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This article, by screenwriter John August, originally appeared on his site on 5/6/07. While he wrote it with an audience of screenwriters in mind, his point about coincidence is equally pertinent to authors of any type of fiction.

Like several million people worldwide, I saw Spider-Man 3 this past weekend. And like a substantial percentage of these viewers, I got frustrated by the number of unlikely coincidences in the movie.

There’s nothing wrong with coincidence, per se. Almost every movie is going to have some incidents where one character just happens to be in the right place at the right time. In fact, many movies are built around a “premise coincidence.” In Die Hard, John McClane just happens to be in the building when the villains attack. That’s okay. McClane’s being there is part of the premise. Likewise, in the original Spider-Man, Peter Parker just happens to get bitten by the radioactive spider. No problem: it wouldn’t be Spider-Man otherwise.

The premise coincidence is one flavor of what I’ll call a Fundamental Coincidence: an accidental confluence of time, place and motivation which greatly impacts the story.

In a romantic comedy, when The Guy would have proposed to The Girl except that he just happened to overhear a conversation he interpreted the wrong way, that’s a Fundamental Coincidence. In the first Spider-Man, Norman Osborn just happens to be transformed into The Goblin just as Peter is becoming Spider-Man. That’s a Fundamental Coincidence, but we accept it because it feels true to the genre.

WARNING: MINOR SPOILERS FOLLOW. (Mostly things you’d glean [from] the trailers or ads, but still.)

Let’s look at the Fundamental Coincidences in Spider-Man 3:

• The asteroid carrying the symbiote (utlimately, Venom) happens to land near Peter Parker. Peter doesn’t hear it, doesn’t investigate.
• The symbiote happens to attach itself to Peter’s scooter.
• Flint Marko happens to fall into the sand pit at exactly the moment the scientists test their billion-dollar Dyson vacuum.¹
• Flint Marko happens to have been the man who killed Uncle Ben. (A retcon.)
• Eddie Brock happens to be the only person in the church at the moment Peter tries to get rid of the black suit.

Any one (or two) of these Fundamental Coincidences would probably go unnoticed, particularly in a superhero movie, where credibility takes a back seat to spectacle. But put together, they make the plot feel rickety, particularly when you factor in the large number of what I’ll call Minor Coincidences — things that don’t fundamentally change the story, but feel convenient all the same.

1. The police chief decides to tell Peter about Marko now, even though he’s known the details for some time, apparently.
2. Sandman’s first attack just happens to coincide with Spider-Man getting the key to the city.
3. Eddie Brock is newly arrived at the Daily Bugle, and wants Peter’s job.
4. Gwen Stacy happens to be Peter’s lab partner.
5. Gwen Stacy happens to be in the skyscraper during the crane accident.
6. And she’s the police chief’s daughter.
7. And she’s Eddie Brock’s love interest.² 
8. And Gwen happens to be at the fancy restaurant on the night Peter wants to propose.

Again, you could have several of these coincidences in any movie and no one would mind. It’s largely expected that familiar faces will become imperiled in a summer action movie, so #5 feels right. Likewise, the eventual discovery of Venom’s weakness is accidental, but that plays into the genre. No foul there.

My point is not to rip on Spider-Man 3, but to urge readers to look at their own scripts with an eye towards coincidence. If you’ve written a treatment, search for the following phrases: “at the same time,” “accidentally,” “luckily,” “unfortunately,” and “meanwhile.” They’re often a tip-off that you have events happening by coincidence. There’s almost always a better alternative.

Read the rest of the article on John August’s site.

Footnotes:

1. It’s never clear what they’re supposedly doing, or why they wouldn’t have, say, a lid on the pit. Or a videocamera to monitor the experiment.
2. Revealing both of these points of information in one piece of dialogue was a particularly bold choice.

Nabokov said, "My pencils outlast my erasers."  

Writing well means trial and error and learning to master the craft. And that’s an on-going journey. I keep learning new things every year. You’re never “there.” You’re never perfect. And sometimes I think the more I learn, the less I know. 

I once read of a famous writer of the past who would simply scribble out his manuscripts on whatever paper surface he might have at hand, give the pile to his editor at the publishing house, and that person made everything come together for lasting, classic fiction works. 

