Yes, it's that time again, boys and girls. Time when everything else goes to the back of the room until the manuscript-in-process is completed. Time when life-as-I-know-it retreats to the shadows as I face ... The Deadline.
That said, unless some extraordinary event that simply won't wait for comment occurs in the meantime, you'll hear from me ... after I type "The End."
May it be soon.
BJ
Ah, those mannerisms writers love to use to tag and characterize and move our people around. All--or at least most--of these are fine to use--sparingly. It's the over-use that hurts. Editors, of course, are all too familiar with these tags. Recently Nick Harrison, senior editor at Harvest House, offered a few that he sees over-used. I've added several of my own (and some of these are self-indicting. I have more than one "precious.")
Impatient shrug. Curling lips. Thin-lipped smile. A smile that doesn't quite meet the eyes. Furrowed brows. Lip biting, chewing, or gnawing. Hair raked. Heart pounding. Heart skipping a beat. Studying hands. Swallowing hard. Forcing a smile. Blood draining from the head. Stomach knotted. Stomach clenched. Lifted or arched eyebrow. Nostrils flaring. Tucking a strand of hair behind the ear. Muscles in the jaw twitching. Forcing a smile. The lowering of eyes. Narrowing of eyes. Dropping of eyes. Capturing another's eyes. Shooting a look. Ghost of a smile. Drawing a long breath. Tilting of head. Inclining of head. Shaking of head. Wrinkling of nose. Bridled anger. Roaring din. Bubbling joy--okay, somebody stop me!
Feel free to add to the list. I'm sure there are dozens more out there, just waiting to be recognized.
BJ
I suppose I should mention that this isn't an opinion piece. Well, there may be a few opinions sprinkled here and there, but mostly it's an entry about a few news bits going round--a "word is" piece.
(1) Word is ... that Chick-Lit is dead or at least dying, not only in CBA, but in the general market as well--and that it's too far gone to resuscitate, at least in its original form.
(2) Word is ... that historical fiction is on the upswing and in hot demand again.
(3) Word is ... that in spite of the best and most energetic efforts of some of our better fantasy and science fiction writers and fans to make their genre or genres work, sales aren't enough to create much interest or a demanding presence in CBA or in the general market. It's always been especially difficult to create enthusiasm in CBA for fantasy and/or sci-fi, and that apparently hasn't changed.
(4) Word is ... that the CBA market needs to offer a wider variety of genres and more titles that appeal to the general audience as well as their own evangelical "niche" market. The buzz about the need for "edgier" fiction and "literary" fiction never quite goes away. The thought in some circles is that publishers are missing the boat on this one.
That said ... wait, there's more. There's both reality in the above mumurings but some overreaction as well. Again, taken from those who know the business: agents, editors, publishers, marketing, and sales people, here are at least some of the facts:
About (1): Yes, the Chick-Lit genre is fading fast. It's said that it's as good as gone. One--and only one--of the reasons for its demise that has to be considered is that the market was glutted with too many similar stories, told in too many similar voices--to the point that most of the novels began to sound alike. Sound familiar? It's happened before. Remember the Gothic novels of the sixties and seventies? The "bodice-ripper" historicals? The "recovery" craze? The "angels" trend? That's what I mean by a glutted market with too much similarity in the offerings.
No doubt a few of the more popular writers will continue to sell for an indeterminate period of time, but many of these same authors are also looking for ways to blend and turn the genre to new directions in order to provide readers fresh new stories in a variety of different formats and keep their presence in the market vital and distinctive. Because some of these authors are very good writers and savvy about marketing, you can count on them to do just that. And readers will benefit from the creative challenges they meet and the changes they make.
Regarding (2): Yes, it's true. (Do I hear a few cheers from the historical writers and readers corner?) Agents and editors confirm it: the historical novel that only a few years ago had slipped somewhat--but not completely fallen--from popularity is again on a roll.
Regarding the fantasy/science fiction genres (3)--this really isn't news, but it's been difficult for some to accept. Even so, it's been the reality for years now. Some inroads have been made in CBA, but by only a very few authors, with some critical acclaim but only modest sales. Consequently, the market has not yet embraced the genres. Entire movements have sprung up, especially on the internet, with the common theme that it's only a matter of time before science fiction and fantasy are "discovered," that publishers need to do more to help build the genres--sign more authors and produce more (quality) novels in these genres--the thought being that once the publishers catch on to this simple formula and finally catch the vision of the vast audience out there, things will change. The "if you build it, they will come," scenario. After all, if it works in the general market, it will eventually catch fire in the CBA market.
