A few tough truths for the new and truly committed.

The following presumes you’ve actually written a publishable story.  A manuscript that stands ready to compete against proven professionals and talented first-timers with a story that’s every bit as compelling as yours.

How to write such a story and how to publish one are very different tutorials.  Today’s post is a high-altitude slice of the latter.  And yet, it demands that you wrap your head around the former… and own it.

Before you can fly, you must successfully complete ground school.  Nobody survives their first solo without it.

You must focus on both.  Maybe not simultaneously, but at least with overlapping concentrations.

Craft without art, and art without craft, will not get you published.

Getting published is very much like becoming a professional athlete, a dancer, a musician or a fine artist.  Even a pilot.  It requires solid craft lurking beneath all your abundant art.

You can’t reinvent the game you’re playing.  There are rules and boundaries in play, with subtle differences between genres.  And nobody’s invented a new genre in decades.

Getting published is always a bit of a paradox. 

You must be the same, but different. 

You must be better than good, though once you’re in, once you’ve made it, you need only to be good.

And if you’re not, there are bunch of recent grad editorial types sitting in cubicles who will rescue you.  Not so with the first-time novelist.

And even then, if you don’t sell well enough – which may or may not have anything at all to do with how good you are – you’ll soon find yourself under a bus thinking about what pseudonym you’ll adopt for your literary resurrection.

You must write for yourself first.

And you must respect yourself enough to write well, in accordance with established principles and expectations.

No finger painting allowed.  This isn’t kindergarten, this is the major leagues.

And yet, while you’re at it you must write with the intention of publishing if you want to elevate  your story to that point. Which, from one point of view, means you are no longer writing for just yourself.

Four words to remain sane within this paradox: Read.  Study.  Practice.  Repeat.

Find your voice.  Find your passion.  Summon the discipline required.

Writing a story any damn way you please isn’t a disciplined approach.  Nobody with their name on a book cover writes that way.

Your niche awaits. 

And when you get there, know that you will not have invented it.   

Just might.

Given that your manuscript is already good enough (by whatever measure you care to apply), you just might sell it if you have an agent.  The vast, overwhelming majority of first-time novels are sold to New York-based houses through an agent. 

Overwhelming, as in, unless you’re related to the Senior Editor, you need an agent for your manuscript to make it out of the mailroom.  That’s just the way it is, fair or not. 

And yes, while you hear of the occasional exception to that, you also hear of someone winning the lottery once a week.  Read the fine print on the latter: “should not be played for investment purposes.  Should be played for entertainment only.”

So which are you – writing as a career investment, as an intended profession, or are you writing to entertain yourself?  (If it’s the latter, then may I suggest you begin a diary.)

Or are you doing one in the mistaken belief you’re doing the other?

Perhaps the most naïve and frankly ridiculous comment/question I’ve ever heard from an unpublished writer was this: “Why should I give ten percent of my take to an agent, when I can sell it directly myself?  Or simply publish it myself?”

Because that ten percent is the best money a writer can possibly spend.  And even the smallest of advances gained through an agent who takes ten percent of it will vastly exceed anything you can expect to make by publishing it yourself.

If you have an agent, your odds are – literally – 10,000 times greater than trying to sell to a major publishing house without one.  And infinitely more viable than publishing it yourself.

The most dismal failure of a published book exceeds the sales volume of the highest reasonable expectation of a self-published book by a factor of about ten.

How do you get an agent?  First, by writing a publishable story.  Back to square one.  The endless circle of the publishing paradox.  Hop on, or not, but you can’t beat this system.

Probably won’t.

If, in reading that guy’s question a moment ago, you actually consider it – even for a nanosecond – as a viable, reasonable inquiry, then I submit to you that you probably won’t be published.  At least until you wise up.

Unless, of course, you are shooting low.  There are small publishers out there that buy manuscripts from first-time authors all the time. 

Getting published, and really getting published (in a way that can launch your career) are vastly different things.  You can get your private pilot’s license, which is a respectable achievement, or you can become an airline pilot.  Same difference.