That doesn’t happen anymore. Or if it does, it’s rare. As you probably know, publishing houses are now big conglomerates, with the “bean counters” more in charge than the “pencil pushers.” And the editors at these houses are usually underpaid and overworked. I had a young college-age friend who interned at a New York publisher one summer in recent years. She and other interns were in charge of wading through the slush piles. The job was daunting. She (and the interns—mostly volunteer) sent out the rejection form letters. She said there was even a room filled with agented manuscripts, some that had been there as long as a year. 

It’s a discouraging picture. And I’m not telling you this to discourage you, but rather to EN-courage you. What this means is that these interns/editors—or whoever might read your manuscript—are looking for any reason to reject it, just to get through that pile faster. You have to be able to overcome those reasons. 

So if they aren’t totally engrossed by your first line, first paragraph, or first page, chances are they won’t read any further. If they see typos, spelling errors, bad grammar—chuck it. Strange-looking fonts or lavender-colored paper—it’s out (they read so many, please spare their failing eyesight!) Formatting errors (single instead of double-spaced), no headers, chapters that begin at the top of the page instead of 1/3 down. Seemingly minor things, but… 

This is where hiring an independent editor can help. I don’t know about you, but after I’ve worked on a manuscript for weeks, months, even years, I become so close to the work that I cannot look at it objectively anymore. You probably know too, that your eye will see a misspelled word or a typo and your brain registers the word that it’s supposed to be.

From the Associated Press, a reminder to always check this word if editing "public" documents:

GRAND HAVEN, Mich. – Ottawa County will pay about $40,000 to correct an embarrassing typo on its Nov. 7 election ballot: The "L" was left out of "public."

"It’s just one of those words," Krueger said. "Even after we told people it was in there, they still read over it."

In the Seattle Times, a story about a new ramp at the ferry terminal
explained that it was operated by a "system of wenches." 

And a headline on Google news: “Don Imus says he’s battling stage two prostrate cancer.”

So another pair of eyes can be most helpful. if you want to learn and grow and hopefully be published, you really want someone who is going to tell you the things you need to work on, to make your work stronger, to stand out.

The independent editor will be your friend as a writer – in the way that we all have one friend who tells us things we don’t want to hear and calls us on it when we’re not making sense. You know, the annoying friend. Your editor.

This piece, by Pat Holt, originally appeared on the Holt Uncensored blog.

Ten mistakes writers don’t see (but can easily fix when they do).

Publetariat editor’s note: Publetariat’s position is that an author’s unique "voice" is defined by which "rules" he chooses to break and how, and a manuscript that never strays from the rules tends to lack spark and personality.  However, before an author can effectively break the rules, that author must understand the rules well enough to know the risks involved in breaking them. In that spirit, we present this article.   

Like many editorial consultants, I’ve been concerned about the amount of time I’ve been spending on easy fixes that the author shouldn’t have to pay for.

Sometimes the question of where to put a comma, how to use a verb or why not to repeat a word can be important, even strategic. But most of the time the author either missed that day’s grammar lesson in elementary school or is too close to the manuscript to make corrections before I see it.

So the following is a list I’ll be referring to people *before* they submit anything in writing to anybody (me, agent, publisher, your mom, your boss). From email messages and front-page news in the New York Times to published books and magazine articles, the 10 ouchies listed here crop up everywhere. They’re so pernicious that even respected Internet columnists are not immune.

The list also could be called, “10 COMMON PROBLEMS THAT DISMISS YOU AS AN AMATEUR,” because these mistakes are obvious to literary agents and editors, who may start wording their decline letter by page 5. What a tragedy that would be.

So here we go:

1. REPEATS
   Just about every writer unconsciously leans on a “crutch” word. Hillary
   Clinton’s repeated word is “eager” (can you believe it? the committee
   that wrote Living History should be ashamed). Cosmopolitan magazine editor Kate White uses “quickly” over a dozen times in A Body To Die For. Jack Kerouac’s crutch word in On the Road is “sad,” sometimes doubly so – “sad, sad.” Ann Packer’s in The Dive from Clausen’s Pier is “weird.”

