BJ Hoff's GRACE NOTES

Fast Fiction Formula

Reprinted from archives of previous weblog

Have you noticed how many programs abound for writing fiction? Just Google "writing fiction" and see what you get. Books. Writing workshops and conferences. Instruction tapes. Internet seminars, internet classes, internet groups. Mentoring programs. Even computer software that will put you through the proper paces and when you’re finished--you have a completed novel. In only weeks. Or even days.

There are programs for left-brain writing technique--and right-brain writing technique. Tips on characterization. Setting. Plotting. Pacing. Story boarding. Viewpoint. Symbolism. Finding your genre. Finding your voice. Finding your agent. Finding your publisher. Personally, I need a program for finding my car keys at least once a day, but--you know.

Many of these programs, if they don’t promise, at least insinuate, "guaranteed results." Some have "steps" to follow. Others offer a "formula." Some promise a novel in a month. Others in ninety days. I saw one about creating fiction in five minutes. Honest–it’s out there.

Some of the advertising buzz words for these programs include: "Shortcuts." "Ten Easy Steps." (Or "Twelve"–or is that a different program?) "Fiction the Fast Way." "Write Your Novel in the Time It Takes to _____." (You fill in the blanks).

The common gimmick is that of learning to write fiction fast. And easy. Taking shortcuts. Whipping up a novel the same way you’d bake a cake: just follow my recipe and use the same ingredients. Guaranteed ten minutes from stirring to slicing.

Fast. Easy. Shortcuts.

Don’t we wish?

Here’s what I think--if I’m wrong I know you'll tell me--and if some of these programs have actually worked for you, that’s exciting (and I’d love to receive an autographed copy of your bestseller). However: in truth, I don’t believe there’s any such thing as a "shortcut" to creating good fiction. Good fiction. Just as there’s no real shortcut to becoming a piano virtuoso. Or a champion sports figure. Or a master artist. The program seems to consist of years and years of constant, at times grueling, numbing work and study. Work and study. Work and study. And the study I’m talking about isn’t learning to play the piano (or the violin or the harp or whatever your instrument of choice might be) in ten easy lessons. It involves dedication. Commitment. Study. Experience. And ... work. A lot of work. Years of work. That’s how the champion becomes a champion and the master artist a master artist and the virtuoso a virtuoso. They study in depth for years. And then they study more. And more.

They practice for years. And then they practice more. And more. Indeed, after a lifetime of practice, many profess that they still have much to learn.

Imagine that.

I do believe that conferences and workshops can serve a very real purpose for the aspiring writer. And so can mentors. And writing classes and books on writing and other instruction vehicles. It should all work together to take the student of writing where she wants to go.

But as for the "shortcuts," those quick and easy tricks that will enable the beginning writer (or any other writer, for that matter) to start at the top--I don’t think so.

If one were to ask the greats in their chosen professions about the "shortcuts" they took on their way to mastering their art, I have to wonder if they’d be amused or incensed.

Possibly the latter. And rightly so. After all, they'd probably hate to think they'd spent a lifetime developing their art when they could have used a formula or taken a shortcut and reached the top while they were still young enough to enjoy all the fun.

BJ

Looking for Stories in All the Wrong Places

It seems to me that one of the most important sections in the book, if not the most important, is the chapter on "Shaping the Story."

This contains one of the finest discussions I’ve yet to see on the frustration many new–and not so new–novelists face when they confront the subject of developing story. In a nutshell, the issue shouldn’t be how to "make up a story"--although for many a writer, that’s the precise stumbling block: making up a story. Koch maintains–and states what I’ve always believed–that stories are not made up–they’re found. Stories are discovered.

The obstacle so many novelists, especially "novice novelists" run into is the assumption that stories are delivered to "real" writers as complete, finished products. "Real writers," in this particular fantasy, don’t struggle or "excavate" to discover their stories: the stories are just plucked from the air and land in the writer’s lap as perfectly executed entities. All that’s left is the narration.

Koch quickly dismisses this as utter nonsense, and if the experience of over twenty years as a fiction writer can be relied on, so do I.

It’s this very issue that prevents me from plotting, indeed makes it impossible for me to plot, in the traditional sense of the word. You’ve heard it from me before: I begin with a character. Period. The rest of the way is as much an adventure for me as it is for my reader. That doesn’t mean I don’t gain a stronger and clearer sense of my story as I work through it. In truth, there’s no other way to "find" a story except to "tell" it.

But plotting isn’t the same as story–and that’s where so many writers encounter frustration. They have their ideas, perhaps the major characters as well, and even a sense of what the story is about. But how to tell it?

Think of it this way: the story is the train itself. The plot consists of the train cars that drive it. What happened to the Titanic is a story. The causes and consequences, the surprises and the technical "effects," the motivations and accidental events, even the back stories of the passengers and crew–these are the "cars" of the story.

