How To Write Magical Words: A Writer's Companion

by Unknown

  Here’s a different example, one that comes up frequently when we’re talking about writing: don’t write in the present tense, or, heaven forbid, the future tense. Has it been done? Of course. Should it be done? Well, that’s really up to you. As always, there’s a price to pay.

  In this case, because past tense is the tense used in the vast majority of writing today (especially if you disregard "literary writing," which accounts for two-thirds of the uses of other tenses), unless present or future tenses are used seamlessly, it’s going to jump out at the reader. Look at me, it screams. I am writing in the present tense. I am going to be writing in the future tense. If that’s the effect you want—if it serves your story somehow—then by all means, go for it. Some writers can do so in a way that’s unobtrusive, so you hardly notice it’s being done. But here’s the thing: most readers want to be swept up in a story and carried away by it. They want to be immersed in the world they’re reading about to such a degree that they forget about the real one they’re living in. That can not happen if the writing is calling attention to itself. Using tenses that scream "look at me" are not going to allow that to happen. Again: "Can it be done" is not the question you should be asking yourself. "Should it be done" is the question.

  I could go on about this at length, but I’m sure by now you see my point. The bottom line is that the rules are there for a reason. And it’s not to say you can never, ever, ever do ____x____. It’s to say that if you do _____x_____, make sure you know why you’re not supposed to do it. Make sure you understand the price tag that comes with doing it. Make sure that you understand that even though great writing breaks a lot of rules, no one breaks the rules effectively without thoroughly understanding them.

  Once you really, truly understand the rules, then by all means, go ahead and break them. Break them into a million shining pieces that people will hold up and bask in the glory of.

  Break them so well that you’re the one that people are talking about when they come up to me at my next convention or workshop and say, "Yeah, but what about ____x____?"

  §§§

  Stuart Jaffe

  This is the fundamental and only true rule in all art forms: You must understand the "rules" in order to break them effectively. Even those few geniuses who break all the rules perfectly at the age of four—I believe they actually understood the rules at some instinctive level. Whenever somebody breaks the rules without any concept of them, it is almost always glaringly evident.

  David Jace

  I agree, as well. I think I might print this out and post it in my Middle School English classroom. This illustrates and addresses one side of the battle: those who are authoritative about styles and opinions. The other side, however, is equally dangerous: those who don’t know enough to do it right, but want to cite the lack of one "right" way as their reason to do it sloppily.

  I particularly love the look at punctuation; we so need that second (serial) comma! Lacking it inhibits the clarity of a series.

  Here’s my example: Make sure that you place siblings, criminals, priests and parishioners, nuns and innocents, warlords, child-molesters and children in separate rooms, or they won’t get along.

  Each comma sets off a group. The criminals are apart from the siblings, but the priests and parishioners are together. Now, do YOU want that comma between the child-molesters and the children, or not?

  Getting Started

  David B. Coe

  So, you’re starting that novel you’ve been thinking about for all these years. Good for you. Chances are you already have some idea of what you intend to do with your novel. You have characters in mind, a general idea of the plot, some sense of the worldbuilding. That’s good. Now—before you actually start writing—is the time to develop those concepts and to plan your book out. Don’t worry, all of you seat-of-the-pantsers out there, I’m not going to insist or even suggest that you outline your book. That’s a personal choice and you know better than I how much outlining or plotting you’ll need to do. But there are others things you should set up ahead of time.

  The first thing I would suggest you do is read in your selected subgenre, not so that you copy what others have done or make your work derivative in any way, but so that you familiarize yourself with the tropes of the field, make certain that your work actually fits into the subgenre to which you think it belongs (an important issue later in the process, when you start to pitch your work to agents and editors), and make certain that the book you want to write hasn’t already been written by someone else.

  If you’re writing urban fantasy, you should read Kim Harrison, Rachel Caine, C.E. Murphy, Faith Hunter, and others. If you’re writing mystery/ fantasy, you should read Jim Butcher. If you’re writing epic fantasy, you should know the work of Tolkien, George R.R. Martin, John Marco, Guy Gavriel Kay, and perhaps even David B. Coe. YA books with animals as main characters? You’d better know the work of Brian Jacques. New weird? Read China Mieville. And if you’re writing a pirate fantasy, you’d better have read Misty Massey. You wouldn’t try to bake a cake without first knowing what a cake looks and tastes like. It’s the same with writing a fantasy novel.

  While you’re reading in the genre, you should also be researching your own book. I use the word "research" a little loosely here, because depending on your book, the amount of actual library/reference research you do might vary. If you’re setting your book on a pirate ship, you need to know about pirates. And ships. If you’re setting your work in a world with medieval technology, you should familiarize yourself with medieval food and clothing, construction and weaponry. You might want to learn a bit about castles. If your setting is modern and real-world, then learn a bit about whatever city or area you’ve chosen. If you’re writing a historical work, as I am now . . . Well, you get the idea.