    

   Crutch words are usually unremarkable. That’s why they slip under
   editorial radar – they’re not even worth repeating, but there you have
   it, pop, pop, pop, up they come. Readers, however, notice them, get
   irked by them and are eventually distracted by them, and down goes your book, never to be opened again.

   But even if the word is unusual, and even if you use it differently when
   you repeat it, don’t: Set a higher standard for yourself even if readers
   won’t notice. In Jennifer Egan’s Look at me, the core word – a good
   word, but because it’s good, you get *one* per book – is “abraded.”
   Here’s the problem:

   “Victoria’s blue gaze abraded me with the texture of ground glass.” page 202
   “…(metal trucks abrading the concrete)…” page 217
   “…he relished the abrasion of her skepticism…” page 256
   “…since his abrasion with Z …” page 272

   The same goes for repeats of several words together – a phrase or
   sentence that may seem fresh at first, but, restated many times, draws attention from the author’s strengths. Sheldon Siegel nearly bludgeons us in his otherwise witty and articulate courtroom thriller, Final Verdict, with a sentence construction that’s repeated throughout the book:

   “His tone oozes self-righteousness when he says…” page 188
   “His voice is barely audible when he says…” page 193
   “His tone is unapologetic when he says…” page 199
   “Rosie keeps her tone even when she says…” page 200
   “His tone is even when he says…” page 205
   “I switch to my lawyer voice when I say …” page 211
   “He sounds like Grace when he says…” page 211

   What a tragedy. I’m not saying all forms of this sentence should be
   lopped off. Lawyers find their rhythm in the courtroom by phrasing
   questions in the same or similar way. It’s just that you can’t do it too
   often on the page. After the third or fourth or 16th time, readers
   exclaim silently, “Where was the editor who shoulda caught this?” or
   “What was the author thinking?

   So if you are the author, don’t wait for the agent or house or even editorial consultant to catch this stuff *for* you. Attune your eye now. Vow to yourself, NO REPEATS.

   And by the way, even deliberate repeats should always be questioned: “Here are the documents.” says one character. “If these are the documents, I’ll oppose you,” says another. A repeat like that just keeps us on the surface. Figure out a different word; or rewrite the exchange. Repeats rarely allow you to probe deeper.

2. FLAT WRITING
   “He wanted to know but couldn’t understand what she had to say, so he waited until she was ready to tell him before asking what she meant.”

    

   Something is conveyed in this sentence, but who cares? The writing is so flat, it just dies on the page. You can’t fix it with a few replacement words – you have to give it depth, texture, character. Here’s another:

   “Bob looked at the clock and wondered if he would have time to stop for gas before driving to school to pick up his son after band practice.” True, this could be important – his wife might have hired a private investigator to document Bob’s inability to pick up his son on time – and it could be that making the sentence bland invests it with more tension. (This is the editorial consultant giving you the benefit of the doubt.) Most of the time, though, a sentence like this acts as filler. It gets us from A to B, all right, but not if we go to the kitchen to make a sandwich and find something else to read when we sit down.

   Flat writing is a sign that you’ve lost interest or are intimidated by your own narrative. It shows that you’re veering toward mediocrity, that your brain is fatigued, that you’ve lost your inspiration. So use it as a lesson. When you see flat writing on the page, it’s time to rethink, refuel and rewrite.

3. EMPTY ADVERBS

   Actually, totally, absolutely, completely, continually, constantly, continuously, literally, really, unfortunately, ironically, incredibly, hopefully, finally – these and others are words that promise emphasis, but too often they do the reverse. They suck the meaning out of every sentence.

   I defer to People Magazine for larding its articles with empty adverbs. A recent issue refers to an “incredibly popular, groundbreakingly racy sitcom.” That’s tough to say even when your lips aren’t moving.

   In Still Life with Crows, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child describe a mysterious row of corn in the middle of a field: “It was, in fact, the only row that actually opened onto the creek.” Here are two attempts at emphasis (”in fact,” “actually”), but they just junk up the sentence. Remove them both and the word “only” carries the burden of the sentence with efficiency and precision.