Story is intuitive; plot is concrete.

This sounds like fairly obscure stuff until you do it a few times (write your novel or short story, that is), but once you get over being afraid that you won’t be able to tell your story the way it "deserves to be told," once you have a completed work to look back on, you’ll begin to understand where I’m coming from.

My "plotting," if I dare to call it that, comes much later in the story itself. It comes during and usually far into the progression and development–and that’s at least one of the reasons I’m not the most prolific writer around. However, like many other writers–you’d be surprised how many–I begin to "wear" the story, to sense the real story, quite a ways into it ... and then, and only then, can I begin to plot: to structure the story and get the mechanics going. This takes a lot of going back and forth, changing, rearranging, adding and deleting, rewriting and revising. A lot of time, a lot of exploring. But it’s the only way I can work. I had to write several books before I finally accepted the reality that this is my way of writing–the only way for me.

Although I’m familiar with a number of books on writing that explore this very issue, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen the layers peeled away from the process in quite the same fashion. Frankly, I think the above-mentioned chapter on shaping the story would justify the price of the book even if it were the only chapter included.

Two other writers who seem fascinated with the approach to and development of story and plotting are Stephen King and Dean Koontz. Whether or not you appreciate their writing style is irrelevant; both of them have written much and written well on this very subject. However, if you prefer a more "literary" approach because you don’t like admitting that you’re acquainted with "genre" or "commercial" fiction–or, if acquainted, find it vulgar–do some exploring on your own into what’s been written by some of our more literary novelists. You’ll find that many of them share the same philosophy of story as King, Koontz, and a host of others.

One caveat: since I’ve more or less endorsed Koch’s book, I should probably add that, while the Writer’s Workshop is highly readable, even enjoyable, it is not necessarily an "easy read" on the craft. Koch delves into areas that aren’t always explored in some of the more widely read books on writing, and he’s very thorough. It’s not a ten-step program for writing the bestseller (we have quite enough of those). It’s not about writing a bestseller at all. It’s about writing stories. Good ones.

And, no, he’s not a relative.

BJ

Reprinted from Archives of Previous Weblog

One of my favorite books on craft is the Modern Library Writer’s Workshop (Stephen Koch). If you’ve visited the "For Writers" area of my website or the "Writer’s Bookshelf" sidebar on my blog, you’ve seen it listed.

Selling Your Name

Reprinted from archives of previous weblog

(I've had a couple of special requests to reprint this, so here 'tis:)

There seems to be a practice–not a common one, but employed often enough that I’m frequently asked about it–of a publisher negotiating with an author (or the author’s agent) an "exclusive" arrangement that entitles the house to publish the author’s entire body of work for a specific number of years. This includes an agreement on the author’s part to publish all works under his/her name exclusively with that house for the term of the contract(s). There are variations on this, but one of the most common agreements prohibits the author from publishing with any other house under her own name, and sometimes prohibits even using a pen name. One of the variations is that she can publish a certain number of works with a different house, but only if the works are published under a pen name.

Another–more reasonable–approach is an exclusive agreement, but one that doesn’t actually restrict the author from publishing elsewhere. It’s more open-ended in that the only restriction is that the author won't publish other works elsewhere if they would be "in competition" with her work at the original publishing house.

These agreements are usually accompanied by a fairly sizable advance up front, the commitment of an impressive marketing plan, and other benefits.

The question to me has almost routinely been–what do I think of these agreements?

I’ll try to keep this as brief as possible, both because you might not want to know in full what I really think about this practice, but also because this is the kind of issue that calls for a more involved, lengthy response than I have time to give and you have time to read.

Here’s the thing: all too often, authors working without reputable agents (yes, there are other kinds of agents) or who are fairly new to the publishing industry can be easily led in this direction by some very attractive promises on the part of the publisher: large advances; marketing plans that on paper would seem to say "how can this miss?"; enough perks to make even the most seasoned author’s head swim, etc. Besides–what possible reason could an author have for turning down an arrangement that virtually shouts "they love me. They really love me! They believe in me so much they want me to work only with them forever!"

It’s not my responsibility or my place to offer definite advice on this issue. What I will say, however, is based on my experience for over two decades in the publishing business, as well as on the experience of a number of other authors who have actually "been there, done that"–and who, without hesitation, warn others to be careful. Be very, very careful. Some possibilities to consider, especially if you’re working without an agent or if you’re fairly inexperienced in publishing:

Publishers seldom make this kind of offer simply to benefit an author they "like" and "believe in." Publishing is, after all, a business, and no successful business is run by contracts based solely on benevolence. There is something for the publisher in this kind of agreement or it wouldn’t be offered. That’s just common sense. Business sense, and every author needs to develop a healthy dose of both.

