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I Love Outlines, But I Can’t Write Them For Peanuts

Brightly colored frosting makes the best finger paint! It's tasty, too!

Brightly colored frosting makes the best finger paint! It's tasty, too!

One of the things non-fiction is good for is cultivating voice. Because NF has no characters to hide behind, it forces us to write as ourselves in a way regular fiction (as opposed to fictive or inspired-by memoir) doesn’t.

The voice I’ve spent so long honing in my NF work has helped me a lot over recent months–it’s easier for me to get into a character’s head without mapping or noting or any of the other techniques I used to use. But the other NF stalwart I’ve come to depend on, the outline, doesn’t carry over to fiction.

Granted, I rarely outline my blog posts (though I do use a blog client rather than writing directly in WordPress. More on that in another post.). But other than these posts, I stick to my non-fiction outlines the way finger paint sticks to my jeans, shirts, walls, and kitchen cupboards. Writing an article without an outline is difficult for me–I end up scattered and utterly confused. When I write fiction, though, I find the very act of writing an outline leaves me scattered!

Here’s what my non-fiction outlines tend to look like:

Title: Blog Post on Outlines, Plot, Voice

Intro

  • What am I writing about?
  • Key point – using outlines, getting confused, thoughts
  • Do outlines hinder voice or help it?
  • Relevant links: x, y, z

Where Am I Going With This? 2 Paragraphs

  • Point 1
  • expand, include a relevant quote
  • sum up

Conclusion

  • What I’ve learned/am thinking about
  • Questions

Extra funny thing: I can write from someone else’s outline with no hassle. Hand me a writing exercise, or hash something out with me for a short story, and I’m fine. Ask me to write the outline myself, and I’m a mess.Remember when I said non-fiction helps with voice, because there are no characters to hide behind? I think that’s my problem. Outlines in fiction–for me, anyway–take the story in an NF direction, so that I end up thinking news-and-opinion rather than character-and-plot-development.

Overall, not writing outlines isn’t a killer for me, but it is sometimes annoying. My writing group has no problem working out plots and sequencing, while I struggle to get all my ducks in a row. Oftentimes, this means I have to write and rewrite large chunks of a manuscript until it’s all internally consistent–which is a pain and a half! Lately, I’m getting over the hassle of this by keeping a soap opera diary.

A soap opera diary (I have no idea what they’re actually called, but that’s what a guy I used to know, who worked on Passions, called them) is like an encyclopedia for any given show. Continuity people keep track of all the births, deaths, marriages, evil takeovers, one night stands, coffee hijinks and more so that the show doesn’t contradict itself. There are still gaffes every now and then, but for the most part, the writers and continuity folk manage to keep the show fairly consistent. So, for my latest manuscript, I’ve started doing post-outlines, summarizing chapters and highlighting anything that could be a Big Continuity Issue later.

Do you write outlines for fiction, non-fiction, or both? How do you keep track of continuity issues?

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Alternate Version Blogfest Entry!

Peta's Work in ProgressToday, in honor of April Fool’s Day, I’m participating in the Alternate Version Blogfest being run by my friend and critique partner, Livia. You can check out the rest of the entries over at Livia’s blog, here.

This is a small section from the second chapter of my work in progress, Listen (you can see another excerpt from Listen here).

The kitchen smells seven kinds of bad. Singed turkey bacon mingles with eggs, toast, old coffee, kitchen sink compost, and damp newsprint. Lemon rinds, my mother’s newest air-freshening experiment, fester on the windowsill. She has a lot of experiments nowadays. Lemon rinds, even if they are moldy, are one of the better ones. Shampoo in the dishwasher (why waste money buying two products?) is the worst so far. It took me three days to get the dishes clean, and the kitchen floor still has a weird, soapy feel. The twins like to sock-skate on it.

Next to the rinds is a small jar of wilting coriander, dropping leaves on to a beaten up tape recorder. I reach for the recorder, wanting to brush the leaves free, but a hand slaps mine. “Working.”

Working? I choke back my surprise—if she’s up working, it’s a good sign, right?

Maybe.

