On Craft--How Not to Edit Away Ambition

I sent off a long Editorial letter today for a book I not only love, but one I am especially impressed by. In my letter, I suggested a pretty major change to the plotting and I wasn't quite sure how the author would respond (see Editors get nervous, too), but ultimately I knew it was the right change for the book and would solve a great many concerns in the narrative. Luckily, the suggestion made sense to my author and he was on board. I'll chalk that up to brilliant editing. But I did spend a great deal of time weighing the pros and cons of this particular edit, which was essentially to excise a large chunk of the plot, which would act as the first domino to fall so to speak and would in turn effect many other plot points in the narrative. I anguished (more so than usual) over the direction my editorial notes were taking. Is this the right thing? Am I certain? I checked in with myself again and again on this question. But alas, I was sure. Then what was my hesitation? Why the need to continually check in with myself on this edit? My fear was that I may have been editing out one of the best things the plot has going for it: its ambition.

I see a lot of manuscripts. A lot. On average, anywhere from 20-30 manuscripts are submitted to me a month. A shocking (or maybe not so shocking) number of them are so similar in theme, subject matter and execution, that it often feels as if writers have been given some formula that someone told them was the magic recipe to publication. The books I pursue for publication are those that stand out from the crowd. A narrative can do that in many ways from the quality of the writing to a stirring emotional baseline to strong characterization to an especially compelling and memorable voice. The books I pursue for publication are usually some combination of all of the above. But the books that get me most excited are the books that are not only artfully crafted, but also those that are ambitiously crafted--a narrative approach that ups the ante. If it's a romance, it's not your typical romance--there's some spin on the traditional boy meets girl, boy loses girl scenario that I didn't see coming. If it's a mystery, it's one where perhaps the main character is an unreliable narrator putting all the clues into question. Or perhaps it's an ordinary story of life and love and work, but told in second person from the perspective of a group...say an office, like in one of my favorite novels And Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris. A narrative that is not executed in a traditional straight-forward manner, but in an approach that is surprising and not often tried is exciting. It's exciting to writers (as it's a satisfying challenge), to editors (after one read of an ambitious narrative, we can already see the NYT book review where Michiko Kakutani sings our author's praises) and for readers who are tired of the same old, same old and are very vocal about that weariness.

Ambition is what gives truly great novels that sparkle and shine that lasts. Why does To Kill A Mockingbird  endure? Because it's ambitous and surprising and impressive in that ambition. And I'm not talking about its content, which is indeed masterful, but just as masterful is its ambitious execution. I still recall that feeling of amazement in understanding that Harper Lee had ensnared me in a perfect circular narrative. The great joy in rereading To Kill A Mockingbird is searching for that moment when the narrative made its turn, that moment when Miss Lee set us on the path to return to the moment where we began the novel without us noticing at all. Such a seamlessly, effortlessly executed feat. That is why To Kill a Mockingbird endures.

Today, I sent off an editorial letter to an author who has similar ambition and it would be arrogant of me to not have wondered if my editorial letter to this author wasn't the equivalent of telling Harper Lee to 86 the circular narrative of To Kill a Mockingbird. An editor never wants to mess with the very thing that makes a novel special. So how was I so sure this wasn't what I was doing? I examined what was left of the novel after suggesting a major section of plot be eliminated. And what was left still dazzled and the shine was not at all diminished by what was no longer there.

Editing is also a craft. And until an author has found their editor, an author must edit themselves. Today's thought on craft? Don't edit away your narrative's ambition. Understand what about your narrative's execution makes it stand out in a crowd and cleave to it. All else is superfluous.