There is a great deal of turnover in the publishing business–including Christian publishing--just just as there is in any other business. That editor you can’t imagine working without today may not be there tomorrow. Sadly, that’s not much of an exaggeration. I’ve worked in houses–as have other authors--where everyone with whom I worked when I first signed on, with one or two exceptions, was gone in less than a year. This comes about through termination (yes, unfortunately that happens in CBA, too) or resignation or illness or in-house transfer or other circumstances. In truth, it happens frequently. And not only among editors. That marketing department that’s so in love with your work right now and is making a colossal effort to build you into a household word–well, if there are four in the department, you can almost depend on saying good-bye to at least two of them within the next couple of years or so, perhaps to the entire deparment.

Then there’s the matter of acquisitions. Over the past few years I’ve seen some impossible-to-predict transitions and acquisitions occur in CBA–events that no one would have ever thought possible. It’s just–business.

Along these same lines, what if your publisher is acquired by a house with an entirely different philosophy of fiction, one that you know you can never embrace, even if you’re "allowed" to keep writing within your brand?

Let’s say you’re writing romantic suspense today, and that’s the genre the publisher wants to market as your "brand." And let’s assume that you can’t, in your wildest imagination, believe you’ll ever want to write in any other genre. But what if: Two years from now God sets a story in your heart that you know you must write–and it has nothing to do with the romantic suspense genre that’s your brand–and your publisher refuses to entertain the idea of your departing from that brand, even for one book–and you’re in one of those arrangements that doesn’t allow you to write anywhere else? Enough said?

At some point, the Lord, who just may not care a whit about "brands" and genres and exclusive contracts, might have something He wants to say through your writing. But you’re not available. If not before then, that’s the moment when you’ll realize that you’ve dug a hole from which you can’t free yourself. And it could be a painful moment indeed. For that matter, what if another publishing house approaches you with a project that they really, really want you to develop? You know it’s "right" for you, it’s "made for you," but your present publisher won’t release you from your contracts or grant an exception to the exclusivity agreement.

Lest you think my "what-ifs" are too extreme to even consider, perhaps I should mention that every one of them is taken from events that have happened, and the near certainty,  based on experience–my own and that of others–that they will undoubtedly keep right on happening.

Ah, you say, but my arrangement is different. It gives me the freedom to publish with whatever house I wish, so long as I use a pen name.

Listen–please. If you don’t hear anything else about this issue, hear this: if you’ve built even a small (but faithful) readership, or if you hope to do so, please remember that your readers, except in the beginning of your relationship, don’t buy title or publisher ...they buy your name. They buy you and your books. Readers don’t walk into a bookstore or go online and order the latest "Pink Hat Publishing House" title. If they can’t remember the title of your books–and that’s more common than we like to think–they can still buy or order or search for books by you. By your name.

Whatever you do, don’t sell your name. Don’t give any house, for any reason, the right to restrict your use of your own name. In the long run, that big up-front advance and all the juicy perks that go with it won’t be worth it. You will eventually pay too high a price.  Just ... don’t.

As I mentioned earlier, there are more reasonable arrangements, ones not so detrimental to the author over the long haul. And I have no problem recognizing the worth or the benefits of some of them. My concern has to do with agreements that would have you selling yourself, and your name–and at least attempting to deprive you of the freedom to write what you want, when you want, and for whom you want. These arrangements are happening. I’ve had them pushed at me several times–and, yes, of course, I’ve been tempted--and if you haven’t yet, sooner or later you’ll likely have them offered to you. Let me just add one more thing: I will be forever grateful, for any number of reasons, now that I have the advantage of hindsight, that I continued to resist. I’ve heard the same from other authors–and, sorry to say, I’ve heard the regrets from those authors who didn’t resist.

There is much said about "publishing loyalty," and it’s sometimes used as leverage in these exclusive agreements. But loyalty is a two-way street. If you see your publisher trying hard for you, believing in you, doing the best job possible to market your work and take care of the publishing environment you need as a writer, aren’t you going to want to stay with that publisher? Won’t that kind of loyalty to you only naturally breed loyalty on your part to the publisher? An exclusive contract won’t build that kind of loyalty–but it’s been known to destroy what was already in existence.

No publisher is likely to deliberately set out to mislead authors or involve us in an arrangement that will be harmful to our careers. We do that to ourselves, by not being well-informed, by not making thoughtful, careful judgements, and by not seeking the expertise of a qualified agent or attorney if we’re in doubt as to what’s in our best interests.

Don’t ever be afraid to ... just say no. It will not wreck your career. In fact, it might even save it.