   (When in doubt, try this mantra: Precise and spare; precise and spare; precise and spare.)

   In dialogue, empty adverbs may sound appropriate, even authentic, but that’s because they’ve crept into American conversation in a trendy way. If you’re not watchful, they’ll make your characters sound wordy, infantile and dated.

   In Julia Glass’s Three Junes, a character named Stavros is a forthright and matter-of-fact guy who talks to his lover without pretense or affectation. But when he mentions an offbeat tourist souvenir, he says, “It’s absolutely wild. I love it.” Now he sounds fey, spoiled, superficial. (Granted, “wild” nearly does him in; but “absolutely” is the killer.)

   The word “actually” seems to emerge most frequently, I find. Ann Packer’s narrator recalls running in the rain with her boyfriend, “his hand clasping mine as if he could actually make me go fast.” Delete “actually” and the sentence is more powerful without it.

   The same holds true when the protagonist named Miles hears some information in Empire Falls by Richard Russo. “Actually, Miles had no doubt of it,” we’re told. Well, if he had no doubt, remove “actually” – it’s cleaner, clearer that way. “Actually” mushes up sentence after sentence; it gets in the way every time. I now think it should *never* be used.

   Another problem with empty adverbs: You can’t just stick them at the beginning of a sentence to introduce a general idea or wishful thinking, as in “Hopefully, the clock will run out.” Adverbs have to modify a verb or other adverb, and in this sentence, “run out” ain’t it.

   Look at this hilarious clunker from The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown: “Almost inconceivably, the gun into which she was now staring was clutched in the pale hand of an enormous albino.”

   Ack, “almost inconceivably” – that’s like being a little bit infertile! Hopefully, that “enormous albino” will ironically go back to actually flogging himself while incredibly saying his prayers continually.

4. PHONY DIALOGUE

   Be careful of using dialogue to advance the plot. Readers can tell when characters talk about things they already know, or when the speakers appear to be having a conversation for our benefit. You never want one character to imply or say to the other, “Tell me again, Bruce: What are we doing next?”

   Avoid words that are fashionable in conversation. Ann Packer’s characters are so trendy the reader recoils. ” ‘What’s up with that?’ I said. ‘Is this a thing [love affair]?’ ” “We both smiled. ” ‘What is it with him?’ I said. ‘I mean, really.’ ” Her book is only a few years old, and already it’s dated.

   Dialogue offers glimpses into character the author can’t provide through description. Hidden wit, thoughtful observations, a shy revelation, a charming aside all come out in dialogue, so the characters *show* us what the author can’t *tell* us. But if dialogue helps the author distinguish each character, it also nails the culprit who’s promoting a hidden agenda by speaking out of character.

   An unfortunate pattern within the dialogue in Three Junes, by the way, is that all the male characters begin to sound like the author’s version of Noel Coward – fey, acerbic, witty, superior, puckish, diffident. Pretty soon the credibility of the entire novel is shot. You owe it to each character’s unique nature to make every one of them an original.

   Now don’t tell me that because Julia Glass won the National Book Award, you can get away with lack of credibility in dialogue. Setting your own high standards and sticking to them – being proud of *having* them – is the mark of a pro. Be one, write like one, and don’t cheat.

5. NO-GOOD SUFFIXES

   Don’t take a perfectly good word and give it a new backside so it functions as something else. The New York Times does this all the time. Instead of saying, “as a director, she is meticulous,” the reviewer will write, “as a director, she is known for her meticulousness.” Until she is known for her obtuseness.

   The “ness” words cause the eye to stumble, come back, reread: Mindlessness, characterlessness, courageousness, statuesqueness, preciousness – you get the idea. You might as well pour marbles into your readers’ mouths. Not all “ness” words are bad – goodness, no – but they are all suspect.

   The “ize” words are no better – finalize, conceptualize, fantasize, categorize. The “ize” hooks itself onto words as a short-cut but stays there like a parasite. Cops now say to each other about witnesses they’ve interrogated, “Did you statementize him?” Some shortcut. Not all “ize” words are bad, either, but they do have the ring of the vulgate to them – “he was brutalized by his father,” “she finalized her report.” Just try to use them rarely.