Stacey

On Craft--Certainty in Vodka

Publishing people are drinking people. We just are. One of the first things I learned about when I entered this noble profession was the two (three?) martini lunch and the more prosecco the better. Along with the drinking goes the gossiping. Publishing people are the biggest gossips. So when out with another editor, I know there will be two things: lots of drinking and lots of gossiping. And both are renewing. But also, when out with another publishing person, especially when another editor, along with the drinking and gossiping, there is also a lot of craft talk. Tonight was such a night. There was talk of one editor going through over 20 drafts with an author. I confessed I was on my 7th draft with an author. Tenth piped another. Fourteenth piped another. And then the knowing nods and smiles. None of us were saying that there was anything shameful about going through so many rounds with an author or that it was even unusual, just that it was the job and what we do as editors. We read and read and read again. We read and edit and have our authors revise until it's ready. And being ready is the thing. Publishing a book too early can be the death knell of a book and we all know it. Though we've all been guilty of publishing a book early--because of market pressures, in-house pressures, but most especially author pressure. Twenty revisions is not for the feint of heart, but it is sometimes necessary...necessary to ensure that books get starred reviews, get hand-sold by indie accounts, get award consideration and recognition and get the kind of grass roots enthusiasm and support than can assure a bestseller. Waiting for a book to be ready can make or break a book and we all know it.

And when we have been guilty of publishing a book too early, it's most often because an author is fatigued and not quite up for that twenty-first draft or even that sixth draft or even that third draft. Authors will and can sometimes judge a book ready before an editor does and in this moment an editor must face their mortality so to speak. It's not, in fact, our name going on the cover. It's not, in fact, our book. And we have in our hands a book we love and an author who has reached their limit. So we publish. And often these are not the most successful, memorable books, though they could have been.

One of the most successful authors on my list repeatedly forces one promise from me: Do not let me publish a bad book. And I don't. I tell this author when I think the book is not ready and this author listens to me and every book we've published together has received starred reviews, award attention and sold well. This author isn't in a rush, and trusts the publishing team, including me, especially me (author-editor trust is paramount to success) to tell them when they've done their best. For me as an editor, this is an ideal publishing situation and one that has been fruitful for the author, for me as editor and for the publisher, overall.

This is when I believe in gatekeepers. This is when I believe in the traditional publishing model. This is when I believe in publishing. It can be a well-oiled machine and talent can always shine if it's given the proper time and space to develop. So if your editor is putting you through the paces, don't let impatience overwhelm you or rob you of the time you need to produce the best, most thoughtful book. Craft is also about ensuring that no book is published before it's time. Craft is time and patience and listening to your revision partner--your editor--who is your main cheerleader and wants to see you reach the highest heights (because an editor's career also grows as an author's career grows, so editors do have a particular vested interest). Craft is waiting until your book is ready and embracing each step in the revision process with enthusiasm and not fatigue, even when you really are tired. Give yourself every possibility. Give your craft every chance to shine. Whether that means 3 or 8 or 30 drafts, patience is not only a virtue but when it comes to publishing, it can be the difference between a viable, long-lasting career and getting lost to the mid-list.

So a night of drinking, gossiping and craft has recommitted me to the best of what I do and the certainty of slow and steady wins the race. And the certainty of revision. And also vodka. There is certainty in vodka.

Stacey

On Craft--Consistency of Theme

One of my favorite parts of the editorial process is the way narratives are enriched just via regular old conversation. This may sound strange at first. After all, isn't it expected that authors would talk to their editor? Yes, but conversations between editors and authors don't often happen until after an editor has done the work of going through a manuscript line-by-line and turned around an editorial letter. And the conversation at that point is often a brief check-in with the author before the author heads off into revision land for a few weeks or months. Ultimately, because of the ease of technology, I think we often forget to talk to each, voice-to-voice no matter what the task or collaborative project or relationship. Email just becomes easy. And then add to that social media making us feel like we are seeing and talking to each other often even when we aren't; it's not hard to understand how voice-to-voice contact could be left behind. I know people who don't even use voicemail anymore and eschew telephone conversations...okay, I'm one of them.  Texting tends to be my primary mode of conversation even with those closest to me.

And not because I don't enjoy talking to my friends or colleagues on the phone, but in the day-to-day grind, efficiency becomes paramount and I don't often even realize how much I'm missing that voice-to-voice connection, especially with my authors, until a day like today when I spend 45 minutes on the phone with an author I not only love working with because she's so talented, but is also someone whom I adore personally. We spent at least half the time on the phone today catching up on our respective families and laughing a lot.