BJ

Orange Barrels and Potholes

Reprinted from archives of previous weblog

Writers and those who want to be writers have more enemies than we might imagine, one of the most vicious being a lack of confidence.

We always tend to assume that we’re alone in the ongoing battle against this opponent. Beginning writers are especially vulnerable to this assumption and seem to fall into one of two categories as to why they don't always admit to their shaky self-confidence: either they fear that they might appear "unprofessional," or else they're afraid that, by confessing their feelings of inadequacy, they might invite the opinion of their peers that they really are lesser writers, somehow inferior in their craft.

I’d love to be able to dispel the idea that you're the only one who lacks confidence in a universe of can-do people. Writers have more than enough uncertainties to spur anxiety as they make the journey to publication and, perhaps, success. But the best I can do is to assure you that you are definitely not alone, that in fact you would likely be amazed by the number of esteemed and successful writers who have always suffered, and probably will always suffer, from frequent engagements with this particular foe.

These crises of confidence are common to us all. For some, it’s an almost debilitating issue and one of the primary reasons for the widespread depression among writers. For others, it’s more of a cyclical occurrence, depending on what’s happening--or not happening--with their work. Even some of the "greats" find It next to impossible to keep the lid on their anxieties, often because they fall into the trap of comparing themselves with their peers--a deadly practice. Others consistently sabotage what little confidence they’ve managed to attain by allowing the least little failure or disappointment to throw them off balance, to the point that they spiral downward a degree at a time until they can no longer summon the stamina or the courage to go on.

Many things can create despair or despondency in a writer, feeding one’s tendency to stall out, to draw back from the work and either conjure excuses that make it easier to quit entirely or else fall into long periods of idleness. Even reading a book by a brilliant writer, instead of fueling the fire to work harder, to learn more, to aspire to greatness, can, because of the perceived lack in one’s own ability as contrasted with that of a "truly great writer," crush his hopes and bring him to a point where he simply gives up and goes in search of another vocation. Although a variety of "treatments" for these bouts of fear and doubt have been suggested, I’ve never yet heard the claim that a "cure" exists, that the writer still won’t at times suffer the assaults of sagging self-confidence and fear of inadequacy.

The commonly held thought seems to be that published writers, especially the fortunate few who achieve huge success, sit down at their computer with full confidence in their ability to create yet another masterpiece and let their fingers fly happily over the keys in strokes of brilliance. The truth is that many writers–-even the "great ones"--battle severe depression or its milder cousin, nagging doubt, on a continual basis, never being entirely free of the fear of failure or at least the dread that the critics might brand them as failures.

What do you do about it? As I said, I don’t believe there really is a cure. But based on experience–-my own and that of other writers–-here’s what I think. First, recognize the fact that you are not alone in your fears, your doubts, your insecurities. To the contrary, you’re a member of a very large club, and there’s likely no emotion you face that isn’t faced by all the other members. Next, refuse to dwell on what you fear you can’t do and focus on what you believe you can do. Give no quarter to that ugly little whisper asking you who you think you are, that you would actually be arrogant enough to assume that a waiting public wants to read anything you have to say. In fact, there is a public who wants to read what you have to say, and you’re going to say it differently than anyone else can. And if you’re published and receive a few bad reviews, remember that those writing the reviews may never accomplish what you have: seeing a work through to completion and publication.

Last--but perhaps the most important, based on what I’ve heard from a number of writers, don’t ever compare your gift, your ability, your work with that of any other writer. Never. It’s a dangerous, debilitating mistake. You will accomplish absolutely nothing other than to deepen the depression that has already taken hold of you, or else you’ll bring on a new round of it. Either way, you’ll cloud your objectivity and place yourself in position to fall prey to an even darker adversary, that of jealousy.

Allow God to develop your gift as He wants. He gave it to you, after all, and He knows all about this journey which He has set you on--every detour, every roadblock, every rest area. Keep in mind that if He gifted you, and if you’ve accepted the gift and long to use it to the best of your ability and His glory, then your role in the partnership is not to map out the destination or even the routes you’re to take but simply to keep your eye on the road. Not on all the SUVs flying past you or on the traffic and orange barrels slowing you down or even the potholes that might open up before you ... but on the road. Straight ahead. Nowhere else.

And ... you might also remind yourself every now and then that you’re not the only car on the freeway who occasionally runs low on gas.

BJ

The Partnership of Art and Craft

Reprinted from Archives of Previous Weblog

In his exquisite book, The Craft of Writing, one of my long-time favorite books on that very subject, William Sloane, brilliant teacher, editor, and publisher wrote these words: "Craftsmanship is ... not particularly admired today .... It is supposed to betoken an absence of creativity to a certain extent. A well-constructed piece of fiction is assumed, if it seems very neat and tight, to have lost something .... our age does not care very much about Craftsmanship."