I can’t remember the last time she was this normal. I can’t remember the last time she was anything but crazy.
On the stove, poaching eggs simmer, their all-organic free-range orange yolks glimmering. Jiggling the handle with her left hand and holding a brown-stained broadsheet in the right, mom leans into the tape recorder, muttering, “Statistics on the new treatment vary. Doctors are unwilling to call it a success with side effects present in ten to twenty percent of patients. Due to herbal nature, it does not fall under purview of medical associations or government drug regulations at present time.” She tucks the broadsheet into the oven’s towel rack then nudges me into the chair next to Leila.

I’ve never made it past the first chapter of Twilight (though I have read the whole Xlormpf spoof), but I’m fascinated by the phenomenon. I’m also fascinated by the longevity of the Cali-girl style character, so this is a spoof mashup of the pair. Although my character, Jamal, is actually a 16 year old guy, I’ve just given him a girly voice for kicks.

The kitchen smells seven kinds of bad–literally seven, and I know because I counted them, one and two and three and all those numbers that come after three but I can’t remember right now because I’m so tired because I was up so late last night. I can’t believe Maddie just knocked on my window like that and expected me to invite her in and then compliment her on her sparkly skin–it is such gorgeous, sparkly skin, and it glimmered like my strawberry shine lip gloss in the moonlight.

Next to my stupid crazy mom’s moldy lemon rinds–as if lemon rinds are good air freshener, duh–one of the dead pots of herbs is shedding on a tape recorder. Only my mom would use a tape recorder for her notes. I mean, they’re so 1976. I’d get her an iPod or something, but she’d just forget what it is and use it to scrub the sink or bake it in the oven or something. I’m so fed up with her being crazy. Mom’s aren’t supposed to be crazy. It’s kind of good sometimes, though, ‘cause before she crazy mc crazypants, I’d’ve been locked up in my room staring at the ceiling at midnight instead of locking lips with Maddie.

She’s talking into the crap recorder, saying stuff like “statistics” and “treatments” and trying to poach eggs at the same time. I hate poached eggs. She can’t get anything right. I bump her away from the stove, point her to a chair, then dump the eggs in the trash.

I love Jane Austen novels, and I couldn’t participate in an alternate version blogfest without a little homage to Jane.

Even with his cousin’s early knocking, Jamal was the last down to breakfast. The kitchen, despite Mrs. Mahmoud’s best efforts, reminded him of a pig sty in the height of summer. Observing the disorder around the sink–disorder mirrored in his mother’s movements–he gently removed the frying pan from her grasp, and helped her to a chair. But before long Mrs. Mahmoud was on her feet again, reaching for a tape recorder covered in dry, brown coriander leaves.

She held the recorder to her mouth, moving her lips as if trying to speak clearly, but mumbling, “Statistics on the new treatment vary. Doctors are unwilling to call it a success.”

“I’m happy you’re working,” Jamal told his mother, “but perhaps you should sit down, and rest your nerves.” His mother did as she was bid, but still clutched the tape recorder in one hand. Jamal wondered if he should take it away from her, then thought better of it. He couldn’t recall the last time he had seen her working, couldn’t recall the last time she had acted so close to normality. This sudden focus on work had to be healthy–hadn’t it?

And that’s it for now. I’ll be back with a book list as usual tomorrow, and regular YA world commentary and discussion on Tuesday. Enjoy your April Fool’s, everyone!

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New Adult Fiction – Beyond the Limits of YA, or Just New Packaging?

bookstore_juliafEarlier this week, I asked about the limits in YA literature. Is there a line? And if so, where is it?

St. Martins’ Press may have the answer. Late last year, they ran a contest in conjunction with #YAlitchat founder, Georgia McBride, to find some New Adult, or NA, titles. From McBride’s blog:

We are actively looking for great, new, cutting edge fiction with protagonists who are slightly older than YA and can appeal to an adult audience. Since twenty-somethings are devouring YA, St. Martin’s Press is seeking fiction similar to YA that can be published and marketed as adult—a sort of an “older YA” or “new adult.” (Submissions can be read here; winners were announced last night.)

New adult literature isn’t exactly, well, new. In The Guardian of Education, an early 19th century journal dedicated to reviewing children’s literature, Sarah Trimmer defined “Books for Young Persons” as books for readers 14-21, while the term YA was coined in 1937. But despite its early roots, publishers didn’t truly begin marketing to a younger audience until the fifties and sixties (Maureen Daly’s Seventeenth Summer and S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders were two of the first real YA novels, though they were released 26 years apart ). Until then, children and teens selected books from an adult pool, though certain titles appealed more than others (Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables series are good examples).

