Archive for the ‘novel’ Category
In conversations with other writers, I often find myself in disagreement regarding a particular aspect of the writing process. Many, perhaps most, dislike the work involved with revisions and editing, seeing it as a relentless, grinding chore designed to fuel self-doubt. You see countless memes in the social media expressing, in cartoonish grotesquerie, the fear and loathing often invoked by the process of editing. For me, the very opposite is true. The hardest part of the fiction-writing process is creating the basis of the plot and the characters to start with. I don’t outline, because fiction doesn’t come to me that way. I grope my way forward, figuring things out as I go. “Pantsing,” say some, as in writing by the seat of your pants. I prefer the phrase discovery writing. Whatever you choose to call it, this phase is always hard work, and rarely easy, but it’s work that must be done to get me where I want to be.
What I most look forward to is what comes after, that process of self-editing and revision that unfolds after that rough draft has developed a beginning, a middle, and an end. There’s some discovery writing still to come, but it grows from what’s already there. Part of the joy of writing comes in those bright epiphanies that occur as I begin to realize the true potential of the tale I’ve told.
Some books take longer than others to reach this point of revision. My current work in progress took a long damn time to get there. For a while, I feared it never would.
I expected the third book of the Children of Rost’aht tetralogy (Heir to Rost’aht) to be a challenge. The story takes place at the same time as Book Two (The Best Laid Plans), and I needed to make sure certain details lined up just so. News from elsewhere (events in Book Two) needed to reach the characters in Book Three with a degree of timing that made sense. I’ve never tried such a thing before, and although the concept sounds simple enough, it didn’t prove to be as straightforward as I’d hoped. And that’s an understatement. My usual discovery writing approach to a first draft proved poorly suited to the task. It felt at times as if I were riding a bicycle over rough pavement, while always looking behind instead of ahead. Time after time I was drawn up short by the realization that something had been revealed that the current characters could not know, not at that point. Just as often, I sailed past something that they really should have been aware of, if their actions were to make any sense.
And then there were the external distractions of this past year, coming into focus while I worked on Book Three. As mentioned in the previous entry, I was puzzled by a dramatic fall-off in book sales, infuriated by the theft of several titles by trainers of chatbots, and dismayed by a stark reminder that eBook piracy is alive and well. I was riding downhill quickly, looking backward, and hitting pot holes. It’s impossible to maintain balance riding a bicycle that way. It doesn’t work any better while writing a story. Needless to say, the discovery writing phase of this book did not proceed smoothly, or without a few spectacular crashes.
It took months longer than usual, and what I finally ended up with was a mess. At some point, the usual pattern of discovery simply unraveled, and some of the “chapters” I wrote were wildly out of sequence. I did not always think of necessary plot elements until well after I passed the point where they were needed. So I just wrote what occurred, when it occurred, with the vague notion of moving bits around to correct placement, after the fact. But my first attempt to do so dissolved into chaos.
At a writer’s group meeting, a few months after the time I would normally have sent the manuscript off to the editor, I shared my tale of woe. In the conversation that followed, someone made the point that an outline at the start might have kept any of this from happening. A moot point. Any time I’ve tried to do an outline for a work of fiction, it’s automatically become discovery writing, with a fully written first draft as the result. And I did, in fact, have a draft, albeit a really bad one. But what at first seemed an entirely pointless observation turned into a true lightbulb moment. Why not turn the mess into a collection of very short chapter summaries and reorganize them into a sort of outline, after the fact? Surely it would be easier that way to see the big picture, rather than taking on the entire thing at once? This idea emerged from the group conversation, and the consensus was that it might be worth a try.
I agreed and went forward with it. Each of the so-called chapters I’d devised was given a number and a short summary. I then spent a lot of time making copy and paste maneuvers, guided by those summaries, and eventually had everything lined up properly. Heir to Rost’aht existed – sort of – its plot ordered, and missing parts glaringly obvious. And then I did the same thing for Book Two, realizing only then that an after-the-fact outline of that book would provide a useful guide to the necessary order of events. No surprise – I found mistakes in the development of Book Three’s plot through this second outline.