And then we got down to the business at hand, last round revisions, meaning this author is one step away from being publication-ready after going through several rounds of revision. She's so close and we both found ourselves energized by being so close. How do we know she's close? The characterization is strong (as both a reader and editor I really care about these characters--they mean something to me as if they were real people); the pacing is well-executed and the book reads as if the author wrote the narrative in one effortless breath; the conflict is compelling and not something easily or neatly solved; the writing is memorable; the conclusion satisfying. So what's left you might ask? One never knows. What's left when all the must-haves for any novel are all in place actually differs from project to project and it's often in this final conversation where author and editor find out what's left.

Today's "what's left" happened to be consistency of theme, which ranged from something as minor as ensuring the main character's dog wasn't forgotten by the narrative to something slightly more complicated like ensuring the idea that a character is struggling with the concept of unfulfilled dreams doesn't suddenly appear in the last third of the narrative without being developed and consistently so earlier in the narrative. And in this examination of craft there is also another pitch for outlining--and not just outlining plot points or character growth but use of theme, clarifying for yourself how you want themes and their accompanying details to develop and appear in the narrative and to make sure it's done purposefully and seamlessly (we don't want to be heavy-handed with narrative themes, but we also don't want themes to be too subtle to resonate or awkwardly introduced too late into the narrative.)

Forgetting to properly integrate themes is a common craft concern, especially for my seat-of-the-pants writers out there. But clearly establishing the themes you want to explore in a narrative and always having those themes at the forefront of your mind when writing character descriptions, scene details and dialogue will save you from having to go back and rework everything to ensure themes read as a seamless part of your narrative's foundation. It's not impossible to revise for theme and make it feel seamless after the fact, but it's a lot harder and can involve a great deal of dismantling and rebuilding of narrative elements you are by now married to. Even if it's heavy-handed to start, it's easier to peal away layers than it is to build those layers. So today's advice on craft? Go into your narrative not only with a mind on character and story, but theme as well. Make it an organic part of your narrative from word one. You'll thank me in the revision process later. Here's hoping your "what's left" is little more than the words The End.

On Craft--A Case for Outlining

In my career I'm been lucky enough to edit a lot of different kind of narratives. The most interesting narratives to edit are genre fiction. I wasn't always a genre editor. I used to tell agents not to send me fantasy or science fiction because that's not the kind of editor I envisioned myself to be. I envisioned myself an editor of great literary fiction and I am. But turns out, I'm also an editor of great fantasy, sci-fi and thrillers, too! And some of those are literary and some are very well written commercial endeavors. Turns out I love it all.

With genre fiction, what I've discovered is that outlining is VERY important. In a world where anything is possible and incredible flights of fancy take shape, outlining and establishing world rules that the narrative will consistently adhere to become so important. When I'm editing genre fiction, you can often step into my office and find a chart on my wall of timelines, character backstories, world rules and regulations and if a narrative is spread over more than one book, you may find the parts of  Book 1 as compared to Book 2 and Book 3 just to make sure there are no plot holes, that plot points are plausible and gel together. For me, this is fun. It's also craft.

Everyone has their own writing process. Some are ardent outliners and others are strict seat-of-the-pants writers. Both approaches have their merits and ultimately a writer needs to approach writing in the way that feels most organic to them, but once the manuscript is on my desk, I am all about the outlining and knowing exactly where characters are and how long it takes them to get there and how exactly they got there. I'm looking for consistency in character details and especially in sci-fi and fantasy narratives I'm looking for plausibility. Do details and world rules stand up to scrutiny? Because please believe the reader is looking for those plot holes and weighing credibility and if something, even the smallest, slightest thing does not feel plausible and even possible you will lose them. And as an editor who often reviews genre submissions, this is when an author will lose me...plausibility. If you are a seat-of-your-pants kind of writer, and even if you are that ardent outliner, the revision process before you send it to an agent or an editor should not only be about revising the writing, but also revising to ensure the world works and reads credibly. Do the rules of the Earth-like planet you've put your characters on add up? Do the sequence of events add up? Does the sequence of critical thinking from your characters make sense? Meaning is their reaction to a comrade's death belabored when they are still under attack and before they can grieve, they really need to be focused on taking out their enemy?