Sometime in the 1980s, young adult literature came into its own. Come the 1990s, children’s books had been divided into several categories – picture book, early reader, reluctant reader, chapter book, middle grade. The past couple of years have seen YA split into early teen/tween fiction and a catch-all 14 or so and up category. According to St. Martin’s Associate Editor, S.Jae Jones (JJ), NA fiction would be the upper end of YA, pitched at readers 18 to twenty-something.

Although NA may be part marketing ploy, I think this evolution of the genre is inevitable. Though books like Anne of Green Gables and Little Women are still incredibly popular (Little Women has never been out of print), YA literature with a more realistic, true-to-life bent (think Nancy Werlin’s The Rules of Survival) is much in demand. NA gives St. Martin’s and, hopefully, other houses, the chance to revel in the complexity of publishing for young adults.

Earlier this week, I wrote about Knopf’s decision to categorize Margo Lanagan’s Tender Morsels as YA. But sticking TM in with YA (oh, god, I’m writing in LOLspeak) is a gross over-simplification of not just the book, but of teen readers. Not all teens will be ready for the cloaked realities in Lanagan’s novel; conversely, some teens will read, dissect, and discuss the book without hesitation. Creating an upper category like NA helps readers find the books they’re ready for without drawing undue attention from younger readers.

NA also straddles another YA issue – the crossover title. For the past few years, some publishers have been marketing books (TM, Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book, and Marcus Zusak’s The Book Thief come to mind) as both adult and young adult, marking the different editions with different cover art. Will the creation of New Adult fiction do away with the crossover title? Possibly. Publishers everywhere are trying to cut costs–no longer able to afford slush readers, most houses are now agent-query only. Cover production isn’t cheap (especially if you’re Bloomsbury). NA gives publishers the chance to put out just one cover yet still reach the desired crossover audience.

Of course, NA is unlikely to mean an uptick in acquisitions–there’s a lot of higher level and crossover YA already out there, and that’s just the already published stuff. Even closed to unsolicited submissions, most houses appear to be swimming in material. Yet “unlikely” does not equal “not at all” – though adults are reading YA, picking up a “kids’ book” still carries a stigma for some. Several of my twenty-something friends look down on the YA titles cluttering my bookshelves, claiming to be “past all that stuff”. But, as JJ points out,

Dan [Weiss, publisher-at-large at St. Martin’s] and I think there is a gap in the current adult market–the literary fiction market–for fiction about twentysomethings. You never stop growing up, I think, but little in the market seems to address the coming-of-age that also happens in your 20s. This is the time of life when you are an actual, legal adult, but just because you’re able to vote (in the US, anyway) that doesn’t mean you know HOW to be one. This is the first time when you are building a life that is your OWN, away from your parents and the family that raised you. It’s a strange and scary place to be.

Just as YA is fiction about discovering who you are as a person, I think NA is fiction about building your own life.

As older, snootier readers discover the joy of upper level YA–ahem, NA–demand may increase. This, in turn, would give writers the chance to explore the freedom of a slightly older protagonist while also easing some of the logistical aspects of writing YA (Would a parent really let their 15 year old hunt Daleks? Does this happen while she’s in school/at camp/over the summer? How could he afford x and y?)

Early twenties protagonists are surprisingly rare; in a panel on YA literature at Harvard’s 2008 Vericon, City of Bones author Cassandra Clare talked about pitching her novel, then about twentysomethings, as adult fiction. After several conversations, Clare realized she had to choose between adults and teens. She went with teens.

Will New Adult take off? I hope so. Last night, the winners of St. Martin’s New Adult contest were announced on #YAlitchat (there’s more on JJ’s blog). For most books, it’s at least 2 years between acquisition and release, meaning it could be a while before an NA section pops up in Barnes & Noble (unless St. Martin’s digs through its YA catalog to get the ball rolling). In the meantime, I think I’ll be loaning my upper YA books as NA…

Would you buy New Adult books? Does the title appeal to you/sound better than YA? Or are you happy with the system as it stands?

Photo Credit: Juliaf, via sxc.hu

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Candor review over at SFWP.org

candor_largeMy first review for the Santa Fe Writers Project is up!