   Adding “ly” to “ing” words has a little history to it. Remember the old Tom Swifties? “I hate that incision,” the surgeon said cuttingly. “I got first prize!” the boy said winningly. But the point to a good Tom Swiftie is to make a punchline out of the last adverb. If you do that in your book, the reader is unnecessarily distracted. Serious writing suffers from such antics.

   Some “ingly” words do have their place. I can accept “swimmingly,” “annoyingly,” “surprisingly” as descriptive if overlong “ingly” words. But not “startlingly,” “harrowingly” or “angeringly,” “careeningly” – all hell to pronounce, even in silence, like the “groundbreakingly” used by People magazine above. Try to use all “ingly” words (can’t help it) sparingly.

Read about mistakes 6 – 10 on the Holt Uncensored blog.

Pat Holt is an editor, author, and the founder of the Bay Area Book Reviewers Association. 

Publetariat’s series on the psychology of writing continues with a deconstruction of The Rules.

Many aspiring authors believe there’s a collection of both written and unwritten rules to follow in writing and trying to get published, a sort of catechism for success. 

From: The Top Ten Myths About Writing And Why They’re Mostly Wrong – John Erianne

I’ve been in the writing game for most of my life and one of the things that never ceases to summon an “Oh, Please . . .” reaction are those incessant misperceptions and myths about writing that I encounter from time-to-time. We’ve all heard them and some of us buy into them. There’s a whole self-help industry built around many of these myths. Others are put out there as road blocks to discourage aspiring writers from realizing their goals. Among the ones I see most often are:

6. Writing can’t be taught

People who say this seem to think that writers spring fully formed like Athena from the head of almighty Zeus. All writers learn to be writers. Whether a writer is self-taught or goes through some writing program somewhere, there is a process of learning going on and therefore a process of being taught. Whether you are being taught with a lot of trial and error and a library card or being workshopped to death in a word factory, writing is being taught to you in one form or another. What you choose to do with that knowledge is another matter.

7. You have to have talent to write

Well . . . having talent doesn’t hurt, but honestly, let’s not overestimate it’s importance. You’ve got a writer who’s the most talented genius since Willie Shakespeare penned Hamlet, but he can’t be bothered to get out of bed in the morning and dress himself much less share any of that talent with the world. On the other end of the spectrum, you have a guy who’s not very talented, but competent, dependable and workmanlike who writes and submits constantly. Writer #2 has dozens of publication credits as a result while Writer #1 still hasn’t gotten out of bed. Listen. A really talented writer who works really, really hard is probably going to go farther than a no-talent hack who works equally as hard, but the no-talent hack will still go farther than a lazy genius.

8. You have to go to a writing school to be a writer

Okay, sure, I’ve been to college and I know a lot of writers who’ve been to college, gone through writing programs and now teach in writing programs, but let’s be real here: If becoming a writer depended on getting accepted to the Iowa Writer’s Workshop or the like, there would be relatively few writers out there, now wouldn’t there? College writing programs typically don’t accept that many candidates each semester and even fewer people actually make it through the really tough programs. Some of the best-known writers throughout history didn’t have a degree in writing or much of formal education whatsoever. That’s not to say you can be a functional illiterate and write well, if at all, but you get my point, don’t you?

9. You have to have a literary agent

While it’s probably true that if you are a novelist or screenwriter you are not likely to break into a major market without an agent, you don’t absolutely need one. If you write non-fiction, an interesting, well-written book proposal is often enough and even with fiction, independant publishers often (and sometimes especially) don’t require agency representation.

10. Writers have to pay people to publish their work

That’s a big, “Hell, no!” Sure, there are publishers and agents (so-called) who will demand the payment of fees, but understand this: no legitimate royalty-paying publisher or literary agency ever requires a writer to pay a fee for the service. There are legitimate printing services that offer to print books for self-publishers, however this is different from vanity presses that masquerade as a traditional royalty publisher that charge fees upfront to publish your work. 

Read myths #1 – 5, which pertain to common misconceptions about writers and writing, on the Diary of a Mad Editor blog.