It all worked out in the end. I was able to take the existing material and relocate or delete anything that rendered the dual timelines contradictory. I was also able to plug some gaping plot holes. In a sense, I rewrote the rough draft into a first draft, one finally suitable for revisions. Now I can dig in to the part that makes it all worthwhile, the revisions that put life and color into the plot and characters I’ve created. For me, this truly is not the greatest chore involved with writing fiction. What I did to reach this point was the hard part, and especially so in this unusual case.
There’s a moral to this story, best expressed by nature writer Ann Haymond Zwinger, in her book The Nearsighted Naturalist: “If anybody says writing is an easy task, don’t ever buy a used car from him.”
Much of my activity in the social media has to do with writing and reading. Networking with other writers counts as one of the better reasons I have for spending time online. It’s good for the morale to be in touch with people who understand this strange habit I have, without requiring any explanations. The same goes for reading, especially when discussing a specific genre, such as science fiction. These interactions, which include numerous reviews and recommendations, account for nearly all my fiction book-buying decisions these days. The discussions that lead to book selections on my part are often wide-ranging and diverse, and – of course – loaded with opinions. Also, sometimes, complaints.
A specific complaint I see expressed regularly has to do with trilogies or longer series. This complaint reads the same way whether the author is as popular as Frank Herbert or N.K. Jemisin, or a relative unknown such as yours truly. A reader will mention reading a Book One, and, inevitably, someone responds by allowing that they, too, like the first book, and sometimes also the second. But after that it was all downhill. The author, they believe, ran out of ideas or – worse – simply got lazy (speculations vary). Such commentary leaps out at me because, as often as not, I’ve read the series or trilogy in question, and experienced no such thing. Different people will react to books in different ways and the definition of “quality” is, of course, flexible and highly subjective. And a series really can run out of steam if the writer extends the story too far, striving for quantity at the expense of consistent quality. (It is, by the way, very difficult to know when to quit.) All of that being true, I rarely see such a comment made about books by an author whose body of work consists of stand-alone novels or short stories. Readers might find that body of writing inconsistent, one book to the next, but it isn’t normally seen in the same way as a steady decline over a series of connected novels. (“Their first book was great, the next only so-so, but that latest release deserves an award!”) Something else happens when it’s a series of books, meant to be read in order.
Curious about this difference in perception, I’ve made it a habit to ask people about reading habits when they make the observation that a series started out with great promise, but lost momentum somewhere along the way. The key questions turned out to be “How long did it take you to read that series?” and “Did you read it straight through?” I haven’t exactly made a systematic study of the matter, but the responses I’ve received have led me to the following observation: there seems to be a correlation between the perception of a series faltering and the habit of binge reading.
Binge reading simply means that you start with book one and don’t stop until you’ve read through the entire series. (People also do this with movies and TV shows.) You’re all in, fully committed. The series is treated, essentially, as one really big book.
Binge reading is a habit I never acquired. In younger days, books came to me one or two at a time. They were all stand-alones until I discovered Tolkien, and even then there was a considerable lag in reading The Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers, and The Return of the King. The same thing happened when I read Frank Herbert’s Dune. The other books in that series were out there (it was still a trilogy at that time), but acquiring copies took some time – and I read or reread other books in the meantime. I believe this is how I developed a good memory for books I’ve read, so reading the next book months or a year later has never been a problem. And these days I’m in the habit of having a mix of reads ongoing at any one time, fiction and nonfiction. It could be said that I’m the opposite of a binge reader.
Other readers take a different approach: they buy the whole series at once, or if necessary wait until the entire thing is complete, and then plunge in. (The latter makes a certain amount of sense, since now and then a writer gets partway into a series and just drops it.) Those for whom binge reading is the norm make a serious commitment to reading a series. For most, this complete immersion is a big part of the fun. And in truth, most of the binge readers I’ve met end up quite satisfied by their experiences. But not all of them.
In the conversations I’ve had with fellow readers, more often than now it’s the bingers who claim that the writer jumped the shark, and should have quit while they were ahead. But was it the writing or the reader who ran out of momentum? While it’s certainly possible for a writer fade in the stretch (that sort of thing can happen to anybody, in the course of any endeavor), I find myself wondering if the problem is more likely due to reader fatigue, than any failing on the part of the writer.