If I were pitching Pam Bachorz’ Candor at an editorial meeting, I’d call it “dystopian contemporary YA meets The Stepford Wives with a dash of Wisteria Lane from a male perspective”.

Oscar Banks is cookie-cutter perfect. He’s a straight A student, is dating the prettiest, smartest girl in Candor High, and has more friends than a parrot at a pirate convention…[more]

Read it at SFWP.org, then check out some of their excellent fiction!

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Getting Authentic with Tim Crouch, part IV

theatre_seatsAlthough I’m sure I haven’t covered everything in Tim Crouch’s workshop–workshops are like that, full so much information that it’s impossible to grasp it all–this is my last post about it. Until I think of something else, anyway. According to Crouch, one way to get the creativity flowing is to impose restrictions. “Form and restriction can be the most liberating thing,” he says. Here are a couple of his.

Bob from Bogota

  • Pick a letter
  • Write a name beginning with that letter
  • Write a piece of clothing beginning with that letter
  • Write a place beginning with that letter

Now, write a monologue about that person, with that clothing, in that place–and make sure every word also starts with your chosen letter.

A-B-C-D

Write a 26 word story. The first word must begin with “a”, the second with “b” &c. all the way to “z”.

Need help getting started? Try this prompt: Apple butter curdles dramatically.

Today’s takeaway: sit down and write. Not sure where to start? Write anyway. Some of the best stories begin in the middle.

Getting Authentic with Tim Crouch, part I – authenticity.

Getting Authentic with Tim Crouch, part II – co-authorship.

Getting Authentic with Tim Crouch, part III – writing outside the box.

Did you try the exercises? Share your efforts below!

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Writing Challenge: 1000 words a day

notebook_penEver since Baby, I’ve had trouble fitting in time to write. Time was, I could write several thousand words a day – this is how I have a novel to revise in the first place. Now, I manage between 1000 and 3000 words at Burdicks’ every Friday morning.

Much as I love Burdicks’, that’s not enough. Not if I ever want to finish the novel!

So I’ve come up with a plan. Starting today, I will write 1000 words a day. It sounds ambitious, I know, but I have a plan for my plan: small bites of the chocolate bar. After all, 1000 words is only 100 words ten times, or 250 words four times. I can do that!

How? I’m planning on trying to write something every hour – if I’m near the computer, I’ll write in my new daily document (so I can keep a decent count). If not, I’ll write in an A5 notebook. Why A5? It’s easy to tuck into a bag (or stroller) and I know that each page is roughly 100 words. At the end of the day, I’ll do a tally and, if I have time, type up any written stuff. And if I don’t have time? I might have to learn to use the Mac dictation software (a tip I picked up from author Kristin Cashore at a reading – more on that later, though!) to enter the text around my teething tot.

1000 words a day equals 7000 words a week. Will all 7000 be stellar? Probably not. Will they include sections I’m rewriting? Heck yes! And that’s okay – every word moves me forward, and that’s a win.

Of course, it’s now just over midday and I haven’t even started yet…

How many words do you write a day? Interested in trying this challenge out with me? Say so in the comments!

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This is What I Learned, Part III

storyboard

I’ve always had trouble with chapter breaks. Once upon a time, I assigned chapters based on word count. Later, I decided two scene changes would be equal to one chapter. But scenes vary widely in length and content, making my two scene rule more trouble than it was worth.

This is What I Did doesn’t use proper chapter breaks, but rather journal breaks. Scenes change the way movie scenes might, flowing one to the next without any additional exposition. While using the exercise below, I realized Ann Dee’s take on chaptering is akin to storyboarding.

Consider Friday’s scenes from This is What I Did:

That was Wednesday after Scouts–my first time back because Dr. Benson said I should go and my parents agreed.
When I came home I tried not to tell Dad.
I didn’t want to say: Dad, I got kicked in the balls at Scouts and then they all made a circle around me.
Bruce: Watch the crapstock bawl, guys.
All of them: Wah Wah Wah Wah Wah!
So I went straight to my room. I was late because I was supposed to walk straight home from the church after Scouts.
And I did walk home, but not until they had all left and I was lying there on the gym floor.

