writing

The Value of Expertise

I might get myself in trouble with this one.

As a teacher (and especially when I worked in “regular” ed), I’ve heard the following line more than once from parents: “I know what’s best for my child.”

Really? If so, why do we have pediatricians? Dentists? Why send children to school at all, where they’ll be taught by someone who is not the parent of said-child?

We trust that doctors know more than we do about physical health. Most of us take our cars to mechanics because they know more about engines and carburetors and serpentine belts than we do. They have something we don’t—EXPERTISE on the subject.

Same goes for teaching. I studied enough about mathematics and the teaching thereof to earn two degrees. I’ve taught just about every level of math that exists in secondary education. Perhaps I know a thing or two.

That’s not to say parents (or anyone) should blindly trust the experts. But to make an informed argument, they need to gain some expertise of their own.

Ask questions. Do some research. Try a few different things—that would definitely make you an expert on what has and hasn’t worked in the past. Make sure you understand the reasoning behind the advice being given to you before you dismiss it.

Wait a minute. This sounds familiar.

It applies to writing, too.

Writers often say we know what’s best for our stories. In some ways, yes … but in some, maybe not. Does the writer have the expertise to make that judgment?

An editor or agent generally does have that expertise. They’ve studied, trained, and had experience in the world of writing. They might just know more than we do about what does or doesn’t work. (Yes, it’s a very subjective industry, but some things are clear-cut enough.)

Agents are too overwhelmed to give much feedback, and most of us don’t have access to an editor, nor the means to pay a freelancer. So we’re left to gain at least some expertise ourselves.

How can we do that? I have friends who’ve been through MFA programs, and it shows in both the polish and cohesive structure of their work. But that may not be the route for all of us. There are How-To books of various types. Expertise galore, ready for us to access it.

Reading can be a great way, too, but we can’t just read. We have to read on a “meta” level. When we enjoy something, we need to think about why—what did the author do right, and how? If something annoys or bores us, we need to figure out what’s behind that, too.

Will all of that ever equal the knowledge and experience an industry pro can bring to the table? Probably not. But that’s where strength in numbers comes in. Solid critique partners who’ve also done their part to gain expertise can have a huge effect on our outcome. (More on that coming on a special post August 15th.)

The bottom line is that we shouldn’t plug our ears and chant that we know what’s best for the story simply because we wrote it.

Well, really, we can do anything we want in our novels … if we don’t care about getting published.

Speak up:

2 comments

Math Geek Meets Novelist

No one’s shocked by the declaration that I’m a math geek who happens to write, right? Sometimes the math-geekiness informs my writing with character quirks or the way I apply logic. These are relatively small ways, where creativity and command of the language still play a larger role.

Once in a while, though, the geek takes over, and graphs ensue.

Really, this makes sense. The main reason graphs exist is to give us an instant visual of the big picture. Since a novel is hundreds of manuscript pages, it’s pretty difficult to look at it all at once as a whole.

What kinds of graphs? I’ll share a couple. (You can click them and get a better look.)

The first is a bar graph I made early on in my writing life to see how much my chapter lengths were varying. (Yes, this was also a case of my number-OCD coming out to play.) Nothing too fancy, just a simple graph in Excel.

I haven’t done one of these for my more recent manuscripts, but it gave me some thoughts about overall structure when I was first starting. Interesting note: the manuscript graphed here had twenty-five chapters at the time, but I eventually realized breaking some of them up worked better.

The second is one I just did for the first time this week as an experiment. I was curious how different plot “threads” or themes were distributed throughout the novel. Had I dropped a thread in and then neglected it for too long before it came up again? Were the key themes getting the amount of attention I feel they deserve?

So I listed three key threads, two secondary (sort of) ones, and a trait of the MC I wanted to make sure had been sprinkled consistently through the story. Then I started reading and noting the location where each item pops up or is addressed (shown as a percentage, i.e., 25% of the way through the novel). I made the graph using a middle school statistics program called Tinkerplots (yay for being a math teacher!), though something similar could be made using Excel … I think it’d just be a little more complicated.

I’m pretty pleased with the results. The three main threads obviously have sections where they each take precedence, and the “sprinkling in” looks pretty much how I want it.

Yes, I’m a geek.

Have you ever analyzed your writing in a “non-writing” way? Have you applied your day-job skills to something unexpected?

