happen—it’s essential to the plot (remember the time we put a couple of losers in a car from New Jersey to New York City to pull a heist?), it can’t be implied—but it detracts from the focus to take a detour and show it in full?

Sometimes you need exposition. . .

Read the full essay on The Art & Craft of Fiction.

I happened to be working on the section of my book on writing that deals with that very subject at the time. There are a couple of well-known angles on it, pointing from different directions. So I’m going to shelve the explorations of exposition and humor for a few more days and get into this right now, while the topic’s still fresh in my mind.

First, there’s Flannery O’Connor’s wonderful discussion of the subject in the essays in Mystery and Manners—collected from her papers and edited by her friends Robert and Sally Fitzgerald after her death—in which she defines a story as a complete action with a point.

Then there’s the canonical example (which O’Connor also discusses, although not in exactly the terms I’m going to):

The king died, and then the queen died. (plot)

The king died, and then the queen died of grief. (story)

Now, this example illuminates several aspects of the difference between plot—an action or a series of actions—and story—a complete action with a point.

One essential thing it illuminates is causality. Cause-&-effect.

Another essential thing it illuminates is character. Story is not just plot. Story is plot plus character.

Cause-&-effect.

Character.

Which are, in some cases, identical. . .

Read the full post on The Art & Craft of Fiction magazine.

But instead we spent this weekend hauling all kinds of crap we don’t need from our old house—where we had a garage to store it in—to our new house—where we do not. It’s all in the kitchen right now. And I spent yesterday sorting other crap out of our storeroom to make room for it all.

I found not sweaters but my old late-70s/early-80s issues of Rolling Stone magazine, the ones Alan Rinzler suggested I use to finance my son’s college education. The top one had a cover photo of Caroline of Monaco, looking remarkably like Carrie Fisher looking about twelve, in a tiara. The second one had a black-&-white cover photo of John Belushi, looking suitably somber.

The Belushi issue. I stopped sorting and sat down. . .

Read the full essay on Pulp Rag.

We were going on and on about how much we just love converting our living rooms into forests every year, with all the attendant falling branches and moldy puddles and mountains of composting needles being ground into carpets and other things we don’t normally leave lying around outside. And how fun it is to try to thread electric cords with little light bulbs through all of that, especially when you spend half an hour at it getting poked and prodded by the needles and branches and risking breaking the fragile little bulbs into a thousand cutting shards in your carpet, and then you’re done and it turns out none of the bulbs work. And hanging breakables from the aforementioned falling branches. And either climbing on teetering chairs to get a star on top of the tree and falling into it or putting a child up on your shoulders so they can fall into it. And your kids getting wound up on sugar from all the extra cookies and candy-canes, so even if they don’t fall into the tree you can enjoy the piercing, hysterical shrieks as they imagine they’re just about to. And the pointless fights among adults engendered by the raw nerves from listening to all the piercing shrieks.

Now, because I’ve been writing a lot lately about plot and how to construct one—hook, conflicts, faux resolution, climax—I thought right away, What will be my hook? My conflicts? My climax? And I had some ideas, which I had not yet written down, when I got deeply embroiled in sorting out the logic behind the story. Because ghost stories, being fantasy, need rules made up for them, and this involves a lot of logic.

It’s bad enough when you write a realistic story and let illogical things happen—as we all know, real life does not have to make sense, but fiction always does. But you simply can’t get away with writing a fantasy story and letting illogical things happen. This is dues ex machina in the worst way, and as soon as the reader stops believing in your logic they stop caring about your story.

The real beauty of all stories—but especially fantasy and sci fi—is the logic behind them. Not only do you put your characters through hell, but you make sure the reader can’t possibly see any way to avoid it. . .

Read the full essay on Pulp Rag.