Unfortunately, the solution isn't that simple. Even in the general market, fantasy and science fiction don't account for broad enough sales to allow the genres to grow much beyond where they are, and where they've been, for years now. The greater response is still for only a limited number of authors and titles. And because, as has been frequently pointed out, CBA is a much smaller market--a so-called niche market--it's also a more complicated, difficult market to "crack."
About (4): the reality is that CBA does today offer a generous variety of genres--so many more now than was the case even a decade ago that for those of us who have been in the industry several years, the change has been fascinating, and at times virtually amazing, to watch. Of course, we can always do more. But for those who weren't acquainted with the CBA market until a few years ago, you can't begin to realize how much things have changed.
Here's what connects all the above, including the cries for more "edgy" and more "literary" fiction: it's in the hands of the consumers. The readers. Those who buy the books. Publishers have to offer what will sell, or soon they won't be in business. Yes, it's a business. And yes, we would hope that this business also incorporates ministry and even some idealism as well, but it remains--and must remain--a business.
This is an example of the publishing business often passed on to new writers: publishing is a chain. The writer sends a manuscript to the publisher ... the publisher buys the manuscript and publishes it ... the marketing and sales people go about showing, publicizing, and selling the book to the bookstores ... the bookstores sell the book to their customers--the readers. If this chain breaks down at any point, you have trouble, possibly failure. You can take a powerfully written book of pure excellence, published by a house that gives it all the best in promotion and marketing, then placed in the hands of an enthusiastic, eager sales force who sell it into bookstores that are convinced it's the next bestseller, and then ...
See what's happening? The chain is still intact, although it could break at any link. But this time it gets all the way into the bookstore before it breaks at the point of the readers ... because they don't buy it. No matter how good it is, no matter how much faith the publisher had in it or how excited the marketing and sales people were about it and how high the hopes of the booksellers were for it, if there's something about that book that doesn't connect with the readers, that's the breakdown of the chain. It can be related to lack of interest or suspicion of the genre or something about the cover--or any number of elements--but the sad reality is that that the chain can remain unbroken right down to the final link ... and still fail.
Publishers, marketing and sales, and bookstore buyers are a part of the process: but the real power lies with the consumer. The reader.
And that's not news. It's just reality. A reality that writers learn--or need to learn--to live with.
BJ
Hang around the publishing world very long, and you're almost certain to become more familiar than you might like to be with the word "brand." It's an issue often discussed among writers: in fact, as recently as this week, it's been a topic of conversation on a writers' group of which I'm a member.
Writers, particularly fiction writers, have a "brand." Brands are sometimes fairly simple to define: for example, John Grisham is known for his "legal thrillers." Nora Roberts for romance and romantic suspense. Elizabeth George for the British mystery. Janette Oke for her Canadian prairie love story. Louis L'Amour for his westerns. Etc.
Some brands are a little more complicated, and that's why confusion can set in. How an author is branded can even depend on which publisher or editor she's publishing with. For the most part, though, what I've gleaned from editors and my agent is that a writer's brand is what his fiction has come to be identified with--what booksellers and readers expect when they buy an author's books. That means that it has alot to do with genre, but even more with what they "get" from a novel's characters, its story, and the author's "voice."
Nick Harrison, senior editor at Harvest House Publishers, says that "branding doesn't always have to be the exact same time frame ... it's not the exact locale or era that always determines the brand ..."
It does seem that problems can develop for the author who steps too far away from her genre and her voice--from all the elements that make up her brand. For example, if a writer has been "branded" for years in romantic suspense and almost always writes in third person, and in a series format, then publishes a first-person, literary novel as a stand-alone story, the switch can be difficult for his readers--and the bookstore people will eventually hear about it. (He'll probably be going against his agent's and editor's better instincts as well.)
On the other hand, if an author is solidly "branded" in historical fiction, almost always writes in third person and in the series format during the World War I era, then publishes a series, still written in third person, but in the World War II time frame, that's a transition that will usually be accepted.
There are exceptions, naturally. Some writers have such a strong, compelling voice that's similar in almost any time frame and in any setting--and such huge sales histories--that they can get away with moving from one format to another and not suffer too much negative reaction. Yet you still have to wonder if their readership might not have been happier had they not changed courses after so many years.
