TUESDAY TIPS: Do the Math

ONE OF THE MOST common mistakes that novelists (both new and experienced) make is underestimating how long it's going to take to write the book. And a big reason for that is that it looks like such a deceptively simple calculation to make.
   For instance, when I'm writing suspense, a polished first-draft manuscript is going to be about 97,500 words long. I don't know why they end up that length, but over the years, that's where they've been. A thriller is usually considerably longer for me: say, 115,000 words. And my best consistent daily word count is 1,000 words; I can write more than that per day if I need to, but to maintain what I consider acceptable and publishable quality, 1,000 words is the maximum to which I can commit.
   So ... 115,000 words divided by 1,000 words is 115 days, or just under 16.5 weeks. 
   And that is how most writers calculate how long it's going to take to write the book.

Except I don't write at all one day a week. I take a sabbath away from the keyboard and, in the example we have going, this adds a little over two-and-a-third weeks to the process. So, rounding up, we are now at twenty weeks to finish the book.
   Another big revelation is that, to write a manuscript that I will be proud to turn in the publisher, I'm not going to write 115,000 words; it's going to be more like 150,000. Doing the same math we've done above, now we are pressing nearly half a year: almost exactly 24.5 weeks.  
   Now ... realistically ... am I going to write six days a week nonstop? 
   Probably not. Somewhere in the process either my wife, or I, or both of us, will go a little stir-crazy, a situation that can only be remedied by a week or two on a cruise ship, if we can find a truly great deal, or a ride to South Florida if we cannot. And if I want to avoid alimony, I am not writing during that vacation, so add two weeks to the gestation period. 
   Now we are at 26.5 weeks ... past half a year. 
   Relatives come to visit and want us to take them to the theme parks (we live in Central Florida): scratch another two weeks. The septic field decides to remind us it's out there, requiring a visit from the service people and the sort of olfactory experience that drives one screaming from the keyboard ... this happened just last month and eliminated anything that looked like productive writing for a week. And figure at least another week expended for doctor visits, vet visits, friends' kids' weddings, you name it.
   Now we are at 30.5 weeks to write the 150,000 words. But we don't want 150,000. We want 115,000. So we edit, which for me is a slower process than writing. Say I'm on a roll, and I can get it done in 90 days: that's roughly 13 more weeks, bringing us to 43.5 weeks all totaled.
   But we're still not done. The book goes out to beta readers, and I give them a month to read it, during which I write the back-cover blurb and the marketing copy, and clean up the style sheet and all the other stuff the publisher is going to need. Then, when I get the comments from my readers, I'm looking at about a month-and-a-half of work to read their comments, decide if I see a trend among them, fix the manuscript and re-polish it. 
   If you've been keeping track, the book that simple math said should be done in 16.5 weeks has actually taken 54 weeks. That's two weeks more than a year.  And that's assuming everything goes smoothly; for me, a comfortable gestation period for a good, readable novel is actually more like 18 months, sometimes longer, and sometimes considerably longer.  In High Places, which was very well received by readers and critics alike, took me every bit of seven years, writing on again and off again (mostly off again).
   Your mileage, as they say, may vary. Some people claim they can write 5,000 high-quality words of fiction a day, every day. Frankly, I'm more than skeptical. 
   And if you really want the novel to sing, even a thousand words may be stretching it as a daily goal. Remember, Hemingway was happy with just 600.
   I'm not telling you this to scare you. I'm telling you this to prepare you.
   So ... next time you do the simple math to figure out when the novel will be done, remember to factor in the elements that aren't so simple.
   Like time to make the writing something of which you'll be proud ...
   ... and time to live your life.

FRESH ON FRIDAY: Got (or You Haven't Got) Style?