  To me, research is quite similar to worldbuilding. Both are intended to give shape and texture to the world in which your characters live; both help to set the voice and tone for the books; both give context and weight to the narrative. And both are incredibly time-consuming endeavors that can suck us in and keep us from ever turning to the actual writing of our books.

  What is the right amount of research (or worldbuilding)? How much is too much, or, put another way, how do we know when to stop?

  The easy answer is that we learn as much as we can about the place and time in which we intend to set our books, not so that we can share every detail with our readers, but rather so that we don’t have to. We need to use the iceberg principle: We show our readers what they need to know, while merely hinting at the background lurking beneath the surface. I’ll be setting my new series in pre-Revolutionary Boston. I could spend pages upon pages telling my readers about the political, economic, and social phenomena of that time, but they probably didn’t buy the book for a history lesson. They bought it for a story. So I’ll spare them the extensive discourse, but I’ll put in small details—references to historical figures and events, descriptive particulars about the streets of Boston—that will bring the period to life without detracting from the narrative.

  As I do my background work for a new novel I also identify whatever sources I think I’ll be needing throughout the writing process, and begin to gather them. I buy books, bookmark web sites, draw or collect my maps, etc. Also, if this is your first book, now might be a good time to get certain things you just have to have: an excellent dictionary, a comprehensive thesaurus, a baby name book; stuff like that.

  But my idea of research goes beyond what I’ve just described, to also include the creation of your magic system, the drawing of maps for your alternate world, character background, development of religions, histories, lines of royalty, etc. Some of it will demand that you look stuff up; some of it will happen entirely in your imagination. But in my opinion all of it is "research," and all of it is absolutely necessary for the development of your story.

  Now, you’ll notice that I’ve said nothing yet about working out plot points. That’s because, for me at
least, the research phase (which usually lasts one or two months; no more than three. Get what you need to begin the book, and move on) is an incredibly fertile period for developing plot ideas. As I learn more about my characters, my world, and my magic system, story ideas come to me. So I wait until after the research is mostly done before I brainstorm the finer points of my plot.

  The other thing I do in these preparatory stages is come up with a system for keeping track of the information I’m gathering and the ideas that are coming to me. In the past I’ve used a notebook, index cards, spreadsheets, and combinations of these things along with others. Character Keeper, the program developed by Misty Massey’s husband, Todd, might be the perfect computer-based tool for you, if you want to keep track of this stuff on your computer. I hear it’s a great program, though it only works for Windows platforms. For Mac users, check out Scrivener.

  Finally, if you’re the kind of writer who likes to have an outline, this is the point where you should start working on one. Even if you’re a dedicated seat-of-the-pantser, you should take this opportunity to make certain that you have at least a general idea of where you’re going with your story and how you intend to get there. There is nothing worse than getting half or two-thirds of the way into a book and realizing that you have no sense of how to get from where you are to the ending you’ve envisioned. If I had a dime for every book idea that had died for lack of planning . . .

  All that I’ve written here is all fairly generalized, because every book is so different, every author’s needs so particular, that being more specific wouldn’t accomplish much. I should also add that while I described these various stages in a linear sequence, they usually happen for me with a great degree of simultaneity. I read in the subgenre (as I’m doing now for my historical) at the same time I do research. And as I do my research, I develop a system for keeping track of stuff—while also jotting down the plotting ideas that come to me. And while I’m doing all this stuff, I’m thinking about the structure of the book and starting to work on a very general outline. It’s an organic process. None of these things is entirely separate from the others. They’re all ingredients for that one cake, to return to my metaphor from earlier, and they need to be prepared together so that they can be blended at the appropriate time.

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  A.J. Hartley

  For what it’s worth, while I’m doing the kind of research, world-building, and plot-sketching you outline so nicely, I also find myself moving toward some kind of thematic issue. Eventually I open a new document and give it a title which is usually some version of: what is the book about? Over the next few days or weeks I drop in ideas: not plot points, back story, or events, but ideas, themes, political issues, morals, or whatever I need to come to grips with during the course of the book. I won’t use all of it, but it helps me flesh out the book at a conceptual level and keep a sense of purpose so that it doesn’t get drowned out by the minutia of story.

  Faith Hunter

  My favorite part of writing a book is the part that takes place in my head. As you said: ". . . the research phase . . . is an incredibly fertile period . . . As I learn more about my characters, my world, my magic system, story ideas come to me. So I wait until after the research is mostly done before I brainstorm the finer points of my plot."

  But because I come from the thriller/mystery/hardboiled PI genre of writing and have returned there for the Jane Yellowrock series, I often start a book in a very different way. I start with a germ of an idea, usually character-based, and mate that character to a central conflict, giving the character strengths and weaknesses that will be challenged by that pivotal crisis.

