What Writers Are Saying About… This Stuff

by Larry Brooks on January 26, 2012

I’ve dropped nearly 500 posts on Storyfix.  About 425 remain in the archives, the others having migrated to various ebooks. 

Sometimes, when that little voice tells me it’s time to get something new up, I feel like I’ve circled the wagons and don’t have something fresh or worthy enough to add.

And sometimes that’s when the best stuff happens.  Fear is a great motivator.  Stretching is a terrific mantra.  Reaching… not so much.

Goes for our fiction, too.  Step into the fear, but try to avoid stepping on those steamy little piles of, well, you know, that await along the path.

I had another topic in mind for tonight, but as i sat down to write, this one took over.  It’ll keep.  Yeah, I’m pantsing my site sometimes. 

I get a lot of emails from readers.

Aside from the occasional and well-deserved wrist slap or correction – love those, too – the warmest and fuzziest of them are when readers tell me how the Storyfix take on craft is hitting them.  Changing them.  Awakening them to truths and points of leverage that they can apply to their own work.

Here are some recurring themes.

If you see yourself here, know that you are not alone.  And if you don’t, well, there’s value in revisiting the basics and principles that make a story live and breathe.  If someone else is getting this, maybe there’s a limiting belief system — a fatal gene in the writing DNA — blocking it for you.

Here’s what writers are saying about this stuff:

“I can’t watch a movie now without seeing the four-part structure in play.  Amazes me that it’s always been there and I haven’t noticed it before.  I can’t un-see it.”

“I’m amazed to see everything you say about screenwriting applying so directly to writing novels.  Vice versa, too.”

“Universal is univeral.  These principles apply to any kind of storytelling, period.”

“I keep looking for a published story without a first plot point.  Still searching.  I hate rules, I want so desperately for this to be your opinion, rather than a universal truth.  So far it seems to be the latter.”

“I used to be a panster.  Now I see the value in structure, guided by mission-driven narrative and its milestones.  It’s the missing link for me.  Now I can continue to pants, but it’s within a box that doesn’t let me drive over a cliff.”

“After reading some of the blow-back on today’s post, I’ve concluded that our school system has not done an adequate job of teaching children what the work “formulaic” even means.”

“It’s amazing how free and creative one can be when writing between the lines of structural expectation.  Those who claim that structure is restrictive are being boxed in by their own refusal to acknowledge the gravity that governs the storytelling world.”

“Don’t let the bastards get you down.  In every crowd there is always someone who wants to gun down the voice of reason and clarity. Killing the messenger is a subconscious human drive, and some writers would rather type than listen.”

“Because of you I now have to rewrite my NaNoWriMo novel from page one.  Because now I know how all-over-the-place it was.  Actually, I knew it beginning on about November 6th, but now I know why.  I can’t wait until next year.”

“Took me three years to write my last novel.  It sucked.  Took me three months to finish my new one, using the principles to which you ascribe. It doesn’t suck.  Coincidence?  I think not.”

“The principles you teach don’t make writing easier.  They make it possible.”

“It’s like the fog parting.” 

“Why do so many published authors stick to their position that they just sit down and write whatever comes to them in the moment?”  (Larry: because they don’t know, or want to admit, that their sensibilities are already recognizing and applying the principles of story architecture and dramatic theory.  So much more romantic to claim that you’re channeling some cloud-dwelling muse, which is a failed cover for a humble claim to genius. To say that “it just comes to them” is the antithesis of humilityWhen an unsuccessful writer says this, it’s an explanation.  When a famous one says it, it’s hubris.”

“Keep the analogies coming.  Great teaching tool.  My favorite: writing a story without understanding the underlying principles is like thinking you can do surgery because you watch a lot of Grey’s Anatomy.  You can read all the John Grisham you want, but until you can dissect the layers and how he’s building his stories, your patient won’t make it off the table.”

“So many people say there are no rules.  That’s semantics.  Call them what you will, the principles that divide the inbox into two groups — those that work, and those that don’t — don’t care what you call them.  Natural laws are just that, in science and in art.  Gravity still sucks, literally, even if you can’t describe how it works.”  

“Top ten lists… my ass.”

“I’m writing like a fiend now because of your direction– thank you so much.”

And then, to be fair here, there’s always a few like this, from an Amazon.com review on my book, Story Engineering.  It’s my all-time favorite critique, from a 17-year old girl, an unpublished writer who seeks to straighten the rest of us out:

“Going into writing a book, yes, you need a game plan, but you don’t need a roadmap, otherwise it’s not YOUR story being told. Artists don’t use the same sketches; builders don’t take each other’s blueprints. If the story if worth writing, then it will flow easily without too much coaxing.

Now, I hate to bring age into this, but I’m only 17. I am frantically working on a book that I hope to publish on Kindle late this summer. I have worked through many of the problems older writers have in just the past year or two. I have the story laid out pretty well, characters are mildly understood (isn’t it always that way, though? Can you ever really understand your ‘children’?) Some people may learn a lot from Mr. Brook’s book, but I found as I read it that most of what was said I had already learned for myself. Again, I’m not trying to say that somehow I have bypassed the system, or have discovered a secret ‘key’, but everyone has their own way of writing, and mine is not with someone else’s instruction.”

L: So there.