I THINK I HAD already earned an MFA in creative writing and published my first two novels before I ever even heard of a style sheet. Then, after I'd heard of it, I believe it was a few weeks more before I knew what one was.
   So, to spare those in a similar boat, let me explain ...
   Essentially, a style sheet is a brief document submitted with the first draft of a novel or any other lengthy manuscript. Its purpose is to keep your copyeditor from breaking out the hat pins and voodoo doll every time she hears your name. 
   In its simplest form, the style sheet is a list of proper names and unusual terms that are either unique to the work being edited (think Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy) or so rarely used that the average person might never have heard of them.
   So, when writing his books Placebo and Singularity, for instance, novelist Steven James might have turned in a style sheet indicating that his protagonist was, indeed, named "Jevin Banks," and that he was not simply repeating the same typo, over and over, every time he tried to type the name, "Kevin."
   And, had I heard of style sheets when I wrote my second novel, Turn Four, I would have used one to let my publisher know that shooters refer to their expended cartridges as "brass" (as in, "They finished shooting and picked up their brass."). It would have saved me some correspondence with my copyeditor, who wrote to me, asking, "Brass what? You keep using the adjective without the noun that it's modifying!"
   Thanks to style sheets, my editors and copyeditors all know that the past tense for making a scuba dive is "dived" (not "dove"), just as, in baseball, when a batter hits a fly ball that is caught for the out, he is said to have, "flied out."  And they know that, when I arm a bad guy with an "AK-74," it is not a mistake; I am referring, not to the AK-47 Kalashnikov rifle made famous in a hundred low-budget action films, but to a later generation of automatic weapon created by the same Russian designer. 
   Creating a style sheet is easy, as long as I begin it at the same time that I start my novel. I keep a second file open, either in my laptop or on my AlphaSmart Neo, and every time I hit a proper name or an unusual term that I think might give an editor pause, I add it to the style sheet in alphabetical order, together with a note or definition. 
   For my major characters, I might include details such as hair color and eye color (yep, I've had 'em change mid-manuscript a time or two), what they do for a living, and other matters that we might need to keep straight for the life of the story. And when listing place names, I might include where they lie in relation to other places named in the book, so we don't wind up with a character driving west to get to a location that is south of him.
   Creating a style sheet does more than make my copyeditor's life easier. Just the act of creating it makes me that much more conscious of the details of my book; it allows me to think of my story from yet another angle. 
   And when the email arrives at my publishers with not only the manuscript attached, but a style sheet as well, they know that they are in the hands of someone who is conscientious about the craft. It's a win for everyone, all the way around.
   Plus I don't have to lie awake at night, worrying about that voodoo doll.

TUESDAY TIPS: Two Persons, Two Tenses

NOT LONG AGO, I enjoyed Singularity, the latest Jevin Banks novel from bestselling thriller writer Steven James. This is a book that is told from two narrative points of view: one is that of Jevin Banks (the protagonist), and the other is that of a general, limited narrator. As the story occasionally talks about other characters, even when it is in Jevin's voice, one would think this would become confusing, although it never did. 
   I was about a third of the way into the novel, wondering how Steve accomplished this, when it struck me: when the story was being told from Jevin's point of view, it was being told in first person, present tense, but it shifted to third person, past tense when the more general narrator took over.

   When I realized this, I laughed aloud (earning me a quizzical look from my wife, who was sitting next to me on the lanai).
   You see, in my 2009 novel, Pirate Hunter, I also had two narrative points of view, one historical and one contemporary. To distinguish one from the other, I told the former in third person and the latter in first person. And later, when I spoke to my beta readers, all reported that they had no issue keeping the two stories separate. They knew immediately which point of view they were in when they went to a new chapter. But they didn't know why they knew.
   In Singularity, Steve went the further step of changing tense, as well as person, and as a writer who'd done something similar, you'd think I would have picked up on it right away. But I didn't: not until I noticed how easily the two points of view remained distinct, and wondered why that was.
   Jevin Banks, the protagonist of Singularity, is a magician, which is appropriate, because the person and tense shifts in the narrative are like a magician's illusion: amazing until you understand how it is accomplished, and then it becomes simple.
   And the ability to accomplish those person and tense shifts is a great skill for any novelist: a way to have the intimacy and immediacy of a first-person, present-tense narrative, plus the more general scope of a conventional novel. 