John Grisham is an example. After a number of gripping legal thrillers, he published an altogether different kind of novel--The Painted House--and a nonfiction title--The Innocent Man. These were real departures from his usual fiction, and although they sold well--it's Grisham, after all--there was some grumbling from his readers who wished he'd return to what the publishing industry refers to as his original "brand."
Two authors come to mind whose novels seem to defy the need to stay within a certain brand--and yet if you take a closer look, you'll find that, for the most part, the novels of Jodi Picoult and Angie Hunt, while they might first appear to fall into no particular brand, actually do fall under a kind of brand: each writes contemporary, uncompromising stories dealing with current, often serious issues of major concern to today's readers, and often containing elements of surprise we can't see coming until the very end. This in itself is a kind of brand. And one that works very well for each author.
For new writers, this issue of brand can be a source of anxiety and frustration. There's enough emphasis, by some publishers, but not all, put on author brand that new writers sometimes think they need to define their brand right away, even before they publish their first novel. Again, I especially like what Nick Harrison has to say about this: " ... a new writer probably needs to worry less about branding and more about learning to be a really good writer ... branding is not among a beginning writer's primary problems. If he or she is a good writer, an agent or their editor will help them decide when/if branding should become a priority."
I'm currently working on something a little different (for me, that is), but I'm also keeping intact some elements that my readers have come to expect: an historical time frame, at least one Irish American character, and a noble, large dog. I think many writers, after publishing for several years, feel the urge to try something a little different. That's what this is for me--something I've wanted to try for a "change" in a setting that's long interested me, but also, I think, comfortably falls within the brand my readers will be anticipating.
With all the buzz about brand, though, I'll admit I'm glad and even relieved that I was "branded" before I ever heard the word or knew what it meant. That made it easy for me: I learned my brand from the publisher. I hate to think what I might have come up with if I'd had to figure it out for myself!
BJ
One of my answers to a question in the recent Q & A entry seems to have prompted another question. A reader wrote to ask me what I meant by my reference to the "travelogue type of description."
Think of a guide who's taking us on a tour. Just for the sake of example, let's say we're visiting a spacious old mansion in the historical district of a city--any city. The guide might offer this: "On your left, you'll see the twenty-four steps leading up to the wide-plank porch. The porch, which incidentally was built by Col. Marston himself with the help of his brother, is temporarily in a state of disrepair, but we can walk across it to catch a view of the western gardens. Just be sure to hold tightly to the bannister. Be careful--it leans a little. First, though, notice the solid oak double doors and the six stained glass windows on either side. The doors were hung by master carpenter Giovanni Antolini, a resident of our city, but the windows were imported from Italy. Mrs. Marston, you may have noticed in your brochure, grew up in Rome. The dominant blue shades in the glass represent a lake, and the gold and crimson reflect the sunset of a summer evening. Lovely, aren't they? The window on the far left is missing, as you can see. Vandalism, I'm afraid. It happens, especially here in the inner city. Now, then, on your right ..."
That's what I mean by the "travelogue type of description." Overly detailed--even a little fussy--overly precise. And overwritten. Although it might be acceptable for a tour guide, it's not acceptable in fiction. And yet I see it all the time, and I imagine you do, too. It's a kind of "purple prose."
When we provide description of setting, we need very few details--emphasis on "few"--and we also need to choose carefully what we want the reader to see. Usually one or two highlights will do the job. The reader's imagination will fill in the rest. For example, if the above scene were to appear in a novel, we could offer this much, and any reader would almost surely get the picture:
"The rambling mansion in the heart of downtown had gone to ruin and hovered like a bad-tempered old pirate over Main Street. The sagging doors and a missing window gave the appearance of a negligent shrug and a drunken wink."
Okay, it's not literature, but I'm trying to make a point.
Overwriting, too much description--whether of setting or characters or emotions--can wear on a reader until she begins to feel a kind of heaviness ... or boredom. Conversely, too little description--especially if it's mundane and unrelated to characterization or story--makes for a thin novel. Not thin in page length, but thin in texture and appeal.
So many things we talk about here seem to come back to the word "balance." It applies with this issue, too--but not only balance. Add discernment and choice. We have to choose what we'd most like the reader to see, and then find the words and the images and the rhythm to help her see it. It can be much like walking across a narrow, wobbly bridge: if you misstep too far on either side, you'll lose your balance and take a fall.
Thing is, your reader isn't likely to follow you down.
BJ
I never cease to be amused at the need of some to interpret, to find the hidden meanings or the symbolism in a work of fiction. If their search for the veil behind the veil weren't so amusing, it could easily be downright annoying.