Sloane died in 1974. The above words were written years before then. But aren't they timely? They still resonate with writers today who believe that craft is crucial, that undisciplined creativity, while it might produce flashes of brilliance and a following of admirers,will ultimately fall short of greatness if not employed with skill and respect of one's art and one's readers.

More from Sloane: "In some circles a ridiculous prejudice exists in favor of art at the expense of the craft out of which it develops. Academics, the bad ones, speak scornfully of ‘popularizing.’ If a thing is entertaining, in any sense, they are suspicious of its merit."

Sound familiar?

Like Sloane, I will admit that art cannot be taught. "No more than the greatness it conveys." But also like Sloane, I agree that "what can be taught is technique, craft, method, understanding of the medium." Many times Sloane reminds us in his small book that "The craft of writing serves the art of writing and sharpens it."

Is he saying that the full potential of art and its greatness may never be fulfilled without the mastery of its craft?

That’s how it sounds to me. And Sloane could not have been in a better position to make that judgment.

BJ

Stardust

Reprinted from archives of previous weblog

"...And, you will be very careful that the dust the crowd is raising may not dim your vision of His face." S. D. Gordon

I've come across this sentence from the writings of S. D. Gordon in the past, and recently I happened on it again in the book, His Victorious Indwelling, edited by Nick Harrison (a Zondervan publication). Gordon's words in this passage are worth committing to memory. He's speaking here of the importance of listening to the voice of Jesus, following his guidance, taking the way He's chosen for us. To more clearly put it in context, here's a part of what goes before:

"If perhaps the chosen road then leads to crowds and the praise of men, you will be knowing that it was His leading that brought you there, not your own wisdom or talent .... You will also be very careful not to disappoint or thwart His plans. And, you will be very careful that the dust the crowd is raising may not dim your vision of His face." (emphasis mine)

"The dust the crowd is raising ..."

When the great soprano, Jenny Lind (referred to as "the Swedish Nightingale") abruptly left her stellar singing career, she gave as her reason her belief that her career had begun to draw her away from God and feared that it might eventually separate her from Him entirely. She quit at the very pinnacle of fame as an international "star," to the dismay of the crowds who had crowned her with success. God's hold on her life, her love and devotion--and evidently more than a little insight into her own nature--enabled her to realize that the "dust" the crowd was raising might indeed dim her vision of His face.

My American Anthem series deals with this very thing throughout the entire trilogy, although I didn't plan it that way. But the issues about which we feel most strongly have a way of insinuating themselves into our fiction, and I'll admit that God placed this particular caution on my heart almost from the beginning of my own writing career. No doubt that's why the concept appears from time to time in my novels, in interviews, and in other writings--even in a web log.

D. L. Moody, the great evangelist and preacher--and a man accustomed to huge acclaim and the following of international crowds--was known to despise the limelight. Moody often spoke of the danger of "man worship," repeating over and over again the need to continually "sink the self," and the premise that our human nature desires the "great and the mighty," but God's way is to use the "foolish and despised things."

Moody wrote uncompromisingly about this issue: "If we lift up ourselves and say we have got such great meetings and such crowds are coming, and get to thinking about crowds and about the people, and get our minds off from God, and are not constantly in communion with Him, lifting our hearts in prayer, this work will be a stupendous failure."

"A stupendous failure." Harsh words. But words that have proven all too true.

God knows all about the hazards of success and celebrity. Certainly, his Son could have been born among all the trappings of wealth and royalty instead of holding court in a stable. Christ could just as easily have singled out twelve rich and learned men, aristocrats and noblemen, to study with Him, to spread the Gospel, and to serve. Instead, He chose a somewhat questionable mix that included a number of impetuous fishermen, a tax collector, and a fire-breathing Pharisee. The King of Kings could have hobnobbed with the creme de la creme, but instead seemed to prefer the company of the lowly, the downtrodden, the very dregs of society.

It would almost lead one to believe that God's idea of success differs radically from our own.

It's not that He doesn't bring some of his people to success. Of course He does. And it's not that He doesn't use the successes of His people to achieve His own ends. He does indeed. But it's more about what his people do with success, whether we crown it as Lord or hold it loosely and sacrifice it willingly.

Let's be honest. Who among us would want to be among the "foolish and despised things" God may use? It's far more pleasant to think of using whatever success--or "greatness"--we may gain to "further God's glory." And it's much more natural to equate, in human terms, success with wealth, fame, recognition, respect, and prestige. Musicians might relate success to the number of albums sold, acclaim of the crowds, demand for concerts and benefit performances, and--wealth. Artists might consider success in terms of private showings, the respect of their peers throughout the art community, and--wealth. Movie stars predictably see success as "star billing," the choice of any role desired, Academy Awards, adulation of the fans, and--wealth.