Speak up:

3 comments

Imperfection vs. Idiocy

Here’s another case where something I noticed as a reader has carried over to my writing. Flawed characters are a good thing. Perfect characters are boring, not to mention severely unrealistic. If characters are perfect and always do the right thing, there’s no interest and frequently no story.

Like everything else, though, flawed characters can go to an extreme that doesn’t work any better. A student of mine (now graduated) probably shouldn’t ever get an e-reader, because judging by our conversations, I think she may tend toward throwing books across the room. Or at least slamming them down on a desk.

The reason? Idiotic protagonists.

This is particularly prevalent in certain YA novels (or at least, that’s where I notice it, since it’s the world I know). Teenagers are in a stage of life that’s naturally more self-centered, and maybe that leads to the idea of making dumb decisions.

Okay, we all make bad decisions. That’s normal. But a character’s bad decision should be something that a real person would really do under those circumstances. More particularly, the bad decision should be consistent with what’s known about the character … not just something that’s convenient for the plot. (Hmm, I think that goes back to my post on front-end/back-end motivation, too.)

Here’s the thing. I’ve only known one teen in my whole life (including when I was a teen) who seemed to be 100% self-interested in their actions. And in that case, a personality disorder was likely. I also have a hard time thinking of any teens who act outright stupid in the way some novel characters do.

A cohort of the super-self-interested character is the one with false selflessness. The one who supposedly does what she does because she loves the boy, or wants to keep her friends safe. But when you look at it, the actions don’t match the supposed motivation. The character is just being stupid … because it’s convenient.

So where’s the line and the balance? How do we instill our characters with realistic, interesting flaws (and appropriately get them in trouble) without our teen readers thinking we’re insulting the intelligence of their species?

Speak up:

8 comments

Humility is Sexy

Disclaimer: I’m not a literary agent. I don’t really know what they think, beyond the thoughts they put out there on their blogs and Twitter feeds. (I do not listen to the haters who think agents are an elitist clan of devil spawn who take joy in crushing the dreams of aspiring writers.)

But I think they would agree with the title of this post. Let me explain why.

First, you have to understand humility. Contrary to popular belief, it isn’t beating up on yourself. It isn’t saying your writing is crap, especially right after someone has complimented it. It is not a lack of confidence. I grew up with this simple definition:

You can definitely believe you know a few things while acknowledging there’s room to know more. I have a student who epitomizes this. With all her accomplishments, she could easily have the biggest head on campus. Yet bragging would never occur to her. She does what she does, no big deal, but if you compliment her, she’ll thank you.

She doesn’t tell you all the reasons why your compliment is misplaced.

So, why do I suspect agents find humility sexy? I’m sure they want confident writers who believe in their ability (well, most of the time—we all have moments of doubt) and don’t have to be talked down from the ledge every other day. Confidence is not the opposite of humility—arrogance is.

We’ve all seen arrogant aspiring writers. The ones who lash out at anyone who dares criticize their masterpiece. Who insist it’s your fault for being dense if you can’t keep track of their fifteen different narrators. Who don’t care if you tell them word counts much over 100k make publishing pros twitchy—not a single word can be cut from their 450k word debut thriller. Who say they will never change X about their novel (title, character’s name, their vision of printing the whole thing in Comic Sans) no matter what a publisher says.

It ain’t sexy.

(Okay, those were extreme examples, but even when you scale them back, I’m thinking they’re not too attractive.)

Humble writers do their research on the publishing industry and don’t blame ‘the system’ for all their problems. They handle critique like a pro, not giving in to every beta reader’s whim, but being open to possible improvement. They’ll aspire for greatness, knowing there will always be more to learn, and never claiming they’ve already arrived and why haven’t you acknowledged it yet?!

Is there anything that helps you find the balance, neither tearing yourself down nor puffing yourself up? Working with my tailor-made, long-term critique partners helps me—more on that soon.

Speak up:

7 comments

What Writing YA is Really Like

Oh, my. It’s the summer of Let’s Insult YA Authors, Readers, and Teenagers in General.

First, there was this now-infamous article in the Wall Street Journal. It could have had some valid points, but if so, they got obscured in sweeping generalizations. (BTW, I shop at Barnes & Noble all the time, I live in the YA section, and I find all kinds of books that aren’t dark or about “vampires and suicide and self-mutilation.” In fact, I regularly walk out with books that just about any parent would find appropriate for a 13-year-old.)