FRESH ON FRIDAY: "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place"

PERUSE THE INTERWEB for writing advice, and something you'll often hear is that you need to set up a proper office: an orderly writing space to which you can steal away at a set time each day and be creative.
   But the funny thing is that productive, working, successful novelists often do their writing someplace other than that "absolutely essential" office.  
   When The Paris Review visited Ernest Hemingway in the 1950s at Finca Vigía, his home outside Havana, he had a workroom in a three-story tower that stood near the corner of his house, but preferred to write in his bedroom, standing before one of his bookcases, the windows thrown open to cool the room. Descriptive writing was done by hand, in pencil, on onionskin paper placed slantwise across a reading board, but he would shift to a typewriter when writing dialogue.

   Likewise, Samuel Langhorne Clemens' home in Hartford, Connecticut, was designed with a study that was absolutely state-of-the-19th-century-art. But when his daughters began using it as their play space, the author known as Mark Twain retreated to the one area of the house where the children were not allowed to go—his billiards room. For the remainder of the time that he lived in that house, he did all of his writing there.

The neighborhood Starbucks workspace
of James Scott Bell, award-winning
suspense author and #1 bestselling
writing coach. 

   Nor is this trend exclusive to writers of a bygone age.
   Southern-California novelist James Scott Bell (the same James Scott Bell who wrote Plot and Structure, one of my favorite writing books) has a nice, modern, well-appointed office, but when he is working on his fiction, often as not he does what novelists have done for a century or more: he writes in a coffeehouse. 
   In Jim's case, that coffeehouse is his neighborhood Starbucks, a place he frequents with such regularity that he always sits at the same table near the window (perfect for people-watching), and the staff and he are on a first-name basis.

When New York Times bestselling
author Terri Blackstock needs
fresh air and quiet, she prefers
to write in her car.

   Other writers have less conventional places of refuge. Terri Blackstock has written something like 43 books in just the past two decades, including her newest thriller, Distortion, released just last month. Altogether, that adds up to literally millions of copies in print, and in her home she no doubt has an office worthy of a writer of that stature. But when she wants to escape household distractions and write in the quiet and the fresh air, she often moves out to the driveway and works from the front seat of her car.
   As for me, when I lived in Michigan, I had an office that took up nearly the entirety of the basement of our old farmhouse. At one end was a fireplace, flanked by bookshelves, with a leather sofa and a matching loveseat facing it. At the other was my writing nook, which contained my computer, my office chair and more bookshelves. In between was a daybed, perfect for catnaps when I was on deadline.
   That was great during the winter, when the wind was howling and snow and sleet were rattling against the windows. But when the weather warmed and the sun was out, I so resented being cooped up that one Saturday morning I drove the pickup to Home Depot, filled up the bed with lumber, screws and concrete mix, and brought it home to build a deck under our willow tree, creating an airy, green-walled grotto in which to work.

The wicker chair on our lanai
where I've written most of my
recent work; note the day bed
and squeaky toys for Tinsel,
my editorial assistant.

   These days, in Florida, I have an office with multiple computer screens and a desk chair so ergonomic that, every time I sit in it, I feel as if I am about to have my teeth cleaned. 
   Now, I do use that office; I use it for writing some of my nonfiction, for doing my taxes, for marking galley proofs, and other clerical stuff. 
   But when I'm writing fiction—and some nonfiction—the scene of my crime is usually a big, comfortable, and use-worn wicker chair on our lanai. I write, feet propped up on an ottoman, serenaded by birdsong and the rhythmic snoring of our dog.  Most days, I am out there well before sunrise, happily tapping away and adding, slowly but steadily, to the word count.  
   And the time spent there is productive: my most recent book, The Novel & The Novelist: An Insider's Guide to the Craft, was written entirely on our lanai.
   Point is, if you're of a mind that you absolutely must have a well-furnished office in which to write (and we have all been of that conviction at some point in our careers), I want you to know that you really don't. 
   Truth be told, I have lost track of the number of writers who have shared with me that they built such a thing, and then, upon sitting in it, felt under such pressure to create brilliance that they couldn't write a single word. 
   So they retreated to the kitchen table, to the local library, to a picnic table in a neighborhood park or the swing on their front porch, and started creating fiction in the friendly informality of that setting. And even among those writers who can write anywhere (including in the office), productivity often requires an occasional change of venue.
   So don't wait until you've constructed the perfect temple of prose in which to begin your novel. Just write. 
   The place where you are sitting right now would probably be perfect.  
   
