#TheProcess - Prose

 

Prose

Prose is the language through which we tell a story. As a reader, it’s the thing that makes or breaks a story for me. A concept can be unique and interesting, but if the prose is sloppy, dull, or difficult, I’m out. When I talk about how important craft is to me, I’m talking about prose: about imagery and metaphor, subtlety and nuance, unique character voices and diversity of sentence structure. All of these things working in conjunction are what make a book accessible and interesting. Too purple, and it sounds ridiculous; too abrupt and there’s no spark; too repetitive in its structure, and it’s just plain annoying.

It takes lots of reading, lots of practice, and lots of time to develop a signature style as an author. It’s a long process of consuming the written word, figuring out what you like best, and then putting it to paper, over and over, until your authentic voice starts to shine through.

For me, writing is a very cinematic experience. By that I mean, the scenes play out in my head like movie reels, and then my goal with prose is capturing those exact images. In my mind I see specific camera angles: close-ups, and fade-ins, those nifty focus shifts. I see a shot focused on the elegant movement of someone’s fingers; or the slanted, early morning light illuminating half of someone’s face in blind-shaped stripes. I spend time studying favorite actors’ facial tics and head tilts, and then translate that on the page so that those motions are alluring, or threatening, or melancholy. Lighting plays a tremendous role in film, and so I write it into all my work. Little visual details like a swirl of dust motes, or clouds scudding across the moon, or the lonely sway of a rotting window shutter. Those are the elements, the details, the little things that make a movie or a TV show feel real, and I write those things because I want my readers to see my stories come to life, not merely scan through a summary of actions.

This focus on prose is the reason it takes me so long to write a book. Book Twitter likes to scoff at anyone who claims they edit as they go, so I won’t say that. Instead, I’ll say that I fiddle with things as I go. That I don’t abide by the “just write it all down and fix it all later” rule. Some things need fixing right away. I don’t believe in rushing through scenes to “get them done.” I’m trying, at all times, to capture the exact imagery or tone of a scene in the moment I write it. The book will need and does get edited later, but it’s very common for me to delete or tweak a sentence immediately upon writing it. Some days the word flow is good and smooth, and I can knock out 2, 3, 4, even 5-thousand words in a couple hours. Other days, those two hours are spent endlessly fiddling with one page until I’m happy with it.

Writing, for me, is a very purposeful exercise. I used to not-so-jokingly say that I was like Horton: I said what I meant and meant what I said. It’s never a matter of “getting the gist across.” Not only do I genuinely enjoy playing around with language, but I think that play, when purposeful, is essential to creating an engaging and dynamic prose-reading experience. Whenever anyone asks about my influences in that regard, I feel a bit full of myself saying that Washington Irving and Edgar Allan Poe are my two biggest inspirations, but that’s the truth. When Irving described Ichabod as “a scarecrow eloped from a corn field,” that blew my little kid mind. That word “eloped.” It’s so eloquent. Not “a scarecrow who jumped off his stick and went walking around,” but something much cleaner and more evocative. While Poe is considerably darker, and Irving likes his long, early Americana ramblings, both use prose in a way that is richly descriptive and clever. Both can be cheeky; both can spin a metaphor like nobody else, and both can give you goosebumps with their knife-sharp specifics.

Specifics are important: I’m not trying to create a universal moment, but a moment that is so crystal clear as to be easily visualized, and one which, for one or two readers out there, is going to feel painfully true to life. I don’t want to write a general truth, but I’m writing somebody’s truth.

Next time, I’ll talk about editing – proper editing – and proofing, and what goes into finalizing and polishing a book for sale. I’m also going to challenge that weird adage that “all books are terrible until the editor gets hold of them,” so brace yourselves for that.

#TheProcess - Narrative

 Posting anything right now feels about like Blogging While Rome burns, but I think everyone here is here for a good dose of distraction and entertainment, so I'll try to keep active anyway. 

Today is part two of "The Process..."

Narrative

I’ve decided to break the meat-and-potatoes “writing” portion of the process into smaller segments, because while I’m doing a number of things simultaneously, it’ll be easier to talk about it all in more discrete posts. So today I’ll be talking about the storytelling aspect of the process, and will focus on the prose (word choice and sentence structure) in a later post.