Nothing wrong with small publishers, by the way (my latest book was published by a great one).  It’s just that, if you’re already thinking about the money and you aren’t also thinking about an agent in that context… odds are you don’t get it.

And if you don’t get that, chances are you don’t get professional-level storytelling, either.

Just might.

Your story is the same, but different.

By that I mean, your story fits neatly into a niche, a genre, and fulfills all the expectations of agents, publishers and readers.  It’s solid and it’s ready.

But… there’s something new and fresh about it.  Might be your writing voice, might be the conceptual heart of the story.

Probably won’t.

It’s as good as Grisham.  As bad-ass as Baldacci.  As rockin’ as Roberts and Rowling and as delightful as Demille.

Hear this clearly: the brand name, A-list authors you read have a different standard and a different process than unpublished authors looking to break in.  If you’re playing their game, you’ll lose.

You have to be better than they are.  In some cases, that’s a high bar.  In others… very doable.

What will make your story better?

A stronger, more original concept.  A cleaner, more compelling writing voice.  A strong, unforgettable character.  A theme that alters perceptions and changes readers.

Or simply, the integration of six core storytelling competencies that exceeds the sum of those parts.

Just might.

You have a vision for your story.

Your writing process isn’t a search for the story, or even an exploration of it.  Rather, it’s a passionate execution of it. 

The “it,” in that case, being a completely fleshed-out, realized story plan – however you get to that point – that leaves nothing to chance and no storytelling stone unturned.

Probably won’t.

You have the core of an idea in your brain, and because it’s so compelling to you, you allow it to write itself.  To just open a valve and let the words pour out of your head.

To listen for, and then follow, characters who seem to be talking to you.

For professional level writers, Rhis is the stuff of first drafts and story planning. The means to an end.

For less than professional writers, this is the end instead of the means.  And thus, it becomes the stuff of frustration and fodder for naivety.

If you don’t recognize, or believe, that there are expectations, principles and paradigms into which your story must fall into compliance, then you aren’t ready to write it at a professional level.

The journey, then – at least when it works – becomes the pursuit of that understanding, every bit as much as the pursuit of the next great story idea.

The published writer knows the difference.

Just might.

Your ending is astounding.  Something that blows readers off their easy chair.

Notice how many times your favorite A-list author, while spinning a great tale with witty narrative and a slick hero, fall short of this standard.

Earlier I said you have to be better than they are.  This is one way to get there.

Probably won’t.

When you settle for less than that.  When you think your idea, your writing voice and your likeable character is enough.

It isn’t. 

The pile is full of manuscripts with just those descriptors.  Unless your ending drops jaws and demands a re-read, chances are it won’t sell.

Just might.

You won’t quit.  Ever.

These stories are everywhere, and they illustrate a prerequisite more than a fluke.  In a recent post I talked about a writer who had a story that was rejected 400 times.  Rather than quit, she self-published and promoted her novel via Kindle.  Sales ensued, gaining the attention of a major house, and now she has a three-book contract.

The road is long and dark.  You have to become your own light along the way.  The burning flame of your passion to learn — not just to write — is the best way to see and sidestep the  multitude of potholes in that road.

Probably won’t.

If you’re doing this for any other reason than the inherent joy of the story itself, and the process of parenting it into existence.

If you’re doing it for the money, do the math.

If you can ignore that answer, if you realize that you’re writing your story for yourself and for publication at the same time – a critical difference, one you need to comprehend on both sides of the coin – then you have a shot.

Writing for yourself, without regard to the expectations of the publishing world, wont’ get you published.

Writing stories that seem to be just like what everybody with a book on the shelf at Barnes & Noble is writing probably won’t, either.

You must defy the logic and the odds of showing up big at both. 

Going too far out on either end of that continuum puts you in a crowded place.  And hardly anybody sitting next to you there will either know how they got there or why they’re stuck there.

Larry’s new book, “Story Engineering: Understanding the Six Core Competencies of Successful Writing,” comes out next February (2011) from Writers Digest Books.  You can get a peek at the cover, and even pre-order a copy from Amazon.com, HERE.