* * *

Me: I’m fine, Dad.
That’s what I said because since I was late; he was knocking on my door.
Me: I’m fine, Dad.
But he wouldn’t let it go. He never lets it go.
Me: Okay, you can come in.
Dad: What’s wrong, Logan?
He was trying not to look all worried. I could tell.
Me: Nothing’s wrong.
Nothing’s wrong.
He sat on my bed and I was sitting on the floor going through my comic books–just like normal. Nothing’s wrong.
Dad: Tell me. Was it those boys again? Tell me right now. Was it Jack?
Me: There’s nothing nothing WRONG WRONG WRONG, DAD!
It came out a lot louder than I thought it would, but not as loud as it was in my head.
I never knew what to say or how to control anything anymore.
I didn’t want him to know.
Dad: You can tell me anything…anything. I won’t get mad or try to fix it: I promise.
And he says how we can’t let things go as long as they did before.
Dad: Logan, you have to tell me. You have to.
Me: I know Dad, I know. I will. If anything is wrong, I’ll tell you. I’m fine.

See how they’re tightly focused and script-like? There’s no extra material, just what’s needed. The first flows into the next, too, using the information about Scouts and the gym as a starting point for the revealing dialogue between Logan and his dad.

Storyboarding

I also use  storyboarding for planning out my WIP. Though I always do an outline before writing non-fiction–copy, analysis, even memoir–I’m not much for fiction planning. Instead, I storyboard those sections of the story I find most difficult.

What exactly is storyboarding?

Simply put, it’s sketching out a sequence of story to visualize it better. It’s commonly used in film and advertising; some playwrights have also admitted to storyboarding. Can’t sketch? Not a problem. I use comic like speech balloons and stick figures to mark out important conversations, and line-draw in important objects/settings. (If it helps, you can also use photographs or magazine pictures.)

Why do I storyboard?

A couple of reasons. First, it helps me plan–I get a better sense of my story’s arc, and the board helps me get a handle on where I’m going and how without subsuming my (very limited) writing time. Second, I can pin a storyboard up near my workspace for easy reference, and easily make notes as needed. Third, I’m a visual learner, and find that looking at a board helps me see the natural breaks in a story.

Exercise

Grab a couple of your favorite books–YA or adult.

Pick a chapter somewhere near the beginning, one near the middle, and one near the end. (Stuck for time? Try using the above scenes to start.)

Note down the salient points in each chapter.

Read the chapters after, and look at how they flow. Try to see how each ensuing chapter builds on reader knowledge.

Use index cards or a storyboard template (if you’re a Mac user, Pages has one under miscellaneous templates) to visualize the chapters and the changes from one to another. Download a printable storyboard template here.

How do you handle chapter breaks? Are they obvious to you? Do you have a go-to rule?

And that’s it for my series, This is What I Learned. All feedback is welcome and appreciated. Have an idea for a post? Let me know in the comments, or email me.

[Miss the other posts in the series? See them here & here.]

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This is What I Learned, Part II

cage_fence(A late post today–a teething, snugglier-than-usual Mir-cat is keeping me busy!)

This is What I Did revolves around Logan’s reaction to an event–an event that occurred before the novel begins (and isn’t fully explained until around 135 pages in). Hints are sprinkled through the text, sometimes as flashbacks, but more often as  Logan’s thoughts and actions. The latter–reveals–are very hard to do well, and something many authors, YA and adult alike, fail at. (For an example of an epic fail, check out any Danielle Steele novel at your local library.)

An example of a reveal from This is What I Did, from pages 1&2–the scenes after yesterday’s sentence about the Scouts. Note that the first part is also a little bit of a flashback.

That was Wednesday after Scouts–my first time back because Dr. Benson said I should go and my parents agreed.
When I came home I tried not to tell Dad.
I didn’t want to say: Dad, I got kicked in the balls at Scouts and then they all made a circle around me.
Bruce: Watch the crapstock bawl, guys.
All of them: Wah Wah Wah Wah Wah!
So I went straight to my room. I was late because I was supposed to walk straight home from the church after Scouts.
And I did walk home, but not until they had all left and I was lying there on the gym floor.