   

TUESDAY TIPS: Unsuddenly

I AM NOT THE FIRST writer to say it, and I will not be the last, but I am not a great fan of adverbs in novels. They can be used in moderation, certainly (see? there's one!), but an overabundance of adverbs is a sign of a writer who is trying to run a marathon on a crutch.
   Some adverbs are worse than others. To me, the king of adverbial laziness is the word, "suddenly," a word so useless that it merited half a rule in Elmore Leonard's famous ten rules of good writing.   
   Don't believe me? Try this experiment ...
   Open your work-in-progress, do a global search for "suddenly," find the offending sentence and take the word out. I rarely (yep, another adverb) make absolute statements, but I can tell you this: in my own work, I have never seen a sentence that was not improved by its removal. In fact, I am so convinced of the utter lack of value of "suddenly" that, in the style sheets I provide to my copyeditors, I ask them to remove any instance of "suddenly" in my work, and replace it with ... nothing.
   Try it in your own work. I bet you'll like it. And if you disagree, or agree enthusiastically (okay, I did that one on purpose), the "comments" section below is open for your response.

FRESH ON FRIDAY: What is Writing?

"WRITING IS RECORDED __________."
   If you've taken one of my workshops, you've probably seen me start a session by writing this on the board.
   And if you haven't workshopped with me, I'd like you to take a moment, right now, and think about how you would fill in that blank.

   Done?
   If the experience in my workshops is any indication, the first inclination of most people is to fill the blank in with "information" or "thought." Then they decide that isn't artistic enough, so they move on to something more writerly.
   I've seen "emotion."
   I've seen "passion."
   I've seen "yearnings."
   Answers such as this tell me a lot about the psychological state of my workshop participants. And they also tell me that those folks are overthinking the answer, because writing is not recorded information (at least, not the type of information most people are thinking of). Nor is it recorded thought, or emotion, or passion or even yearnings.
   At least in English (or any language written in an alphabet), writing first and foremost is recorded sound. 
   The letters on the page are a code that combines to form phonemes and syllables. The phonemes and syllables combine to represent a distinctive pattern of sound, and that sound correlates to a word. But even then we aren't there yet.
   Consider this statement: "Slowly, deliberately, Mortimer began to manducate the carpeting."
   Now, look at that word, "manducate." You can sound it out (it's pronounced just the way it looks), but unless your hobby is reading dictionaries, there's a good chance you don't know that "manducate" is a fifty-cent word for "chew" (in my example, "Mortimer" happens to be an extremely unruly dog).
   So let's review the process. First you have to understand the code—the alphabet—in which a thing is written (ever try reading Cyrillic?). Next, you have to translate that code into phonemes, then the phonemes into syllables, and then the syllables into a distinct unit of sound that represents a word. At that point, you have to understand what that word means for the sound to make sense. And only then does what you've read equate to anything even close to a thought.
   That's five steps. 
   You're not conscious of those steps because you perform them constantly and automatically.  Yet, unless you are skimming like a soul possessed because it's midterms week, subconsciously you are acutely aware that what you are reading is recorded sound.
   I know this because most people can distinguish, almost instantaneously, the caliber of what they are reading. They might read a page of one book and decide, "this is not very good," while a page from another book will sound beautiful to them. And at its most basic level, the difference between bad writing and good writing is the way it sounds.
   Bad writing is assembled like Legos. The writer looks for a subject, an object, and a verb that represent the sense of what's intended, and joins them together, not caring whether the resulting sentence sounds awkward or lumpy or silly.
   But in good writing, the writer is making certain that the sound of the words reflects the texture and emotional quality of what's being conveyed.
   Let's say, for instance, that you are thinking about going on an ocean voyage, and one cruise-ship line advertises "luxurious stateroom accommodations, superbly appointed," while a second line offers, "swanky rooms with fancy fixtures." In both instances, the sense is virtually identical, yet the sound of the first description is more in keeping with an elegant experience.
   Put this to work in your writing, then. Don't settle for getting the information down on paper. Think like a musician, pay attention to the sound you are conveying, and once you have written it, read it aloud to make certain that what you've produced captures the ambience of what you have imagined.
   Do that, and do it well, and you'll produce good writing.
   And the upside of this is that good writing gets read.
   