As it is, I especially appreciate Flannery O'Connor's dry wit at work when she encountered this tendency, especially among academics who continually insisted on interpreting her work. (Many of O'Connor's letters don't exactly express a high degree of admiration for academics in general.)
In Jill Baumgaertner's book, Flannery O'Connor: A Proper Scaring, the author gives a few classic O'Connor examples of her disapproval of such probing interpretive tactics: "One teacher asked why The Misfit's hat was black and what it meant. She (O'Connor) answered that country men wore black hats and they did it to cover their heads."
You can almost picture the blank looks over that one.
Here's another, from a letter to an English professor: "The interpretation of your ninety students and three treachers is fantastic and about as far from my intentions as it could get to be .... The meaning of a story should go on expanding for the reader the more he thinks about it, but meaning cannot be captured in an interpretation. If teachers are in the habit of approaching a story as if it were a research problem for which any answer is believable as long as it is not obvious, then I think students will never learn to enjoy fiction. Too much interpretation is certainly worse than too little,and where feeling for a story is absent, theory will not supply it. My tone is not meant to be obnoxious. I am in a state of shock."
From the same book, in regard to another letter written to a professor of English about her story, Greenleaf: ".... As for Mrs. May, I must have named her that because I knew some English teacher would write and ask me why. I think you folks sometime strain the soup too thin."
I confess that with the work of certain authors, I sometimes tend to mull over what a phrase or an event or even a piece of dialogue might mean "behind the veil." A text presents itself that's just too delicious or mysterious or evocative not to ponder it for more than can be seen on the surface. But that's not the way I typically read, nor would I want to.
I've also been asked about "symbolism" in my work, and while some may exist (there is always symbolism among the Irish, don't you know?) I have to admit that it's not my doing. To my knowledge, I've never intentionally tried to inject symbolism or deeper meanings into my fiction--and if I were to try, I'm fairly certain I'd make a royal mess of it. My standard reply is something to the effect of "it's whatever you want it to be, whatever you understand it to be." My preference is simply that readers read my work for story. And my own reading preference (in regard to fiction), is also to read for story. Not to interpret. Not to search for deeper meanings. Not to unearth examples of symbolism.
This need to interpret, to find different layers of meaning or symbolism in fiction seems to contend that the obvious has no significance, only what is veiled or hidden. There again, I'd point to O'Connor's disdain for the practice. Nothing I've read sums it up any more clearly than this, again from Baumgaertner's book (sections of which I read every two or three years for a number of reasons):
"Flannery O'Connor's meaning is in her stories because it was in her life. She knew that one can never 'put meaning in.' It is implicit in the characters in a work of fiction as much as in an individual's personal existence."
Which leads me to believe that any deliberate effort on the part of a writer to inject meaning or significance or symbolism is not only futile, but manipulative as well.
BJ
You were expecting three more entries in the series, yes? One each for "M," "A," and "S."
That's what I originally expected, also. Even had the final three drafted out. Then I thought about it. And thought about it some more. My initial intention had been to write about the gifts a Christian writer might give to her readers, using the letters of Christmas to describe only a few of those gifts. But when I realized where I was with the "series"--having completed the letters for Christ--I decided I had reached the place where this should end.
For this is the gift--the finest gift of all--to bring to your readers, whether you're writing novels or short stories or nonfiction or poetry. Write from a heart that belongs to Christ ... and you will ultimately bestow upon your readers a touch of Christ. Write from a spirit of love and giving and as a seeker of peace ... and you will attract your readers to Christ. Write from your soul--a soul devoted to our Savior--and you will, in ways that may well remain unknown to you, take Christ into your neighborhood, into the marketplace, to your readers and to those whose lives your readers may touch.
May your Christmas begin and end with Christ, the ultimate Gift.
BJ
T...When we think of the time we devote to writing a novel, it's doubtful that we consider it in terms of a gift. In fact, if we think of the time factor at all, the word "work" is more than likely what comes to mind. So much goes into the development of a novel, and all of it requires time in one form or another: doing the research; naming characters; constucting the plot; the actual writing of the story; rewriting; working with the editor on any changes, including a review of the proofs--it can be, and often is, an exhausting work, and one that seems to involve an endless amount of time.