*Also, I think it’s important to note that as an indie author, I’ve been able to tailor my approach accordingly Hopefully, blogging about my process will offer insight as to creative decisions and personal priorities, but I am in no way suggesting that my approach is suitable for anyone attempted to become traditionally published.

Okay, onward.

As I mentioned last time, every story begins with character for me. Once I know who I’m writing about, and what he or she wants, I can plot the novel from there. At the outset of any book, or series, I know what the final outcome will be, I know the emotional beats that need to happen with each character, and have a few scenes that are bright, crystalline, and necessary in my mind. I don’t ever work off an outline, though. For me, when I say that I’m “plotting” or “story-mapping,” that means I’m going for a walk, listening to music, and planning scenes mentally. Sometimes I take notes when I get back to a notebook, but, generally, once I’ve choreographed a scene in my head, I’m ready to move forward with it once I’m in front of the computer again. Cleaning stalls, cleaning house, going for a drive, taking a shower – all perfect times for creative breakthroughs. The scene plays out like a movie trailer, complete with background music and close-ups, in my head, and then it’s a matter of trying to capture that perfectly.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Story. George R.R. Martin has described his process in a way that resonates with me: he said his approach to plot is a bit like tending a garden. He plants the seeds and lets them grow as they will, rather than adhering to a strict outline. That’s how I do it, too; I’ve always described it as a very organic approach, one that grows and shifts and allows for the unexpected, with an emphasis always placed on character integrity and continuity. Instead of playing God and throwing things at characters to see how they react, the characters’ decisions, and their consequences, drive the story forward.

This is why it’s so important to really get to know each character. Once I understand the way they think and behave, once the various conflicts have been established, the story unfolds in a way that, even while writing it, feels very natural and appropriate, and I don’t feel like a puppet master pulling on strings. If I don’t feel the strings, the audience won’t see them. My main rule is this: always treat the characters like real people with minds of their own. It doesn’t matter what I would do in a given situation, or what the reader would do; doesn’t matter what the smartest, safest approach would be. All that matters is what that character would say or do, and the rest is irrelevant.

(I’ve never understood that line of book criticism from readers. “Well, I would have…” Are you in this book? No, you’re not. “Walsh is too short for me.” It’s a good thing you aren’t the one sleeping with him, then. “They had unsafe sex, and this sets a bad example for young people.” It’s a good thing I’m not writing a sex safety manual, isn’t it? I’ve learned you can be true to your characters, or you can try to make your characters appealing and “safe” for a broad audience. I’ve chosen the former.)

Take the Drake Chronicles, for example. I knew that Erik and Oliver would get together, but I didn’t have each scene planned out ahead of time. Instead, knowing each of them well enough, their conversations unfolded as I penned them, often taking turns I hadn’t expected, but which felt right in the moment. I knew from the first that Tessa would choose Rune over Leif, and that Leif’s main, personal conflict that would carry throughout the series is the inner turmoil that comes with knowing you’re an heir to a kingdom. It’s a conflict that, in the early stages, is mild and a little bit boring because he’s essentially a good and loyal guy without vices. It wasn’t until partway through writing book two that I finalized the idea of having him become a skinwalker. Now, with a genuine “inner demon,” or wolf, rather, and a complicated relationship to Ragnar, his self-doubt has been elevated to much higher, more dramatic levels, and it’s something he’ll wrestle with for the rest of the series. It would have been, in a general sense, the “smart thing” to execute Ragnar and be done with it – but there’s no conflict in that. Dealing with Ragnar is far more interesting then occasionally regretting having sentenced him to death. It also goes against Leif’s personality: it’s not that he can’t make a hard decision, but, like him or not, Ragnar is family. That complicates the decision, and Leif is nothing if not thoughtful. Rune’s the rash one, of the two.