For many readers, bingeing through a series is part of the fun. Not everyone who binge-reads runs afoul of this phenomenon, or experiences it with every series they read. But some do, and I’ve even heard from readers who absolutely will not read a series, ever, because they all “lose it” before the end. They are often quite vocal in their dislike, and are critical of writers who write a multi-book series – as if this were some sort of personal failing.
So – some binge and some do not. To my mind, bingeing carries the risk of reader fatigue, and having examined my own habits in this light, binge reading will never, for me, become a habit. All a matter of perception on my part, a matter of calling it the way I see it. How does it work for you?
All good things must come to an end, a truism that surely applies to every story ever written.
I want to discuss an aspect of writing that some – okay, far too many – writers seem not to take seriously enough. I’m not sure the legion of internet know-it-alls has even considered it. I’m referring to the end of the story. A good ending is just as important as having that hook at the beginning, but advice dispensed by “experts” often goes on at great length regarding matters such as the hook and keeping the middle of the tale from sagging, with little or nothing said at all about the ending.
Proof that story endings can fall short of the mark can be seen in a complaint I see all too often in reviews and book discussions. The gist of this complaint is that the story just stopped. Sometimes it’s abrupt, as if the writer simply had enough, and wanted to be done with this story. In other cases, the story just seems to fade into a few loose ends and assumptions, as if the writer wasn’t at all sure how to say “The End.” The perception of an ending being rushed is also a common complaint, a sign that the writer perhaps has some sense of how important endings can be, and tried to create that memorable last impression with a loud bang and a flourish. Some writers actually get away with this – but many do not.
Now, some of these complaints can be dismissed as a reader’s misperception of the author’s style and intentions. The most carefully crafted story ending won’t please every reader, and there are those who are never entirely satisfied by any end result. But I’ve read too many stories over the years – and the problem is especially common in short fiction – that left me with my own complaints regarding the end of the tale, to dismiss all such comments as personal fussiness.
From my own experience as a reader, what I most often see beneath a lame story ending – whether the end comes quickly with a bang or trails off quietly – is a lack of emotional content. The resolution of the tale seems to have little or no effect on the characters who have just been put through whatever the writer contrived. Everyone just seems to walk away from what has happened, and even if they’re riding off into the metaphorical sunset it’s just because they happened to be headed that way anyway. It’s a sure sign that the writer ran out of story, and arbitrarily wrapped things up. Instead of an emotionally satisfying ending, the story seems somehow incomplete. This is especially disappointing when the characters were otherwise engaging and relatable. You’ve invested in them emotionally, and then they just sort of say, “Okay, that’s done. Nothing more to see here.” Whether this is done abruptly or in a sort of slow fade makes little difference.
That hook at the beginning is indispensable. Without it, why would the reader read on? But if the ending leaves the reader flat, why would they want to read your next book? The hook won’t help you, if they don’t come back for more.
So, as a writer just starting out, how do you avoid inflicting a lame ending on your readers? There’s no set of rules to guide you, step-by-step, to a fine and emotionally satisfying conclusion to a story. Instead, think about the stories you’ve read. Did you close the book with the feeling that the time spent was worth it? Or did you just set the book aside without a second thought? Pay attention to the books that linger in your thoughts when the reading is done, especially if it was the final scene or bit of dialog that lingers. Think about those stories. Reread those endings. What did the author do? How did the author get across to you, the reader, how the end of the story’s events felt to the characters? This isn’t to say you should copy things you see in the work of others, or even imitate them. Be aware of endings, in their many manifestations, when you read. Then sit down with that awareness of how it’s done when you write your own story. Read your ending aloud and ask yourself how it felt. And then just keep it up, reading and writing; both experiences can give you what you need to succeed at this (and any other) aspect of writing – if you persist. Along the way, pay careful attention to comments from your editor or beta readers.
It’s often said that to be an effective writer, you absolutely must be a reader. I think Stephen King got it exactly right when he said, “If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time – or the tools – to write. Simple as that.” The repeated experience of how a good ending feels for you, as a reader, is the surest route to being able to write such an ending yourself.