His new ebook, “Get Your Bad Self Published,” will be available within the next two weeks.  If you’d like to pre-order at a discount, send $10 to Paypal (storyfixer@gmail.com), and you’ll receive your PDF as soon as it’s released.  The regular price at that time will be $14.95.

If you’re in a writing/critique group and would like to order multiple copies of “Get Your Bad Self Published,” send $7.00 for each recipient (5 copy minimum order) to Paypal (storyfixer@gmail.com), along with the email addresses of each recipient.

What Just Might Get You Published. What Probably Won’t. is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

This weekend I was privileged to participate in a panel discussion at the conclusion of a long day of writing workshops. 

The venue was the annual Write on the River conference in Wenatchee Washington – a great event, very professional and well attended – and I was among 12 presenters on a stage answering questions from a hearty handful of astute writers who had the energy to drag themselves in after a long day.

Someone asked about writing a series. 

They always do.  It’s one of the most-often asked questions I’ve personally heard, both at conferences and here on Storyfix. 

Specifically, writers want to know about how to structure a series.

Which makes it a great question.

Now, before I mount my soap box, allow me to confess that I’ve never written a series.  And I’ve only read a few.

Which, while I have an opinion, is why I didn’t try to be the first to answer this question at this particular Q&A.

I have written a sequel, and I must confess I had visions of a series… but that’s precisely my point today.

Back to Wenatchee… at the far end of the stage sat none other than the Master of fantasy series juggernauts, Terry Brooks.  Small wonder I didn’t chime in right away.  I was relieved to hear him unequivocally say what I have been somewhat equivocally saying on this issue, and would have written here anyway.

It’s good to be validated by someone who has sold over 30 million books.

There are a few things you need to understand about writing a series. 

And one of them is… maybe you shouldn’t be asking the structure question.  Even if it is a great one.

Because the question implies that series novels are somehow structured differently than stand-alone novels.

They are not.

Allow me to repeat that.  They are not.

Unless you kill off your hero, and if you give your hero the right role — detective, therapist, magician, columnist — then if and only if your book is successful you may have a shot at bringing that hero back for an encore.

Each book in your series needs to stand alone. 

As if it were written and intended as a stand-alone. 

Which means all the of the principles of structure, character and the tools of effective storytelling apply just as much to an entry in a series – especially the first novel – and in precisely the same way, as they do to any other book.

Stated another way, each book in a series needs to deliver a satisfying ending to the reader. 

What Makes a Series a Series

What I am about to say here may have exceptions.  Which I will put a fence around after I’ve said it.

A series is not a 500,000 word story published as five separate, sequential 100,000 word books.

That’s a fatal mistake.  That’s the first rule of selling a successful series.

A valid, publishable series from that same story would be five stand-alone novels, each with something in common:

-         a compelling hero that returns in each book…

-         an over-arcing thread of story premise that is not resolved in each book (such as the on-going search by Harry Potter to find and bring justice to his parents’ murderer), but is separate from the book-specific story…

-         other elements-in-common, such as setting or arena…

-         possibly a sequence of timeframes that age with each book…

-         … and, most importantly, each entry has a book-specific story that resolves itself.

A series is a recurring character in a recurring role.  That’s it.  It’s not the continuation of a single storyline.  That’s an option, not a requirement.

Harry Potter has both – a book-specific plot and an over-arcing storyline.  The book-specific plot always resolves itself.

Harry Bosch, on the other hand (the hero of many Michael Connelly mysteries), simply stars in each book.  There is no over-arcing story, per se. 

We see this in television all the time. 

In the current hit series Castle, for example, the hero, the primary characters and the set-up continue from episode to episode.

Castle has the same gig – he’s a bestselling novelist who is a friend of the Mayor of New York City, who has arranged his role as a consultant tag-along with a certain precinct and the gorgeous lead detective who calls the shots.

He and the hot lead detective – Beckett – have a sub-text of romance and sexual attraction that continues from week to week.

Castle’s life away from the station – his unbearably cute high school daughter and his unbearably overdone actress mother – continues from week-to-week in the guise of a sub-plot, without ever really becoming one.  More like comic relief.