Outlines, not just of plotting elements--what happens first, what happens second, what happens last--but also of character development--where your character begins and where he ends in terms of personal growth; the rules of the world--what one set of characters know versus what they don't know and whether it's possible to leave the galaxy or reproduce or whatever; what are the exceptions to the rules and do the exceptions make sense. Thinking through the sense of your narrative is craft. And if writing a narrative across many books, having the world mapped out and what will happen in later books versus what is happening in the present book, make for the most successful reads. So even if you don't outline to start, outlining during the revision process is paramount to executing a seamlessly and compellingly crafted narrative that readers will enjoy.

Stacey

On Craft--"Easy Reading is Damn Hard Writing"

I finished an editorial letter today and then, of course, sent it on to my author and thus sent her on her revision journey; and for the very first time. She's my favorite kind of author, a debut. So everything is for the very first time. Sending an editorial letter off is a very satisfying feeling for an editor, partly because it means we've finished something on our very long "To Do" list, but also because an editorial letter encompasses one of our favorite pastimes--talking about literature and the craft of literature. What I love about this particular author's writing is how fluid it is. Her novel is such an engrossing read, mostly because of how competent and enjoyable the writing is. In some editorial letters, I often discuss the use of language, noting whether the writing is wordy or generally overwritten or hard to parse through (it's common even with the best writers; language sometimes needs to be reigned in or specifically crafted; this is the nitty gritty of line editing), but in this editorial letter there was no direct commentary on the author's writing at all. She is a writer with impressive and enviable sentence level control. Every writer has their strengths, and this is one of hers.

So then if I didn't actually comment on the writing, what was the content of this author's editorial letter, you may wonder?. Exactly. The very crux of this post. Finishing this particular author's editorial letter reminded me craft isn't just about the writing style or how sentences come together. Craft is everything. It's characterization, character relationships, scene development, pacing, timeline, plot points, it's everything. So in this particular editorial letter, I provided feedback and suggestions for my author on characterization: were characters nuanced enough? Where they consistently developed? Did character relationships make sense? Did plot points feel credible? Were plot points rushed? Did the climax resonate? Did the passage of time feel organic? And what happens when the timeline doesn't, in fact, resonate? Perhaps instead of a five-year timeline, we should consider a two-year timeline. Does a certain character appear enough? Do we have clarity on the protagonist's character growth? Engaging these questions is also craft and these questions are why the writing process isn't just a one person job. Craft takes multiple eyes and perspectives to get right. I know my dear author has the answers to all these questions locked in her head and her heart. Knowing her I bet I could correctly guess at a lot of these answers, but I also know that this author, as authors always do, believe wholeheartedly that these answers are already on the page. It won't be until this author reads and then reads again my editorial letter and sees my notes on the manuscript page that she'll begin to understand that either these answers are not on the page or they are far too subtle and need heightening.

Subtlety and heightening are words I use often in giving editorial feedback. Subtlety and heightening are also about craft and what's on the page versus what's not.Sometimes the germ of needed character nuance is on the page--mentioned once on page three never to be heard from again. That nuance is then too subtle and needs heightening--needs more consistent development throughout the narrative. Sometimes a plot thread or point is so heightened it reads implausibly, too over-the-top and what it needs is more subtlety.

Craft isn't just the writing; it's everything. It's knowing when to push something to the fore and when to pull back on something. It's knowing when too little or too much of a character is on the page. It's finding the right calibration of details. It's understanding how to knit together a narrative in a way that leads up to a climax that feels organic and credible and tense. Craft is an incredible tightrope act and the writer has to know when to let go and when to steel herself and hold on. Craft is about making everything feel effortless so that the reader isn't aware of how it was even done, only that you did it--you took their breath away.

I loved writing today's editorial letter. I'm already foaming at the mouth to read the next draft. I can't wait to see the answers to my questions on the page. I can't wait to see seamless craft at work. So today's craft thought? Here's a quote from the Nathaniel Hawthorne that the venerable Maya Angelou recently repeated that should pretty much sum it up: Easy reading is damn hard writing.