From: There’s No Such Thing As A Cliche – J. Robert Lennon 

The entire concept of the cliché…is a matter of how experience is framed–there is no human reality, however culturally overexposed, that can’t be made into a successful work of art. Shakespeare was an early adopter of this way of thinking; Andy Warhol a more recent one. A good artist can take the wilted castoffs of a culture and make them into something great.

I’ve heard a lot of stories about teachers who try to outlaw things–things they think are hackneyed and deflated. One writing prof we know once issued an anti-mermaid edict, and one student, a friend of ours, responded by handing in a mermaid story. A good one, apparently. The edict was rescinded.

One possible definition of a cliché is: something that’s important to people, and which they can’t stop talking about (like, you know, um…mermaids). We’re sick of it for the latter reason; but we can’t ignore it because of the former. A good writer can crack open the nut of a cliché and fork out the meat, leaving the old familiar shell behind. Indeed, that’s a writer’s job description–forking out the meat. A writer who ignores cliché has failed, a writer who succumbs to it has also failed. Success is framing the cliché as revalation.

Read the rest of this post on the Ward Six blog.

From: An Interesting Thought On Rules – Jessica Faust

A lot of comments lately have blasted agents and editors for all of our rules. We stifle authors, we cause nothing but problems, and we’re rude to boot. I debated a discussion on rules because I have a feeling I’m going to get blasted for it, but a client of mine pointed out that what makes my blog work are my honest answers and the honest comments I get from my readers. So here goes . . .

There are seemingly a lot of rules in publishing, but if you’ve ever heard me speak or read enough of my blog posts I think you’ll know that I’ve repeated again and again that those rules are not rules and should not be seen as such, but should be looked upon as guidelines. One of the most frustrating things for me about being blasted for all of our rules is that so many of them are created because authors ask for them, and so many more are not rules I’ve put out but rules authors impose themselves.

I am constantly asked for more clarification, for more rules. Authors want to know a secret to getting in the door. How do you write the perfect query letter, how do you write the perfect synopsis, and how do you write the perfect book? I cannot tell you that. I can give you hints, clues, examples, and critiques. I can do my best to help you along the way, but there are absolutely no rules. You’ve said it yourself, agents impose rules but then sell books that break them.

When asked how to write a query letter or a pitch I can give you tips on what I’ve seen that’s worked for me. Does that mean it will work in the same way for another agent? Not necessarily, because it’s all subjective. This is the same for resumes and resume cover letters. You can read a resume book and see hundreds of examples. They might all work for you or they might not. Ultimately, when reading the advice of agents you need to pick and choose what resonates with you. 

Reading our blogs should be done in the same manner you read revision letters from critique partners, agents, or your own editor. You need to see what worked and didn’t work for other people and see how it resonates with you. Then you need to make your own decisions. Making smart, professional, and personal decisions are in the end what the only rule should be. 

Read the rest of this piece on the BookEnds, LLC blog.

This essay, by Charles Atan, originally appeared on his blog on 3/25/09.

A friend had a recent blog entry on how irrelevant critiques are to a writer’s craft. On one hand, he’s right. You don’t need to develop a critical framework to write stories. You don’t need to be able to analyze stories and pick them apart in order to be a good writer. My perspective on things however is that I’m not a genius. I’m not that talented writer whose first draft is prize-winning and ready for publication. I have to work at stories and continually strive to become better. And one of the ways I accomplish that is by analyzing stories.

Before I go on, I’d like to clarify what I mean by critiquing and analyzing stories. If you’re in a book club, the questions you’ll probably be asking is what are the themes and motifs of the story and applying Formalist/Marxist/Feminist/Post-Modern readings.

As a writer, I’m not interested in that line of inquiry as much as the technique. I won’t be asking whether I liked this or that character but rather what makes the character compelling. It’s not about whether I agree with the author’s agenda but rather how the agenda is delivered and whether it’s subtle or heavy handed. Everything’s still subjective of course and there is no objective answer to these questions given a particular story, but that’s the kind of analysis that I pursue, as opposed to the scholarly approach to criticism.

If you’re just a casual reader, you don’t need to develop this skill set. In fact, such critical thinking can hamper your enjoyment of certain stories as your awareness develops. It’s akin to a member of the audience learning the tricks of a magician. When it’s performed in front of you, because you’re familiar with the sleight of hand and the position of the mirrors, it might appear dull and formulaic. That’s not to say this is without its own advantages.