* * *

Me: I’m fine, Dad.
That’s what I said because since I was late; he was knocking on my door.
Me: I’m fine, Dad.
But he wouldn’t let it go. He never lets it go.
Me: Okay, you can come in.
Dad: What’s wrong, Logan?
He was trying not to look all worried. I could tell.
Me: Nothing’s wrong.
Nothing’s wrong.
He sat on my bed and I was sitting on the floor going through my comic books–just like normal. Nothing’s wrong.
Dad: Tell me. Was it those boys again? Tell me right now. Was it Jack?
Me: There’s nothing nothing WRONG WRONG WRONG, DAD!
It came out a lot louder than I thought it would, but not as loud as it was in my head.
I never knew what to say or how to control anything anymore.
I didn’t want him to know.
Dad: You can tell me anything…anything. I won’t get mad or try to fix it: I promise.
And he says how we can’t let things go as long as they did before.
Dad: Logan, you have to tell me. You have to.
Me: I know Dad, I know. I will. If anything is wrong, I’ll tell you. I’m fine.

In 26 lines, we’ve learned several things:

  • The kids at Scouts don’t like Logan.
  • Logan is seeing a therapist.
  • His relationship with his parents is tense.
  • Something bad has happened, resulting in Logan seeing a therapist.
  • Logan is walking on eggshells, afraid of making things worse.
  • Logan feels out of control.
  • Logan feels like everything is going wrong.

All 6 points are revealed through dialogue, Logan’s thoughts, and Logan’s actions. Nothing is over-narrated. True, Ann Dee could have written:

Dr. Benson made me go to Scouts. He’s my therapist. My parents made me start seeing a therapist after what happened, but it’s not working. I still feel out of control all the time, and I think my parents hate me. The kids at Scouts hate me. My Dad is always pushing me to tell him things, but he’ll hate me if I do. Everything is going wrong. I want everything to be fine again, but it’s not, and I hate it. I hate it I hate it I hate it.

The above paragraph covers all the same points as the scenes in a quarter of the words. But it’s also a lot more boring–everything is said outright, meaning there’s no mystery, no sense of discovery. Worse, it sounds like an adult trying to imitate a teen–so zero points in the voice department.

Exercise:
I use this in developing my own work, but also when I’m analyzing someone else’s.

Take a scene in which you need to reveal certain information.
Make two columns on a piece of paper, or in a handy dandy word document.
In the first column, write down–in point form–exactly what you need to reveal. Be as specific and detailed as you can. Don’t leave anything out.
In the second column, write down a thing your character might do to show this. Use dialogue, actions, and thoughts.

E.g. Let’s look at the above scenes from This is What I Did. They take place right after has been “kicked in the balls at Scouts”.

  • Logan has been beaten up at the Scouts, but doesn’t want his dad to know.
  • –> Logan tells his dad everything is fine, and not to worry. Tries to reassure him that he’d say if something was wrong.

  • The kids at Scouts don’t like Logan.
  • –> Logan gets beaten up and called “crapstock”.

  • Logan is seeing a therapist.
  • –> there’s a reference to Dr. Benson, and being sent to Scouts. Regular doctors don’t do that sort of thing.

  • His relationship with his parents is tense.
  • –> Logan’s dad is pushing him to talk. Logan shouts at him.

  • Something bad has happened, resulting in Logan seeing a therapist.
  • –> Logan’s dad says things like “can’t let things go as long as before”, referencing the past.

  • Logan is walking on eggshells, afraid of making things worse.
  • –>Logan’s Dad is worried, but even though he invites Logan to talk, he won’t. Logan shouts, but he doesn’t mean to.

    Are there any books you think deal with reveals and flashbacks well? How do you handle reveals in your own work? Tips and tricks are always welcome!

    Tomorrow Monday: chapter breaks.

    (Miss yesterday’s post? Read it here.)

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This is What I Learned, Part I

speech_bubbleHere’s the jacket blurb from Ann Dee Ellis’ debut novel:

Imagine if you had witnessed something horrific.

Imagine if it had happened to your friend.

And imagine if you hadn’t done anything to help.

That’s what it’s like to be Logan, an utterly frank, slightly awkward, and extremely loveable outcast enmeshed in a mysterious psychological drama. This story allows readers to piece together the sequence of events that has changed his life and changed his perspective on what it means to be a good friend and what it means to be a good person.

See why you have to read it?