On Craft--Synesthesia

Synesthesia by PeaceMakerGirl

As a creative person Synesthesia is my absolute favorite thing ever. I knew I loved literature and writing when I first learned about metaphor and simile, but those joys felt like child's play when I first read The House on Mango Street and discovered the nirvana that is Synesthesia. It excited me no end to think a color could feel or a feeling could see or a scent could have a color. The possibilities seemed endless and Synesthesia struck me as a device that should be used all the time. But this is how all creatives feel when they discover a new literary toy. Of course, all things are better in moderation, but Synesthesia did reveal to me how much richer writing could be, how much more nuanced descriptions could be, how much more imaginative and vividly spectacular the worlds that writers created could be.

Synesthesia became a clear way to make one's writing special and memorable and a tool of craft I find now in my professional life that is too often completely overlooked and/or underutilized by beginning writers and even veteran writers.

For some writers, the use of a device like Synesthesia is instinctive, so much so that they may not even realize what they're doing has a name. These are the writers that most often break through, especially if they're writing literary fiction. They have that innate ability. And while I do believe a lot about writing is innate,  I do also think a lot can be learned. Many of the manuscripts I get on submission and pass on, I pass on for one simple reason: the writing doesn't strike me as very special. And to overcome writing that isn't particularly special, the story would have to be amazingly well-executed--fast paced with edge of your seat thrills and chills. More often than not, however, the story cannot overwhelm writing that is just average, not in today's very crowded market. The two have to work together. There are submissions I pass on where the story has lots of potential and if the writing had been special, I might have pursued for publication. But if the writing is special enough even if the story needs work, I find I will always want to pursue because special writing just doesn't come along every day. Finding writing that stands out, that moves you as a reader just isn't easy. But the use of a simple device like Synesthesia, used with just the right touch, is something that can make a difference, bring spark to otherwise very straight forward writing, and allow a narrative to stand out.

So here are three definitions of Synesthesia from the Free Dictionary:

 syn·es·the·sia also syn·aes·the·sia  (sns-thzh)

n.

1. A condition in which one type of stimulation evokes the sensation of another, as when the hearing of a sound produces the visualization of a color.

2. A sensation felt in one part of the body as a result of stimulus applied to another, as in referred pain.

3. The description of one kind of sense impression by using words that normally describe another.

(You can also check out more on Synesthesia at Wikepedia here.) 

For the purposes of this blog, we're using the third definition: the description of one kind of sense impression by using words that normally describe another. In layman's terms, as I alluded to above, this basically means one sense being able to respond in a way typically reserved by another sense. The House on Mango Street is a perfect book to show this literary device in action and consequently when you Google Synesthesia and/or The House on Mango Street, you'll inevitably stumble upon one or the other. If you haven't yet read Sandra Cisnero's astounding narrative, I suggest you do. It's an extraordinarily well-executed novel and can be used for craft studies on the most effective execution of many literary devices you haven't thought of since the seventh grade aside from Synesthesia like Anaphora, Symbolism, Idiom and more. And these aren't just lessons for kids or writers starting out. These are wonderful reminders even if you've been at this for awhile. When editing, I often return to the classics to find ways to help and inspire my writers trying to reinvent the wheel in a way that is dynamic and distinct. Synesthesia is my favorite thing because it helps keep one's writing fresh and a joy to read, and also positions a book to become a classic in its own right. But as a first step, Synesthesia is a great way to effectively implement the writers' first credo, "Show Don't Tell." So if you're looking for a way to enhance your writing and make it special, investigate Synesthesia and allow your sounds to see and your colors to hear or feel. I bet you'll have fun. 