When you do come across a remarkable story, the reward is that much greater as you’re conscious of the intricacies of producing such a text. Even better is the narrative that’s so effective that it causes you to momentarily forget all that you’ve learned and simply appreciate the story for what it is.

Likewise, if you’re a "writer," this isn’t a requisite. You can simply write your manuscript and submit them to wherever you feel appropriate. The editor certainly doesn’t have a checklist asking whether you’re capable of analyzing and critiquing stories. All they care about is your final output–the text–and whether it’s up to par with their standards or not.

So if analyzing stories is "non-essential," why bother? For me, it’s about improving. This is actually a two-step process. First is the analysis. Why is it important for you to be able to analyze stories and observe what works and what doesn’t? So that we can improve. Why is it that one of the most common writing advices out there is to read a lot, whether those in your field or those outside of it? It’s the polite way of saying "read this and learn!"

Simply reading a book or story however is how your mind learns unconsciously. Analyzing stories brings it to the fore, so that you’re aware of your own processes: Maybe this story is great because of the dialogue. Why is that? How can we replicate it in our own stories? What are the pros and cons of such a technique? That’s not to say you can’t learn the same things through simply reading it.

One of the habits I unintentionally picked up from reading Tom Swift novels was the inclusion of adverbs such as "he quickly ran" or "she defiantly shouted." I had to unlearn them in college and trained myself to settle for more appropriate nouns. Which just goes to show that you can learn the bad along with the good.

Theoretically you can attend a class or get a mentor to teach you these things formally. Well, aside from the cash flow problem, you need to look for such a teacher and the problem with some teachers is that they won’t always have identical aesthetics as yourself.

Maybe you both agree that establishing good characterization is the key to an effective short story but your teacher might not appreciate the fact that you plan on writing genre literature. Or maybe he or she thinks that one of your favorite authors is trashy and not worthy of respect. Face it, each writer has his or her own set of values and you’ll have to discover yours on your own, either consciously or subconsciously. When you encounter the question who your writing influences are, you’re facing this dilemma head on.
 

Read the rest of the essay on Charles Atan’s blog.

This post, by Janice Hardy, originally appeared on her The Other Side of the Story blog on 3/24/09.

Adverbs.

Writers the world over just shuddered when I said that. The experts tell us to never use adverbs. Adverbs are bad, adverbs are evil, adverbs will sneak into your room late at night and strangle you in your bed.

Well, not really.

Poor use of adverbs is bad, but adverbs are a perfectly good tool in any writer’s toolbox. Many have equated them to a heavy spice, like cayenne pepper. A dash spices things up, but too much makes the dish inedible. Some writers, especially those just starting out, think they must kill all adverbs and never ever use them or their work will be rejected.

Again, not really.

Agents aren’t counting your adverbs and if you go over a secret number they reject you. What they are doing, is reading your story to see if it makes them want to keep reading it. If they find reasons not to, they’ll stop. One of those reasons is bad writing, and bad adverb usage is high on the list of what’s considered bad writing.

Adverbs are acceptable if used well. The trick is to know when you’re being lazy and when you’re using the right word to say what you mean.

Adverbs are often misused in dialog. We’ve all seen (and probably written):

"I hate you," she said angrily.

In this instance, there are plenty of great ways a writer can dramatize anger. The she in question can bang her fist on a table, spit in his face, pull out a Sig Sauer nine mil and blow his brains out. All of those would be more exciting than angrily, which can mean something different to everyone who reads it. By using an ambiguous adverb, not only are you falling into lazy writing, you’re missing a great opportunity for characterization. The gal who would bang her fist on a table is not the same gal who’d break out that Sig.

Now, look at a line like:

"I hate you," she said softly.

Many people would swap out softly for whisper in this instance, but whisper isn’t the same as speaking softly. I can speak softly and not whisper. Softly is an adverb that conveys something specific depending on the context in which it’s used. What you pair with this adverb will make or break it.
 

Read the rest of the post on The Other Side of the Story.