Imagine for a moment that you’ve recently climbed a long, steep mountain trail. At the top of that mountain you gazed out over the world below, filled with a deep sense of satisfaction that made your physical weariness worth all the trouble you experienced on the way up. You set yourself the goal to make this difficult climb, and it proved even more of a challenge than you ever imagined it could be. But you kept climbing until you were at the top. You’ve accomplished a thing not everyone can do. You climbed that mountain.
The next day, at a party, you meet a person proudly showing off pictures of that same lofty view. This person impresses the crowd by reciting numbers regarding the steepness of the slopes, the altitude of the summit, and what the view from the top revealed of the world. But this person didn’t hike the trail, much less scramble up and over the steeper, rockier portions. They bought a ticket from a helicopter tour company that flew them to the summit, and then back down. You’re prepared to shrug it off – to each their own, right? But then that person claims to be a mountaineer, just like you. When you point out the obvious difference between a mountain climber and a tourist buying a helicopter ticket, the reaction is filled with lame rationalizations as this person tries to make their accomplishment somehow equal to yours. What difference does it make, they eventually insist, how you reach the summit? You got there; that’s all that matters, right? The work and effort you put into your experience of the actual climb means nothing to this pretender.
As if this isn’t bad enough, there are people at the party who actually agree with this point of view. To them, you aren’t a successful mountain climber. You’re a braggart.
Sounds outrageous, doesn’t it? Welcome to the world of the honest storyteller in the age of so-called “AI.”
The last time I wrote on this subject, I was asked what exactly I had against the idea of artificial intelligence. The truth is, I have nothing against artificial intelligence at all. I think meeting and interacting with such a being would be a fascinating experience. But so far as I know, the event called the “singularity” by researchers in that field has not yet occurred. Or if it has, the entity that evolved from it is quite wisely maintaining a low profile. Consider the popular assumptions regarding the likely results of such an emergence. Would you be in a hurry to announce your existence to a world that assumes you mean to destroy it? What we have, instead, are sophisticated machine-learning systems capable of manipulating and connecting data in extraordinary ways, and presenting the results (in certain applications) in a manner that effectively mimics human communication. These systems have enormous potential to aid such endeavors as science and medicine, and I surely have no qualms about their application in such fields.
But some of the systems popularly termed “AI,” and being marketed for public consumption, are quite another matter. My anger (let’s call it what it is) is directed at the misapplication of these tools. Generative AI systems are being used by writer-wannabes to avoid the considerable work and time involved with learning to write readable fiction.
I’ve lost track of the number of people I’ve met, in the twelve years since I first self-published, who decided to give writing a try – and then expressed utter dismay at how hard it is. Reading a book gives the false impression that it’s all just a matter of laying out the words, and spelling them correctly. That the book was the result of a year or more (often much more) of dedicated effort, during which it existed as a rough draft that would be no fun at all to read, is invisible to the average reader. It isn’t until you decide to start following such a path yourself that you realize, and perhaps appreciate, how steep the mountain before you really is. You soon doubt both your ability to stay on that trail, and your sanity for even trying in the first place.
Many people, in this age of direct-to-readers self-publishing, seem to find the need to climb that mountain offensive. Publishing a book is so automated it takes very little effort to do so. It just seems wrong that the writing part should be such a painful and frustrating slog. This is especially true of those who have been misled into thinking of writing as a sort of side-hustle that can yield easy money. Surely we’re entitled to an easier way to get this thing done?
There is no easier way. All truly creative endeavors are the result of melding human knowledge, experience, and imagination into a form that can be shared with others through a combination of hard-won talent and willingness to work toward the desired result. Writing is no exception to this truth. But this is not what you get when you tell a so-called AI that you want a plot or story start that involves certain elements of your preferred genre of fiction. The machine will consider all the fiction it has scanned (sometimes illegally) that meets the user’s parameters, and cobble together something that fits the general formula for that genre. It really doesn’t matter how you use what it gives you. There was no creative effort from you to get this started, no exercise of the imagination that draws on a lifetime of experience, or a skilled effort applied after years of practice. What you’ve been given, with little or no effort on your part, are words and patterns absorbed by an algorithm, from stories someone else actually wrote once upon a time.