I'll leave you with three examples of Synesthesia that I like:

“Yellow cocktail music.” (The Great Gatsby)

“It's like all of a sudden he let go a million moths all over the dusty furniture and swan-neck shadows in our bones” to describe the sound of an old music box. (The House on Mango Street)

Dante is driven “back to the region where the sun is silent.” (The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri, in the first canto of “Inferno”)

On Craft--Show Don't Tell Plus

So a basic rule of writing that most everyone on the planet has heard of even if they don't write or aren't the best at implementing it is "Show, Don't Tell". But what does that really mean, really? Every narrative does need a certain amount of tell--it's unavoidable. So showing vs. telling is really about when you have the opportunity to create an image or a feeling for a reader and that image or feeling can be transformative for the reader and really draw them into the narrative and make them care about the characters, then a writer must take the opportunity and describe a scene or a character or a feeling in the most original and compelling way possible.


Big job, right? It is. And it's particularly a big job because it's important to know when enough is enough. You don't want to show too much or the writing becomes overwrought and melodramatic and the reader's eyes begin rolling. It's a high-wire act.

But the facet of this big job that I want to discuss here is really word choice; the best adjective for the job. You want to choose the most descriptive combination of words possible to create the most compelling and powerful image. There are some words (technically adjectives, but not the best adjectives), though, that a writer may be tempted to use, but do not, in fact, actually describe a thing and definitely don't help paint a picture or conjure an emotion. The words writers choose to create a powerful image should engage all five (or six) of the senses. This is the place where a writer can have fun with language and challenge their own abilities. Words that do not help accomplish this are non-descriptors. Words like perfect, beautiful, or nice. What exactly does perfect, beautiful or nice look like? What does it feel like? What does it sound like? The reader has no idea, not without further description, so why use them at all? The best advice I have for a writer looking to expand their horizons in their use of language is to avoid non-descriptors like the plague. If a writer has to use other words to fully describe a scene or character or feeling summed up in the use of one of these non-descriptors, what was really the point of using the non-descriptor in the first place? Cut out the middle man and give the more dynamic and direct description the first time around. Don't put yourself in a situation where you have to define "nice". Because you're wasting time on the page you could be devoting to something else, something magical that will win and keep your reader for the entirety of the journey.

So this Tuesday's Craft tip? The non-descriptor, that adjective that looks and feels like a descriptor, but is actually not, is not your friend.

Tune in next Tuesday for a continuation of this craft point with a discussion of Synesthesia.

;-)

On Dialogue

Say what you will about the veracity of A Million Little Pieces and its author James Frey, the man knows how to write. And even the very first page of A Million Little Pieces attests to it as Mr. Frey for my money nails one of the most difficult aspects of narrative: dialogue. Why is dialogue so hard? Most don't know how to use it. Most beginning writers use dialogue to advance the plot when the most effective use of dialogue is really to reveal characterization. The sharpest, most keenly observed and thus most compelling execution of dialogue does this seamlessly and effortlessly, though I grant you, it's no easy trick, but Frey manages it. The opening page of A Million Little Pieces contains, hands-down, some of the best and most memorable dialogue I have ever read and it's no wonder why so many were absolutely riveted by this story from word one. Mr. Frey's dialogue is concise (he doesn't waste words), purposeful (again he doesn't waste words), and very clearly and immediately reveals character. My favorite thing about this opening dialogue is that it's delivered sans quotation marks.

So without further ado...

I wake to the drone of an airplane engine and the feeling of something warm dripping down my chin. I lift my hand to feel my face. My front four teeth are gone, I have a hole in my cheek, my nose is broken and my eyes are swollen nearly shut. I open them and I look around and I'm in the back of a plane and there's no one near me. I look at my clothes and my clothes are covered with a colorful mix of spit, snot, urine, vomit and blood. I reach for the call button and I find it and I push it and I wait and thirty seconds later an Attendant arrives. 

How can I help you?
Where am I going?
You don't know?
No.
You're going to Chicago, Sir.
How did I get here?
A Doctor and two men brought you on.
They say anything?
They talked to the Captain, Sir. We were told to let you sleep.
How long till we land?
About twenty minutes.
Thank you.

Although I never look up, I know she smiles and feels sorry for me. She shouldn't. 