Feel free to add to the conversation.  What has been your experience with the princples of storytelling and the underlying physics and principles that make it work?

Signed up for my new monthly newsletter yet?  First edition of “Writers on the Brink” comes out next week.  It may just keep you from jumping.

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And of course, to not choose is, in fact, a choice. 
 
One with consequences that are just as defining for your career as a writer.
 
This is a follow up to my most recent post, entitled “We read (INSERT YOUR NAME HERE) because…”
 
Several who commented online, and a few who contacted me directly, had a knee-jerk response.  They didn’t want to write from within the confines of a brand.  They perceived doing so as selling out, and or sacrificing some of the joyous freedom of writing what they please, how they please.
 
Nothing wrong with that.  But there are consequences to that knee-jerk.  Because it is a choice.
 
Branding is nothing more than a requisite step in the process.  If one doesn’t wish to proceed down the path, if they want to remain where they are, then feel free to ignore that particular step.   Remain a decathlete in a game that pays only sport-specific athletes.  If you claim you want to play professional football — and virtually everyone reading this website wants to earn and cultivate a readership for their stories; in other words, to turn pro) – then you’re going to have to put down that javelin and stop jumping over those hurdles and line up with how the game is played.  With a helmet.
 
I hope you’ll take it as the clarification it is meant to be…
 
… without the slightest intention of making anyone right or wrong.  Consequences are often non-judgmental, they just are.  Nothign wrong with trying to write a book in every single available genre you can name.  Have at it.  Just make sure your career goals, your vision for the outcome, aligns with that choice.
 
Imagine your kid wants to be a doctor. 
 
She or he will go to medical school, sure, and for the right reasons.  But when she’s done, she says she wants to be a surgeon, an OBGYN, a heart specialist, a chiropractor, a shrink, and, when they feel like it, a shaman.  Fair enough.  That’s some serious joy and freedom.
 
Usually a vision this scattered is coming from the mouth of a 11-year old who is a big fan of Greys Anatomy, which is fine.  Dreams have to start somewhere.
 
But the question, in light of that choice, at some point (like, the second year of medical school) becomes: what hospital is going to put you on their payroll?  Or, when you’re in private practice, who will be your patients?
 
The issue of branding only kicks in at the professional level. 
 
Until then, write what you want.  But when you cross the threshold and you’re writing for money, trying to build a career, and you have a publisher investing money in you (or, just as validly, you’re investing your own money toward the objective of building a career), you now face a choice
 
To brand, or not to brand?  That isn’t the question, it’s the key to moving forward.  Like it or not.
 
Below is my personal response to one of the writers — a very good one, too — who wrote me on this issue:
 
Dear xxxxxx:
 
I think my response begins with something I put into the post itself: a writer needs to decide who they are writing for, and why.  If they are writing for themselves, for their own experience and pleasure and fulfillment, then by all means, swapping genres and brands and styles is perfectly okay.  It’s okay because, for the most part, the outcome of the manuscript, by definition, is a lower priority than the experience.
 
To say otherwise is to not understand the reality of this proposition.  You can’t claim to desire commercial success but remain immune to the realities of commercialism.
 
That said, it can work, most likely as a one-off, and within a short window.  Any one of those diverse projects might catch on with a publisher, might even sell well and begin a career for the writer.
 
And right there is where the choice must be made… again.
 
Because the publisher won’t want you to change up the game.  If you sold a romance novel, and you’ve been offered a two book contract, rest assured that the publisher doesn’t want a mystery as your second book, or a thriller, or a time travel piece.  In fact, they’ll ask to review the “logline” of the second book before the contract goes through, just to ensure that you’re going to stay within your new “brand.”
And once again, you get to choose.
 
I’ve heard from several writers on this topic as a result of the last post.  One mentioned writing from a formula — I think that writer didn’t fully understand the message here.  Being known for something, having a brand, isn’t remotely formulaic.  Nelson Demille’s witty, layered dialogue is the very antithesis of formula, as is Grisham’s approach to showing an underdog hero battling the complexities and dark corners of the legal system.
 
So in addition to choosing, the process involves understanding.
 
Writing is the very essence of freedom.  At least it should be.  If you want to maintain that freedom completely and totally, then it’s totally available.  Heck, you don’t even have to finish a manuscript to experience it.  Just don’t expect an outcome that includes a career with money and fame, because in that realm you’re not alone.  Your publisher is, in effect, an employer.  Your books are the product, and they are, by definition and expecation and dead to rights, involved in quality control AND marketing.  In fact, they’re running it all. 
 
For the latter (marketing), branding is critical.
 
Nothing wrong with choosing out of that game.  But be honest… writers who say they will never cave in to branding are also harboring a dream of making the A-list.  Which is a contradiction.
 
Tough truth.  It forces us to choose, to navigate reality.
 
Which is why I continue to believe that writing is life itself.  Not an analogy for life,  but as as a transparent Petrie dish within which we live it… exposed.
 
 Interesting to note, too, that this same dynamic — choices, consequences and the expectations of the commercial marketplace — apply to the complexities of craft.  Which gets just as much resistence from writers who seek to reject it in the name of freedom, while at the same time nourishing a dream that unfolds in the window at Barnes & Noble.
 
This, too, is a microcosm of life.  Some get it, some don’t.
 
Blatant commercial branding message follows: Need a hug?  Click HERE.

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