I think it’s essential that, if asked, I’m able to fully explain a character’s thought process. When I think about the movies and TV shows produced in the past decade, the ones that have hotly divided fandoms and spawned petitions, the writers/directors/producers often explained their thought processes…but not the characters’. “We wanted to surprise the audience.” “We wanted to shock everyone.” Cool, but can you explain why that surprising, shocking twist is supported by the characters’ thoughts and actions? You have to be thinking about the character and not the audience when you’re writing. If you want to draw a genuine reaction from the audience, you have to put the work into the characterization. Remember how Benioff and Weiss kept chickening out of interviews post-GOT? Throughout the show, in post-episode interviews, they continued to talk about what they wanted the audience to think/feel, but could never back this up with any sort of meaningful discussion about the characters and their motivations. Instead, character’s personalities, morals, and motivations shifted suddenly in order to make certain plot poinst possible. Game of Thrones comes to mind. Sons of Anarchy. The Marvel Cinematic Universe. It’s an endless list.

If someone asks about the motivation of a character, about his or her growth and progression throughout a story, and a writer says the character’s actions “allowed” for a shocking scene, it means they were putting plot before character, with no regard for logic or continuity.

Grievances with mega media corporations aside, I think maintaining a character’s integrity is the most important aspect of my job as a writer. I always ask myself what a certain character would do and say in a given situation, and there are hard “no”s to contend with. Sometimes a concept is interesting, but impossible given what we already know about a character. Mercy would never cheat on Ava. Michael would never sing karaoke. Erik would never send his men into battle without being at the front of the charge. “Maybe”s do exist, but in those instances, I ask myself how that “maybe” will affect every member of the ensemble cast. Some ideas have merit, but wind up getting scrapped because it throws a wrench in the works down the line somewhere.

Storytelling is, at its core, the act of introducing characters and detailing their adventures and relationships as they work through various conflicts. I take a character-driven approach; for me, it’s more important that a character’s personal struggles and relationships follow a logical, satisfying course than it is for the plot to move quickly or in “shocking” directions. It means that my books tend to run long, and that they are populated with quiet, domestic scenes and conversations. Commercial fiction often moves along at a faster clip, but I’m not writing commercial fiction; for me, it’s most important to deliver those satisfying, slow-burn character narratives, some of which take the entire span of a series to play out.

The way to keep that interesting is through the prose itself, which I’ll discuss in my next post.

The Process: Conceptualization

 

The Process

 

*Coach Saban voice*: It’s about the process.

No, but, really, it is. Writing a book is a lengthy process that comes with a whole host of organizational and mental challenges. They take months to conceptualize, complete, edit, proof, and then publish; there’s no such thing as instant gratification and it can become discouraging along the way – it often does for me. It’s hard to spend six, seven, eight months, sometimes a year on a manuscript wondering the whole time if, businesswise, it will have been worth all the early mornings and sleepless nights. Everyone has their own process, and that’s what sustains you, 50k words in and afflicted with hopelessness.

I thought I’d talk about my process, in a series of connected posts, from conceptualization to editing.

 

Conceptualization

Everything starts with character for me. My motto is “Character first.” All my past attempts to begin mapping a story based on a concept have failed – I think probably because concept is the least important part of any book I read. A trope is only so good as the author wielding the keyboard, in my opinion. It’s all about characters who feel real and knowable.

Historically, I’ve always been someone who latches onto a secondary character in any story. I usually like the main character well enough, but it’s the sidekick who fascinates and inspires me most. Plenty of stories have been told about “main character” types, with their good looks, and strong convictions, and clearly-outlined quests. Literally everyone writes about “alpha males.” I have no interest in that. I have a few kings and leaders thrown into the mix, sure, but even then, I’m not approaching it from the “alpha” stereotype – unless you count all the werewolves: that’s really the only time I use that word. I prefer the damaged and the weird, and those just trying to get by. Those with demons. Those who aren’t trying to change the world, but perhaps manage to do so anyway. When I write a king – Erik, Richard, Vlad – I have to know one thing, first, and it’s something I have to know about all my characters: where are their vulnerable spots?

With any character, I have to know what they want, what they’re willing to do to get it, and what makes them vulnerable. What do they fear? Where are their limits? How far will they go? How cruel are they? What wakes them at night in a cold sweat, heart pounding? What sight makes them smile? When do they feel quietest, most at peace? I find it’s the things people don’t advertise about themselves that are the most important traits when crafting a character.