In this snippet we meet a man who in many ways is resigned  to his fate, feels he almost deserves it--there's no anger or any strong emotion at all; he's not mortified or distraught or even anxious. At most, he's just mildly confused by a set of circumstances that might send most others over the edge. And that tells us a lot about his characterization. And it's all there in very spare, efficient dialogue. And this is not dialogue that's needed to advance the plot. The next bit after this dialogue reads as follows:

A short while later we touch down. I look around for anything I might have with me, but there's nothing. No ticket, no bags, no clothes, no wallet. I sit and I wait and I try to figure out what happened. Nothing comes. 

Now here's how the first page would read without the dialogue:

I wake to the drone of an airplane engine and the feeling of something warm dripping down my chin. I lift my hand to feel my face. My front four teeth are gone, I have a hole in my cheek, my nose is broken and my eyes are swollen nearly shut. I open them and I look around and I'm in the back of a plane and there's no one near me. I look at my clothes and my clothes are covered with a colorful mix of spit, snot, urine, vomit and blood.

A short while later we touch down. I look around for anything I might have with me, but there's nothing. No ticket, no bags, no clothes, no wallet. I sit and I wait and I try to figure out what happened. Nothing comes.

The narrative doesn't really miss the dialogue. And the information we do get in the dialogue can be given elsewhere in another way. The point is that the narrative doesn't fall apart without the dialogue, except in one way. I care less about this man. I know less about him. I'm less inclined to see him through his journey, simply because he's less interesting to me.

And why am I interested in this solitary man? Because he is clearly alone in a set of extraordinary circumstances and not freaking out. There's also no sense of self-pity or despair (at least not in a traditional or cliche sense), he's not even self-deprecating, and the lack of these elements in and of itself is refreshing. This man is almost detached from reality and he also reads as a man with nothing left to lose and thus honest. No it's no wonder this story gripped us all, "fooled" us all. It's damn good writing. It's damn good characterization and we feel like we're getting an insider's take on that proverbial car wreck we can't take our eyes off of from someone who wouldn't lie to us because he can't be bothered to lie to us. He can't be bothered to think beyond where the plane he's on might land. This dialogue tells me so much about this man and makes him interesting, someone to watch. To a lesser extent I also can't take my eyes off the Flight Attendant. How calmly she answers the questions of a disheveled man sans his four front teeth and a hole in his cheek. What a way to open! And what a fantastic use of dialogue. Say what you will about Frey as a person, there are lessons to be learned from his book.

Exit Stage Left

So every Tuesday around these parts will be craft Tuesday and to kick it off, I wanted to talk Stage Directions. One of the #1 craft discussions I find myself having with new writers is the one about stage directions. And they often look at me like what? Yeah, it's the thing that doesn't ever get explicitly addressed when you're learning how to write in school. Subject/verb agreement? Yes. Show, don't tell? Yes. But stage directions? Not so much. But I'm here to tell you overuse of stage directions can be deadly.

Overuse of stage directions will often kill a narrative's pace. If a reader has to parse through too much "he reached his hand out to pull her chin closer to him" or "she turned to walk out of the room to answer the phone by picking up the receiver and when she did she twirled the cord and turned to face the bay window" you will surely lose your reader. When there is no way to get around specifying a character's movements, employ the rule of KISS--that's right, Keep It Simple, Sir. (Yeah, I know the last 's' doesn't really stand for Sir, but let's just pretend it does). Ultimately, you're writing a novel, not a play. Piling on the stage directions will slow your pace and lose your reader and ultimately lead to clunky, awkward writing and if you spend so much time describing stage directions, you're not spending time developing a sense of emotion on the page or deeply developing your characters or employing a sense of mood or even working to make use of language special. So as a craft exercise, go through your current WIP (work-in-progress) and isolate the use of stage directions and see what it would look like without. Specifically look for the use of words like turn, reach, look and walk and find an artful, simple way around the usage, especially repetitive usage. If a character is turning, reaching, looking or walking multiple times in close succession, you've got an awkward pile up of stage directions. Try it without the usages. I bet you'll like it. A more streamlined narrative will allow your narrative to breathe and do more artful, compelling things that will quicken your pace and keep your reader enthralled.

Stacey