By the way, I am well aware of the ironic roll self-publishing plays here. Would we be having this discussion if publishing your own book could only be done the old-school way, requiring a publishing company and a contract? I don’t believe so. Irony, indeed, that the very thing that opened the door for my own work – and is still considered by many publishers to be cheating – has made so-called AI a viable product for those who want to have been a writer.
I write these words with a certain sense of resignation. I’m not so naïve as to believe my expressions of ire will stop people from cheating with AI, whether in the arts or in other fields. I doubt there’s ever been, in all of history, an innovation that wasn’t misapplied in some way. This one just happens to hit close to home. But I am what I am, a storyteller and a writer, things I can’t live without. Like our imaginary mountain climber, planning his next conquest in spite of what he experienced at that party, all I can do is to go on writing the tales I have to tell. I will always do so to the best of my ability, without input from machine-learning algorithms. That’s a promise. Every project I’ve taken on has challenged me, and never in the same way twice, but having climbed that mountain a dozen times now, I know I don’t need to cheat.
No, this writing thing isn’t easy, not at all. But it’s always worth it.
Downbelow Station by C.J. Cherryh, Winner of the Hugo Award for Best Novel, 1982
There was a time when I made a point of reading Hugo Award winners as soon as a given year’s WorldCon results were announced. (Assuming I hadn’t already read that book – which was a rare thing.) That’s a habit I’ve lost over the past twenty or so years, and with a very few exceptions, I haven’t really been keeping up. But in the late 1970s, and all through the 1980s, I picked up copies of Hugo winners as soon as I could after the awards were made.
Award-winning novels did not, of course, make up the bulk of my sci-fi and fantasy reading. I was also, in that time period, beginning to pick up on authors I would follow through the years to come. This was facilitated by a relocation from a small town, with no bookstores in easy reach, to a major metropolitan area that held many such establishments. And so I was better able to indulge my appetite for fiction. Of the authors I discovered as a result of this easier access, few have provided me with as many enjoyable reads as C.J. Cherryh. I read Gate of Ivrel the year DAW Books published it, and in quick succession read Well of Shiuan, Fires of Azeroth, and The Faded Sun Trilogy. The author’s writing style and detailed depictions of exotic civilizations and their peoples had a very strong appeal, and so I was willing to take a chance on a new and longer work by this author when it became available. That’s how I came to read Downbelow Station before it won its Hugo Award for Best Novel in 1982.
Downbelow Station raised my interest in C.J. Cherryh’s work to a new level. The prologue that sets the stage reads like an excellent bit of narrative history – a genre of nonfiction that has always appealed to me. The story launches from those pages with an immediacy that drops the reader straight into the tension-filled plot while introducing the main characters as they each deal with a sudden, and then rapidly worsening, situation. The war between the Earth Company and the colonial worlds and stations of Union – which has raged for many decades – is coming to an end. The fleet of warships loyal to the Earth Company are too few in number to win, and Union is poised for victory. Star stations belonging to the Company are falling to Union, generating a flood of refugees for whom Pell Station (orbiting Pell’s World) is a final, if desperate, last stop. The station, overburdened by this sudden increase in population, is pushed to its limits. To make matters worse, the Company ship that led the refugees in warns of more to come. Each major character is introduced during this massive surge of refugees, their roles and respective subplots established, and the story expands from the event of arrival and the unrest it immediately creates.
The multiple subplots never lose sight of each other, and the pacing is carefully balanced between rapid action and introspection. The characters are believable, and their actions and reactions drive the braid of subplots that combine to create the overall tale. Complications increase as the overall plot pushes the characters into ever more dire situations, creating a conflict that appears irresolvable. And yet, there is a resolution, one that not only makes sense but lays the groundwork for the many novels that have since been set in the Alliance-Union universe for which this author is so well known.