There are a lot of great things about Ann Dee’s novel, and it’s impossible to delve into them all. Instead, I’m going to look at something I learned from This is What I Did, and one exercise or technique I picked up at BYU to help with that something. Today, I’m going to look at voice – I know, I’m kind of obsessed with it. But I think, when all’s said and done, that voice is the most memorable, most important part of any story, be it picture book, flash fiction, or 60k word novel.

Voice

Hearing an author speak naturally and hearing an author’s words in a book is one of the best things you can do to learn about voice. After I read This is What I Did, but before I met Ann Dee, I’d imagined that she would sound like her character – something I’d always thought. Makes sense, right? I mean, a big part of writing is tapping into one’s self, so why would a main character sound any different? As a result, many of my characters sounded like me (morning crankitude, Australian slang, and a tendency to silently correct other people’s speech).

Here’s the first line from This is What I Did. Read it out loud.

Last week Bruce kicked me in the balls at Scouts and all his buddies were laughing and I started crying.

The sentence runs on a little and, if I were in crazy grammar girl mode, I’d say it’s missing a comma after “last week”. I’d also probably chop it in two after “laughing”. Read this one out loud, too.

Last week, Bruce kicked me in the balls at Scouts. All his buddies were laughing and I started crying.

Hear the difference? Despite using almost all the same words (it’s missing an “and”), the second sentence is flatter, has less feeling, and is something I’d never have thought to write. Why? Because that’s not my voice. And, having heard Ann Dee speak, I can say it’s not hers, either. True, it has elements of her voice, but it’s not hers. It’s Logan’s.

This isn’t to say that all my voice problems are gone–they’re not. But actively hearing the difference between author and character helped me get my head around the obvious, i.e., they’re different people. Now I’m much more aware of when a character sounds too much like me, making it much easier to do something about it.

Exercise: Free Writing

Tapping into a character voice is difficult, especially when the character is new. One of the exercises we used at BYU was the free write – sit down and write anything and everything that comes into your head, no editing allowed. (It’s hard to do, though, so start with short sessions and work your way up.) It’s okay to start from a prompt.

I’ve been using this adaptation of the free write to get into my latest character’s head:

Decide on the character.

Decide on an event. I like to start with something similar to one of my own experiences, but not quite the same.

Set a timer.

Write ’til the bell goes.

Of course, now that I have a teensy baby, it’s hard to find time to write and revise, let alone do any sort of writing exercise. So, out of desperation, I’ve tweaked this a little more–instead of writing, I use a headset and my phone to record free speech while Baby and I are on our morning walk. It’s a little hard to get started, but after a couple of ums and ahs, it gets easier.

Tomorrow: flashbacks & reveals.

Monday: chapter breaks.

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Finding Your Voice: Dialogue

speechDialogue is one of my weak points. I’ve been known to pore over just one page of dialogue for the better part of a day, tweaking this and twiddling that, all to no avail.

Why ? Writing natural dialogue is difficult. There’s so much to consider – speech patterns, word choice, contractions, slang, creating distinct character voices – and that’s  just the tip of the iceberg.

When it comes down to it though, the most important thing to remember about dialogue is this: it’s just another form of voice. So now, instead of obsessing over who would say what and how, I borrow the nearest person (usually my uber-patient husband) for a few minutes and run lines to get in touch with my characters’ voices.

Note: It’s best if you can record the session in some way – it doesn’t have to be fancy – I use the internal microphone on my computer.

1. Make notes on what you want your characters to say. This could be a script, or just an idea of what you need to convey. Give this to the other person, emphasising that it’s okay to improvise.

2. Start the conversation. This works best if you begin (it’s not uncommon for volunteers to be nervous, or feel silly). Don’t worry about how you sound – just sit and talk as usual.

3. Go over the recordings, using them to get a sense of the way your dialogue should sound.

Tip: if you can, get help from people most like your characters – if you’re writing scenes for a teenage boy, run lines with a teen boy, or a guy, to be as authentic as possible.

Once you’ve run lines a few times, you’ll probably be able to forgo the exercise for a while (this usually happens for me around take 3). Can’t find someone to run lines with? Record yourself speaking all of one part first, then record the other separately. If it helps, use props (a la theatre training) to get into character.

What tips do you have for writing realistic dialogue?

[Miss the other parts of this series? Check them out here & here.]

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