TUESDAY TIPS: Master of None

PEOPLE WHO KNOW ME know that I have two graduate degrees: a master of arts in English and a master of fine arts in creative writing. And they assume that it was by getting that second master's degree that I learned how to write.
   But that's not true, or at least it's not entirely true. The classes in my MFA program helped teach me to write better, and to become a better critic of others' work. 
   But even those are secondary, or even tertiary, benefits. You see, for me, the main reason for earning an MFA is to have the appropriate final degree—what, in academia, is called a “terminal degree”—to teach at the university level.
   That's why, when writers ask me whether I think they should pursue an MFA, my first question is always, "Why do you want the degree?"
   And if their primary purpose is to improve their craft, I always wonder if perhaps they might be better served by seeking out a writers' critique group. Oftentimes it's possible to find one that specializes in exactly the genre in which you hope to work, and one advantage of a critique group is that it is not a limited track, as is the usual two years of an MFA program. You can stick with a critique group as long as you like—indefinitely, if you so desire.
   Now, true, in a better MFA program, entry is competitive, so you know the people in your workshops will have been vetted in terms of the quality of their writing. And in a really good program, you'll get one-on-one time with some really extraordinary writers. 
   For instance, in my MFA program (at Bowling Green State University, in Ohio), my professors included Howard McCord and Michael Mott, and my thesis advisor was Philip F. O'Connor—all deeply respected writers. BGSU also had a strong visiting-writer program: I recall having my poetry critiqued by Gary Snyder, who would go on to win a Pulitzer Prize.
   And while James Baldwin was in residence with the university's Popular Culture program, and not Creative Writing, he nonetheless took interest in the writers and was always available to discuss, and offer insight on, the craft. Some of those conversations still resonate with me to this day.
   When I earned my MFA, though, there were only a handful of fine-arts writing programs in the country (along with BGSU, there were Iowa State, the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, the University of Pittsburgh, and a few others). 
   Now, there are literally hundreds of them, and the chances of encountering a true giant of American literature in one of them (that is, a writer who is famous outside the relatively narrow world of literary academe) is significantly lower.
   That's why, if you are absolutely certain you want an MFA, it's worth your time to ask a lot of questions, and seek out a program whose graduates are publishing with household-name publishers (and, when teaching, teaching at well-known schools), a program with faculty and visiting writers whose work you know and admire ... a program where no one has to explain to you who the the faculty are.
   To this I should add that, after earning my MFA, I did teach at the university level for a while, but never became a full-time lecturer or professor. So I never did fulfill the purpose of the degree, even though that had been my intention when I enrolled.
   What happened was this writer's life.
   When I was doing nonfiction magazine work, my writing schedule never jived with that of a university, and once I began having novels accepted by publishers, I found that the sound of student work was often discordant with whatever I was writing at the time. I just didn't have the knack of keeping the two separate. Plus, it always seemed that, when it was time to teach, I wanted to write. So I abandoned my academic ambitions and, these days, restrict my teaching to workshops (between novels).
   So ... was my MFA for naught? 
   I don't think so. I still use principles I learned at BGSU every day and —more importantly—maintain friendships with several of my classmates and former professors. I wouldn't give these up for anything.
   But, knowing what I know now, and especially given the fact that the world of MFAs in creative writing has broadened so much in recent years, I believe an exceptional critique group might provide most of the desired benefits, especially for someone who does not desire to go on and teach. 
   And it would be a heck of a lot more cost-effective, as well.