More than most of the Hugo winners I’ve discussed here, rereading this book really took me back to that time when science fiction was more than just escapism for me. It was more of a way of life, and had become the keystone of my social life, associated as I was with fannish groups in the Phoenix metro area. I was even involved, in a small way, with the running of a local sci-fi convention. In 1981, I found myself volunteering to be overnight security for the dealer’s room of this “con.” This involved spending the night in the room housing the various tables and their wares, a task that appealed because I couldn’t afford a room at the hotel. I first read Downbelow Station – almost all of it in the two nights I was needed as a guardian – instead of sleeping on the row of chairs that I was instructed to put in a line just inside the door to block entry. It was assumed that I’d stretch out and sleep there, or at least doze. It was, as I recall, the only way in or out of the room, so any thief would need to fall over me to get in. Sleep? I wasn’t even comfortable enough to doze very often. So I left a light on and read. The book with me was Downbelow Station.
When the event was over, the first thing I did was finish reading that book. Afterward, I recommended it so often I drove a few friends to distraction. (The tables were turned, a couple of years later, when one of these friends discovered Startide Rising by David Brin, and just would not stop talking about it.) Only a few months passed before I read it again, when in 1982, it won the Hugo Award for best novel. I was enormously pleased to see that a book that had hooked me so solidly took top honors that year.
In the decades since, the period during which I was so active as a fan has become a source of (mostly) pleasant memories. Except for participation as an author guest at local Tucson and Phoenix conventions, and a WesterCon held in Tempe a few years ago, I’ve left that part of my life behind. Rereading this particular Hugo Winner brought that time back to life for me, even as I enjoyed rediscovering the book that turned an interest in an author’s work into something more like admiration. Science fiction has seen few authors who have been as prolific, or produced such consistently fine work. And fewer still that I follow to the extent of buying and reading every book, as soon as it’s available. Downbelow Station found in me a reader, and turned me into a fan.
TusCon 50, November 10, 11, 12, 2023. Tucson, Arizona.
Friday, Nov. 10th
I will, indeed, be a participant in this year’s TusCon event. Below you will find my official schedule. In between these times, to quote the wizard, expect me when you see me.
No official functions on day one. I’ll be here and there, attending the odd panel discussion (the odder they are the more likely you’ll find me there). Also likely to be in the vicinity of the Dealer’s Room, where Mostly Books will have some of my books available for sale.
Unfortunately, the one thing I’m not doing this year is setting up a telescope. There’s apparently no place to do so at this location.
Saturday, Nov. 11th
Autograph Session #1
11:00 am to 12:00 pm at the designated Autograph Area, in the company of fellow participants Curt Booth, J.L. Doty, Mona Ventress, William Herr, and Robert Kurtzman. I’ll sign books, program guides, and the free stuff I’ll have with me. Almost anything that will take the ink from a ball point pen. I draw the line at body parts that require public disrobing. Don’t go there.
Kill your darlings. How do you keep character death meaningful?
In the Ballroom from 3:00 pm to 4:00 pm. “There are good ways to kill your characters. And there are bad ways to kill your characters. Come learn some of the best ways to kill your characters.” That’s how the program guide describes this one. So come and learn how writers kill, and why. In a fictional sense, I mean. Don’t be afraid, we won’t hurt anyone. Promise. Sharing this panel with Diana Terrill Clark, Marsheila Rockwell, Yvonne Navarro, Frankie Robertson, and Cynthia Ward.
Getting to Know your Characters.
In Panel Room #1 from 8:00 pm to 9:00 pm. From the program guide, “Who is your hero really? Does he vibe at all with the person you think he’s going to hook up with in the 3rd act? And why is he opposing your villain? And speaking of your villain…” Some insights into how we create the characters that populate our fiction. How we make these imaginary people seem real? And why do we need that resemblance is coincidental caveat at the beginnings of our books? In the company of Catherine Wells, Jay Smith, and William Herr.
Sunday, Nov. 12th
Thomas Watson Reading
In Panel Room #2 from 10:00 am to 11:00 am. No, you will not be sitting in a room watching me read. That would be weird. I’ll be reading something out loud. Something I wrote, of course. Could be almost anything, really. After more than ten years of writing and publishing fiction, there’s certainly plenty to choose from. And that’s a thought that makes this author smile.
Under Desert Stars 