And authors? Publishers knocking (even pounding) on the door, hitting the top of the bestseller charts, literary awards, never-ending requests for interviews and keynote speeches, and–of course ... wealth.

I could go on and on (and have in other times and in other places) about what celebrity and success can do, the havoc and even destruction they can wreak, on an artist's life. But most of us can look around for ourselves and see--or reminisce and call to mind--the spiritual depletion and occasional spiritual breakdown born of the deception of success. Let the point rest on the words and wisdom of those mentioned above, those who have extended warnings and admonitions more incisive than I ever could.

Stardust. Celebrity fever. Fame frenzy. The lust for success. It eventually forms a veil that clouds our spiritual eyes. It can burn ... and it can blind. It can flaw the way we view those we admire, and it can skew our perception of ourselves.

How do we, as authors, handle any dust the crowds may raise? How do we keep it from blurring our vision of God, from building a barrier between us and our Lord? How do we control it instead of allowing it to control us?

Maybe in another entry ...

BJ

About Those Happy Endings ....

Reprinted from Previous Weblog

If you’ve been writing in the CBA industry for very long (or if you read some of the general market trade pubs), no doubt you’ve heard some of the more common (make that overused and increasingly tiresome )criticisms leveled at the fiction published in the CBA market ... or, for that matter, some of the Christian worldview fiction published in the general market as well ... such as "stereotypical, one-dimensional characters;" "sanitized relationships;" "froth;" "predictable plots;" "lightweight’" etc. ad nauseam. One that currently seems to be a favorite has to do with the "obligatory happy ending."

I can’t help but question whether all writers of Christian fiction are writing only "happy endings," or if all readers of Christian fiction are demanding those happy endings. I think most authors of Christian fiction, or faith fiction, do try to provide an ending with hope. It would seem to be a flagrant disregard of our belief as Christians if we didn’t include hope in what we write. That’s not necessarily the same thing as a happy ending, but if you listen to the critics and armchair reviewers–-well, you already know what I mean.

For those who would have us believe that it's only the readers and authors of Christian or faith fiction who are unable to read or write a novel without a happy ending, a recent article in the Columbus Dispatch might be somewhat enlightening. In case you don’t know who Elizabeth George is, she’s the highly esteemed author of a series of best-selling British mysteries that sell hundreds of thousands of copies with each release. Interestingly, she’s an American--but until I read her biography not too long ago I would never have guessed as much. Many critics have praised her for writing a better British mystery than most British authors. She’s considered to be in the same league as Agatha Christie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and others. Oh-–and she’s published in the general market, not in CBA.

Ms. George also penned an excellent book on writing, Write Away, one I highly recommend to aspiring writers (although her fans would most likely object to any recommendation of her work, given their present state of outrage.)

That’s right: outrage. It seems that in her most recent novel (With No One as Witness), Ms. George committed the unforgivable act of allowing a tragedy to befall one of the major characters in her ongoing series. And her fans are livid. The author finds herself defending what she considered a necessary plot twist. To say she’s been surprised by the vehement protests received on her website and through her publishing house would be an understatement. You can read the article for yourself at the Columbus Dispatch: http://www.columbusdispatch.com (You may have to register first, but it’s free.) The complete AP article, written by Ben Fox, is found in the archives of the Life/Arts section.

In brief, the rants are numerous and heated from a number of her ... ah... general market readers, many who claim to have "put her on the best-seller list," and who now refer to themselves as "former" readers. They feel "betrayed;" "disgusted;" and "angry." It has also been suggested that copies of the book be returned to the author. All this in spite of the fact that Ms. George has explained that the "offending plot is necessary to the arc of her characters." (To disgruntled readers, I’d say take note: this is her book and her characters.)

Well, there you have it: apparently some general market readers want their happy endings every bit as much as readers of Christian fiction, although that will surely come as a surprise to many. Of course, the most astonishing thing of all would be to discover that even readers of "literary fiction" also enjoy a happy ending every now and then. But some say that’s not likely to happen, because if there’s a happy ending, then would it really be"literary fiction?"

Incidentally, Ms. George is a writer of true excellence. I’ve mentioned her here before, and I believe I’ve read most of her books (but not the most recent "offensive title," although I plan to get to it soon.) I think, as do many of her readers, that her British mysteries actually transcend genre, and her characters are some of the most intricately drawn and interesting you’re likely to meet in a mystery. (Trust me: if any author can lead me to actually enjoy a British mystery, she is a true wordsmith and a wonder of a writer.)

BJ

Feelings

Reprinted from archives of previous weblog

Lately it seems that one of the more frequent charges against novels written from a Christian worldview--or even those that aren’t, but do contain a glint of light or hope–-is that of "sentimental fiction." It’s leveled against CBA fiction especially, but also some works in the general market as well.