Then there was this rather odd article titled “Writing Young-Adult Fiction” by Katie Crouch and Grady Hendrix (co-authors of The Magnolia League). Their backgrounds are in literary fiction and journalism, respectively, and they got tagged to write their YA novel. The article seems like it should be about what it says—writing YA fiction. By the end, I wasn’t sure what it was about, other than their book.

I began to feel like something strange was going on with this line:

It would be creepy if we included explicit sex scenes with glistening young skin and heaving young bosoms, but we keep it on the clean side. This isn’t Twilight. No slutty werewolves here.

Um, I’ve read Twilight—the whole series, in fact. As I recall, there’s one off-page sex scene in the fourth book. So I began to suspect that these authors haven’t read the books. If they haven’t read those, do they know anything about the YA market, really?

Then they mention how odd it is that they’re “being paid good money to be literary predators and come for people’s children.” Now I get the feeling they don’t know many (any?) teenagers in real life, either.

Overall, it seems their experience of writing a YA novel was a lot of giggling and silliness and hurry-up-and-get-it-done-ness. Writing their own wish-fulfillment fantasy, the “high-school experience we never had.”

Okay, that’s their experience. Good for them.

I haven’t gotten paid for my YA writing yet, but I think I’ve done enough now to speak to my own experience. Here’s what YA writing is like for me.

I live in fear of letting my students down. My students range from 14 to 21, and they read almost exclusively YA (aside from what their English teachers assign them). They are my little microcosm of the YA market, from voracious to reluctant readers, straight-A students to strugglers, jocks to theater geeks—with a ton of overlap within and between categories.

I’ve had students literally slam a book down during silent reading time. They hate it when characters do stupid things just for the sake of the plot—and yes, they do notice. They hate feeling talked-down to. They loathe dialogue that feels like a trying-too-hard adult wrote it.

You know what they like? Some actually like a clever turn of phrase, a well-crafted description. One girl asked me to recommend a book that would help push her vocabulary and comprehension. (I recommended The Monstrumologist.) Some want to be writers themselves. They like characters that are complex and twist stereotypes. They like stories that feel real, even (or especially) when they involve fantastic elements.

So I work my butt off. I draft, revise, run it by readers (both students and adult YA readers/writers), and revise again. Whatever I can do to make it real. If you didn’t figure it out already, I talk to teens (students, cousins, whatever) about books. I talk to them about life.

I talk to them like they’re people … because they are.

There’s the key, I think. I’ve known some (well-meaning) teachers who talk to teens like they’re still in elementary school. Teens aren’t adults yet, but they also aren’t children. I’ve found they’ll usually live up to high expectations … or down to low ones.

The best YA authors (and I’m certainly not placing myself among them) have high expectations for their readers. The read can be light or dark, funny or intense, about mermaids or cutting.

Just respect your readers. They’re pretty smart cookies … even the ones who don’t like math class. 😉

Speak up:

16 comments

Potential Pitfalls: Writing Blind (v2.0)

Perhaps some of you wondered why this post was labeled “v1.0” … here’s the answer.

There’s another way of interpreting “writing blind” beyond an awareness of the audience—awareness of the plot.

If you’ve been hanging around online writers’ communities, you’re probably familiar with the terms planner and pantser. It’s not so much “either-or” as it is a spectrum. On the extreme planner end you have writers who outline chapter by chapter, construct copious background notes, and have everything clearly laid out before they write the first scene. On the other end, you have writers who truly fly by the seat of their pants. They sit down with just the barest seed of an idea—maybe the main character, or a slice of a premise—and start writing.

At that extreme pantser end of things, we run the risk of writing blind. Having no idea where the plot is going, and thus writing scenes that go nowhere.

Even at that extreme, this pitfall is still only potential. If we recognize that major editing will be required after the first draft, once the story has found its shape, it can work out just fine. But there’s a key:

Somewhere along the way, we’re not writing blind anymore.

At some point, we have to figure out where we’re going. Otherwise, we’re going to end up with 200k words of episodic scenes and no end in sight. Characters may still throw curve-balls, unexpected twists may emerge, changes may be required. That’s all okay and part of the fun. But we need to get a bead on the main conflict and resolving it.

Of course, being a super-extreme planner … well, that’s another potential pitfall.

All you pantsers out there, what methods do you apply to your madness? What’s your editing process like once the first draft is done?

Speak up:

8 comments