  Then I write the first five to ten pages. If my character has a voice I like and can use, and there is an opening that presents character, world, voice, and conflict, then I start work on the entire research part, and that is where our pre-writing meshes, with basic-to-finer plot points developing as I research and worldbuild. If those first few pages stink, then I have to find where the character didn’t work and refine or start over.

  Your way of writing a book is more logical—easier, frankly—than mine. But I am stuck with my process. I need the voice of the character to make me want to write the book in the first place.

  And unlike A.J., I never do thematic work, or only vaguely. I have had books (particularly the AKA’s DeLande Saga) studied by well educated literati who wanted to dissect the themes and debate them with me. I learned early on that I had to have an answer for them beyond simply wanting to write a good story and punish the bad guys (which was the reality for me). They expected to have this lovely discussion (several times; it was over a nice dinner, which ruined the meal for me, of course) on the nature of aggressive violence verses defensive violence, and how I wove that through my plot; the effect of domestic violence on the psyche of women and how I used that concept in my character development; the effect of domestic violence on children in the formative years; the place for the vigilante in situations where the justice system is broken and victims were made to suffer; and the effect of racial and socioeconomic tension in the south as epitomized by the plight of children as victims of incest and abuse.

  "I just wanted the bad guy to pay," was never enough.

  And the reality for me, is that themes always flow from the character and the plot, are resultant aspects of the weaknesses of the character I’ve grown, and are things that I think about afterward. I envy any writer who has the ability to step back early on and see where society and culture will impinge on the story.

  Misty Massey

  David said, "If you’re setting your book on a pirate ship, you need to know about pirates. And ships. If you’re setting your work in a world with medieval technology, you should familiarize yourself with medieval food and clothing, construction and weaponry."

  And don’t assume you know all there is to know! I knew a good bit about ships before I ever got started, but I still had to research before and while I was working. I’d be plugging away and realize, "Hey, I have no idea what you call the thing that holds the capstan from spinning!"

  David B. Coe

  A.J., I love that idea. Have never done it, but I will now. I do spend a lot of time thinking about theme as I prepare to write, and also as I actually do the writing. But I tend to keep those thoughts in my head rather than cataloging them in some coherent way. Thanks for this.

  Faith, I wouldn’t say that one approach is more valid or logical than another—mostly what I wanted to do with this post was point out to people the things I consider as I begin a book or series—a checklist of sorts: things to do and think about as you get started. The order of it is secondary. But I’m reminded by your comment, as well as your subsequent exchange with AJ, that it all comes back to the organic nature of the process. And I think you’ll probably agree that this is true for you, too. When the process works—no matter what that process might be in its particulars—there is a synergy to the development of all the elements of the work: theme, character, plot, voice, etc. It all comes together. How we reach that synergy is as individual as DNA, but it happens for all successful projects.

  Great point, Misty. When I was working on my first series, which involved birds, I thought it was perfect for me because I knew everything I needed to know about birds already. Wrong! I did a ton of research along the way and learned lots.

  Visualizing The Story?

  C.E. Murphy

  I discovered several years ago that many people see pictures in their heads. When they read, when they listen to music, when they’re told stories, they see pictures.

  I do not get pictures in my head. Not when I’m reading, not when I’m writing, not when I listen to music. I had no idea that people did. It was a stagger-worthy shock when I realized that Fantasia was based on the idea that people saw stories in their heads when they listened to all that music.

  No one in my immediate family had any idea that people did. Dad said he’d have taught many classes differently if he
’d known that. I remember a drama class visualization exercise where we were supposed to visualize that we were lying on a white beach with the blue sky above and palm trees and all that sort of thing, and it bent my brain to think that probably two-thirds of the people in the class were actually seeing that.

  They say to succeed at sports, you have to visualize the win. I had no idea they meant literally. Sure, I can talk myself through it, but actually see it? Buh. No.

  This clarified something that had been puzzling me for years. There’s a scene in Emily Climbs, the second book of the Emily of New Moon series by L.M. Montgomery, in which Emily is talking to a man whose son has died. The man can’t remember what the boy looks like, because he isn’t like other people and can’t bring images to mind.

  My entire life, I had always thought that was a weird little scene. I mean, not like I spent nights lying awake because of it, but it always bugged me. Like, what did that mean, bringing images to mind? Like people did that or something? *snort*

  My husband was astounded, because my writing makes clear pictures in his head and he couldn’t imagine how I did that if I wasn’t seeing pictures in my head.

  The answer is by working really, really hard.

  Below is a scene from Urban Shaman, my first published novel, followed by further commentary on this visualization thing.

  The horse made more sense now, for some nebulous value of the word sense. It had been able to rear up because after it kicked me in the chest it had torn out the entire door structure, and part of the roof had fallen down. The rest of the roof was on fire. I wasn’t sure how that had happened, but it didn’t seem to bother the horse.