Clearly, the reviewers are using the words "sentiment" and "sentimental" in their most negative meanings. The inference is that the writing is mawkish, opinionated, and employs excessive, affected emotion. There’s a legitimate case for this criticism with some fiction. If you read with an eye open to ways the author "works" to kindle certain emotions in you as a reader--sadness, sympathy, elation, outrage, etc.--you might detect certain deliberate attempts to squeeze out the responses the author is hoping for. Most often you can spot these ploys by the main character’s emphasis on his/her own feelings. Instead of writing in such a way to bring the reader into the character’s world and her life, an author may effect a dramatic stream of emotional thoughts or dialogue, telling how the character feels, or "showing" those feelings by the use of florid prose or scenes with overwritten, turbulent conflict between characters.

You may already be aware that a novel doesn’t necessarily have to contain "too much emotion" or "false emotion" to be considered "sentimental fiction" by the critics. Faith fiction seems to be a favorite target. One almost gets the impression that the less real emotion, the better. Seldom, if ever, do you see this criticism hurled at a "literary novel." Why would we, when emotion is deliberately kept always on the periphery in literary fiction, if it exists at all?

This negative approach to sentimentality in fiction is, as I’ve said, frequently justified. It exists, both in general market novels and in CBA novels. But more and more we can see a trend toward an indiscriminate use of this same criticism. It seems as if it’s become all too easy for reviewers and critics to pass this judgment on a whim. There are certain elements that will almost automatically evoke the label of "sentimental fiction," especially in regard to "Christian fiction" or "genre fiction" (a term that sometimes is used more to belittle than to categorize). For example: devotion (as in the devotion of the faithful or religious); romance (especially the "light" romantic story or the love stories depicted in inspirational novels, as opposed to an explicitly sexual, often dark story of destructive passion; morality; and patriotism. (That one is almost guaranteed to touch off a particularly wild-eyed censure.)

If you’re wondering how this relates to your writing, I mention it especially for those writers who have no intention or desire to completely eliminate emotion from their fiction, but at the same time resent having their work slammed as "sentimental," often by critics who insist on labeling fiction according to their own personal tastes. Frankly, I find the truly unemotional, dispassionate story–-no matter how extraordinary the writer’s technique and style happen to be--deadly boring. If a novel’s characters feel nothing, react to nothing, care about nothing, then I find myself leaning toward the conclusion that there is nothing in this book I care about reading ... and go looking for a better book.

That doesn’t mean I have any patience with the author who deliberately tries to wring emotion from me, whatever emotion that might be. Let’s face it: when you’ve been writing (and reading) for years, you can see those efforts to manipulate your emotions coming at you, and it's annoying, at the least. I do, however, believe that genuine, natural emotion in the hands of a skillful, compassionate writer is a good thing, a necessary element and vital to our enjoyment of fiction.

So what is genuine sentiment in fiction? How do we avoid the too-obvious attempts to make our readers feel what we want them to feel? We write with compassion as opposed to sentimentality. We learn to love our characters. We learn to respect them as people, as individuals, so we can honestly care, and care deeply, about what happens to them. Even our dark characters, our antagonists, deserve to be developed fully and realistically. No matter how unlikable or even despicable they may be, they still deserve our understanding, our honesty.

What we don’t do is purposely attempt to kindle sorrow or elation or indignation or frustration or any of the other emotions familiar to all readers. Instead we develop characters in whom these emotions will come forth naturally as the characters work through the events of their lives. In this way, we allow emotion to exist and be revealed in and by our characters. We bring characters to our fiction who are so alive that the reader can feel the breath of those characters on her face as they pass by.

That won’t eliminate criticism of our fiction, especially if we’re writing novels that include hope and redemption. There is simply no way, no matter how brilliantly one may write, to avoid negative reviews from critics who refuse to allow a place for the Christian worldview, who disparage that worldview, even detest it. But if our characters are so real, so living, that we can follow them through their world and their lives with understanding and respect and compassion, we can offer our readers the opportunity to do the same.

We need to remember that readers don’t care in the least about reviews or criticism of our work. They care about the reading experience we can give them, the story–-the temporary world they can enter through our skill and artistry as writers, and perhaps what they can bring out of that world as a grace or an idea or an insight.

We need to hold that thought and take a lesson from our readers.

BJ

Begin Before the Beginning

Reprinted from archives of previous weblog

One of the things I’m often asked by beginning novelists is where to begin. What comes first: the plot, the characters, the "message" (that one makes me shudder)--what? At first glance, that might seem like an easy question. Shouldn’t you first have a story to tell?