But it is a gift--and it's probably fair to say that it's a lavish, even precious gift. Time spent can't be recaptured, which makes it an even more precious gift than some. The quality of the gift--the meaning of it and its value--perhaps depend on the writer's motivation: why we do it, why we give ourselves so completely to such an effort. If the purpose behind all that time and effort is simply to become a public figure, to advance one's self for nothing more than a membership in the cult of celebrity, then we can hardly deem it a gift. It's little more than self-indulgence.
But if our hearts and minds genuinely perceive of what we do as an offering--an offering to the Creator and His creation, our readers--and if we care enough to give it our best, to give the vast amount of time and conscientious effort called for, then I believe we can rightfully call it a gift. As do many of our readers when they write with their thanks and appreciation for the "gift" of our stories and the work we do to create those stories for them.
If they see our time-consuming efforts as a gift, then perhaps it's perfectly acceptable that we take the same view.
BJ
S ... think simplicity. Like many writers, I have a genuine love for language, for rhythmic, lyrical--even elegant--prose ... when used carefully and at the right time and place. Even so, while I hope for a certain distinct rhythm in my fiction, I try not to clutter the page with too many words that will need to be looked up by my readers or me-talk-pretty phrases that rhyme by design or virtually drip alliteration.
Little annoys me more (in the field of fiction) than a novel that seems to have been written for the sole purpose of impressing me with the writer's extensive vocabulary and erudite facility with words. I have read far too many stories, novels--even blog posts--that are so pretentious and obscure as to be nearly incomprehensible. Like most of you, I think I have a fairly broad vocabulary and a decent grasp of grammar (just don't edit my blog posts too closely, please), so when I run into a piece of writing that cries for a dictionary and/or an English grammar guide every few paragraphs, I (1) don't finish it, and (2) try to avoid any work by the same writer in the future.
Can we make an honest effort not to force our readers to work too hard, but instead to give them the gift of writing in the style the work itself requires? A novel shouldn't read like an academic essay or research paper, and a short story is probably best tailored like a slice of life rather than a piece of poetic pie.
I'm not advising against making our writing rhythmic or lyrical. By all means, let it sing, even soar. But let's keep ego and the tendency to "show off" or pontificate out of the work.
Otherwise, while a few readers may stand in awe of our incredible literary prowess, many more will grow disgusted with the effort it takes to wade through the mire that masks the story.
BJ
In continuing the letters of Christmas, for the letter "I" I chose Infinity. It may not be the easiest thing to do--even the idea may sound somewhat nebulous--but writers: when you're thinking about gifts you can give your readers, don't forget to offer a sense of the infinite. Reassure them that there really is something larger, something beyond this world where war and tragedy and suffering--and evil--are all too commonplace.
Do you live with that sense in your everyday life, that awareness that this isn't all, that there is much, much more than what we can see and feel and touch? Do you sometimes catch a hint of wonder in the ordinary, a "glimpse of glory" in the mundane? Do you ever almost hear a faint music humming through the wind or through the morning silence? Then share it with your readers by allowing some of your characters to see life through the same lens. Let your story people know the same wonder and be touched by the same grace. Not all characters, of course. But you can create in others a longing for that "something more," for something bigger than themselves or their own small universe.
Don't be afraid to let your writing resonate with this sense of the infinite or at least a longing for it, a seeking for it. If you can implant this yearning in the heart of even one reader, you may just change a life.
(By the way, thanks to friend, Lisa Samson for the unique letter "I." Appreciate it, Lisa!)
BJ
Angela Elwell Hunt: She Always Wore Red (The Fairlawn Series #2)
Owen Linzmayer: Apple Confidential 2.0: The Definitive History of the World's Most Colorful Company
Angela Elwell Hunt: Doesn't She Look Natural? (advance copy)
In Hospital and Camp: The Civil War Through the Eyes of Its Doctors and Nurses
Bernstein, Ozawa, Watts, Graffman: Rachmaninoff Goes to the Movies
Christopher Herrick: Bach: The Great Fantasias, Preludes and Fugues
Clannad: An Diolaim: The Folk Roots of One of Ireland's Finest Groups
Ennio Morricone: The Mission: Original Soundtrack From The Motion Picture
Mason Daring: The Secret Of Roan Inish: A New Film By John Sayles
Original London Cast Recording: Highlights From The Phantom Of The Opera
Randy Edelman: Gettysburg: Music From The Original Motion Picture Soundtrack
Trevor Jones: The Last Of The Mohicans: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack
Various, including the Chieftains : Long Journey Home (From the Television Mini-series)
Yo-Yo Ma: Bach: The Cello Suites Inspired By Bach, From The Six-Part Film Series