In the case of a historical figure, it’s even more of a psychological exercise. Tell me a guy killed his own nobles and impaled his POWs, and it’s my job to try and crawl inside his head and figure out the lines of thought that led him to these actions. When reading historical texts, the authors often say they “cannot speculate motives,” or they simply don’t want to, and I respect that. I don’t like when an author couches an opinion as fact, when there’s no way any of us can truly know what went on inside someone’s head centuries ago. But I’m a fiction author, so I get to play, and that has been both nerve-wracking and a heck of a lot of fun.

When it comes to characterization, my goal is always to paint a complete portrait of the central protagonists. My characters don’t merely exist in the moment of the story; I don’t just drop them in and “get on with it.” Each character’s personality and actions are informed by their childhood, by their family, by their experiences and traumas. I incorporate this by weaving in little nuggets of the past; I employ large-scale flashbacks, yes, but also love to layer little anecdotes from the past as a character is experiencing an event in the present. Here’s an example from The Wild Charge:

 

Five years ago, a man named Benjamin Ruse had approached a woman in a pub in London. Younger than her, too young, really, barely out of school, but tall, and blue-eyed, and gorgeous. The lights had gleamed off the product in his hair, and off his smooth, high cheekbones, his fine, poreless skin. He’d leaned up against the bar beside her, and given her a look, one wiser and more experienced than his age would have indicated.

He’d bought her next round, and then the next.

She’d twisted her ring off and slipped it into her purse in the cab ride. Poured them more wine when they got to the flat…and never saw the granules he slipped into her glass when she wasn’t looking.

Her husband, an important member of parliament, arrived home after eleven to a dark flat. When he clicked on the lamp, he saw his wife laid out on the sofa, asleep – and a strange man in the chair. His favorite chair.

And a young man, at that. He’d grinned, a fast slice of white teeth in the dim lamplight. “Hi, honey, welcome home.”

Benjamin Ruse had made two other appearances: once on a horseback riding outing with a Saudi prince, one he then wound up in bed with, and took some extremely compromising photos of. And the last time in an elevator in Hong Kong, where two British officials had arrived on their designated floor sprawled atop one another on the floor of the cab, strangled to death.

Tenny had always considered it his favorite alias. Benjamin Ruse was suave, and sophisticated; charming to men and women. And Ruse was especially fun to say, knowing the word play at hand. It was the name he’d given to Ratchet when he first arrived in Knoxville, and found himself in need of a believably fake driver’s license, in case he ever got pulled over in a routine traffic stop, or wanted to buy beer, or get into a club.

But he hadn’t had a name, then.

Ratchet spun away from his laptop, a small, shiny plastic card in one hand. He scanned it, frowning to himself.

Tenny resisted the urge to fidget; he’d never been a fidgeter before, in his pre-name, only-a-number life. Lots of things were changing; the chaos of that infuriated him…even though, when he allowed himself to admit it, he didn’t want to go back.

 

 

I could have told you Tenny had a favorite alias, but I was after the imagery, the understanding that this longer scene imparts.

I’m keenly aware that this is a writing style that doesn’t resonate universally – some readers want to trim the story down to the base essentials of what is happening in the present day – but I love that intricate dovetailing-in of context. Mercy recalling his “daddy’s” strength as he hauled a thrashing bull gator up into their little boat tells you so much more than just saying “Mercy was very strong.” It gives you an image. It tells you “this is a man who was once a boy who slayed literal dragons, and he’s not afraid of any man.”

I plan to expand on this in my post about my actual writing process, but for me, writing the plot of a narrative is inextricably linked with characterization. It’s a personal preference, when reading and writing, and I attribute this to my love of the Romantic period in English literature, and to my Southern roots. Southerners tell sprawling stories that give you an abundance of sidenotes and background. The late great Pat Conroy, for instance: while I have my quibbles with his work, there’s no denying the magic of his prose, and the weaving of past and present in each of his books. Or Anne Rivers Siddons. They weren’t showing a slice of life, but a whole life, and that’s what I love most about fiction-writing. I want to show you glimpses of the whole person, childhood to old age.

I certainly have favorite character archetypes – I love gremlins and showmen; cold, hard girls and girls who know when it’s smart to lay low and listen; deeply-flawed leaders and their much more practical seconds. But I can’t control who pops into my mind and demands to have his or her story told. If I could, I’d probably be much more successful at this whole publishing thing 😉

Next time, it’s all about narrative and prose.