Well ... not necessarily at first. Ursula LeGuin says in her book on writing, Steering the Craft, that "pace and movement depend above all on rhythm, and you have to hear your writing to feel its rhythm."

If you really want to write fiction, first test the "sound" of your writing. Do a few simple paragraphs at random about different subjects, or make up a few brief tales and write them quickly and without editing. Now read them aloud and see how they sound to you. Dull, as if written in a monotone voice? Choppy and jerky? Tediously long, rambling sentences?

But do you hear a rhythm? I promise you, there is one. Your writing will have, or should have, a rhythm. It may not be a pleasant rhythm or a consistent rhythm or even a noticeable rhythm. But there will be a certain cadence, a pace, a rhythm that you might or might not be able to detect with your first attempt at "listening to your writing." And the more you write, the more that rhythm may change and evolve.

What I’m getting at is that we need to develop a reader’s ear--and ultimately a writer’s ear. Because if your fiction writing doesn’t have a rhythm that’s solely yours, a pacing and a flow that "sings" and "moves," your writing will suffer. And your readers will suffer boredom.

If you’re scratching your head and wondering how weird is this, it’s actually very logical. Read--both aloud and silently-–a few paragraphs from a novel written by one of your favorite writers, someone whose work holds strong appeal for you. Then read something from another novel by a writer either unknown to you or one whose work you don’t like at all. See if you don’t detect a marked difference in the "sound" of the writing.

There are a few things you can do to help develop this "ear." If you’re an avid reader (and I assume you are, or else what would prompt you to write), you’re already doing the most important exercise that will enable you to listen to your own writing. If you have a musical background, you may already have this "ear." But even if you don’t, you can listen to music--and I strongly suggest you do. I don’t mean during your writing process, although many writers do have music playing while they work. But if you find music distracting while you write, then listen when you’re not working. And listen to different kinds of music so you take in a variety of forms and rhythms.

Another way to develop your ear is to listen to books on tape. But two cautions here: first, listen to only books written by those you know to be excellent writers, although even then some of the poorer audio readers may slaughter the writer’s rhythm. And be careful of the genre you’re reading in. If you’re writing or even experimenting with historical fiction, for example, be careful not to listen to too many contemporary audio books or read only in contemporary fiction. That can eventually color your own writing "rhythm" and "style."

You can trust me on this: the keener your listening ear--your reading and writing ear--the more likely it is that your fiction will flow and have rhythm and movement and grace. For some, it takes place over a period of years before they even begin to write fiction. For others, it’s almost an innate thing, a sixth sense. But for those who don’t recognize the importance of this until later, there is always time to start "training."

Odd as it may seem, writing fiction is perhaps one of the few endeavors in which it’s a plus to begin before the beginning.

BJ

Write Grace

Reprinted from archives of previous weblog

It occurred to me this morning that as Christian novelists we’re continually aware of elements we don’t want to include in our work. There are excesses and "freedoms" and improprieties that simply don’t belong in the writing of those who create from a Christian worldview. Just as an artist has choices in the elements she chooses to paint, so does the writer have choices in the stories he chooses to develop, the words he uses, the imaginary worlds he creates, and the people who inhabit those worlds.

We frequently hear grumbling about the "restrictions" of fiction written from a Christian worldview, about too many "do’s and don’t’s." But the truth is that we have many more choices for what we can write than what we shouldn’t write: a world of choices, really--a wealth of resources from which to draw whatever we need in order to create and add richness and beauty to our creation. The settings in which we place our stories, the characters in those stories, the arenas in which they contend and struggle, succeed and fail, what they give and what they take: with such limitless material at our disposal, need we really be concerned about what we can’t do?

An element which I long ago committed to keep always a part of my fiction is that of grace. I want to write grace, to weave naturally and freely, if subtly, through my stories the grace of God ... to have story people who are not only touched by divine grace but who also extend it to others ... and to explore the ways in which grace makes a difference in our lives and in our world.

One line of thought would have us believe that for fiction to be "realistic" or "edgy" or "convicting," it must also be void of redemption and tenderness and hope. But not only is that dishonest fiction, it’s also unrealistic fiction. For the Christian writer, to even make a pretense of writing a novel without hope, without grace, would be a lie and an affront to everything we believe. In truth, I don't think I would ever write another word...I don’t believe I could...if I had to work in such a bleak, desolate climate.

Some of the finest novels I've read, both literary and commercial and whether published in the general market or in CBA, do more than keep grace a peripheral element of the story, but allow it to be an essential of the story. We spend much time in our fictive worlds among our story people. I want those landscapes to be fertile and rich, and no matter how troubling the times or severe the struggles or torturous the pain, I want my characters--and my readers--to know hope and grace.

As Christian writers, may we always have the courage and the conviction to write grace.

BJ