But most importantly, each week presents a case to solve.  And unless it’s a 2-parter, the following episode’s caper is not connected to it in any way.

This model is all over television.  Every night.  Every season.

This is identical to the structural linkage between books in a series.

Before The DaVinci Code there was Angels and Demons.  Same character, same premise, completely different story.  Angels resolved solidly. 

The only person who saw this as a series at the inception of that book was Dan Brown, the author.  And only when DaVinci went ballistic was Brown offered contracts for something like twelve more Robert Langdon novels strung out over the next half century.

Television, unlike books, has a few exceptions to this, such as Nurse Jackie and The United States of Tara, which are almost completely character-driven.

But that’s television.  Don’t let it ruin your novelist perspective on this issue.

Any literary exceptions – and here’s that fence – if they’re even out there, would almost always have the name of a famous author on the cover.  Why?  Because…

You Can’t Sell a Series

Publishers don’t often (if ever these days) buy a series premise – much less multiple manuscripts – from an unpublished author. 

So don’t pitch it that way.  It will get you next to nowhere.

They buy a book.  They may contract for another, but rest assured, it isn’t a series until the first book sells.

Because two books do not a series make.  And if neither sells, there won’t be a third.

If your first book sells and the character and over-arcing drama are set-up to continue past the first book, then a sequel – not yet a series – may be in cards.

They won’t keep publishing you on the promise of the series someday exploding into popularity.  You get one shot, with one book.  Make it count.

Not that it’s wrong to think in terms of a series. 

But don’t allow that plan to compromise the nature and quality of your first novel in the sequence.

Each book you write has to stand alone.  And if it’s a series you dream of, you must deliver a character that readers will want to see return.

Story Structure in a Series is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

“Find something worth dying for… then live for it.”

Originally published here on Storyfix June 1 and 2, 2009.

Writing at a professional level is much like any other pursuit in which professionals are on public display. They make it look easy.

Ballers glide effortlessly through the air to slam dunk, yet the average gym rat hasn’t touched the rim since the Clinton years, if they could ever get up there at all. Celebrity dancers float across the floor in the embrace of double-jointed, hollow-cheeked mentors who seem to barely touch it at all – hey, you’d write better, too, if Elmore Leonard hung out at your PC for ten hours a day.

And perhaps less analogous, John Grisham has inspired millions to write a novel because of nothing other than the fact he makes it look so damn easy, a quality often mistaken for the belief that he’s just not all that good at it, stylistically-speaking.

I don’t agree with that, by the way… Grisham is a consummate storyteller and a fine narrative stylist.  And he owns a jet.  But I digress.

You think this is easy? You think it’s unfair that folks who don’t write as well as you are rich and famous? Think again. And then go back and reread Grisham after you’ve moved to the other side of complexity, which is where simplicity resides.

Athletes and artists, including many of our bestselling novelists, are some of the primary reasons so many unpublished – and unpublishable — novels aren’t good enough. Because professionals make it look easy. And it sure as hell isn’t. But we dive in anyhow, unaware that we are indeed swimming with literary sharks who will eat our manuscripts for lunch.

My Favorite Publishing Analogy

Consider the game of golf.  If you can draw a parallel between a writing workshop and a golf clinic, you’ll see what I mean.

At my writing workshops I ask for a show of hands from those who aspire to publish their work. Everyone, always, is in. Then I ask how many would like to make a career out of writing, to actually turn pro. Again, almost everyone fesses up to the dream.

Everybody at a writing workshop wants to turn pro.  They may not have thought of it that way — they want to publish — but it’s the same thing.  Unless you are self-publishing, landing a contract is turning pro.

Then I ask how many golfers are in the room. Usually only one or two – golf isn’t the traditional game of choice among writers.  not sure what is… cards, maybe. Nonetheless, the approaching punch line is invariably a hole in one.

I then challenge the group to notice what just happened. Everyone in the room wants to be a professional writer. Everyone. Now, I say, imagine a golf clinic with dozens of aspiring players wearing their country club best, gathered around the practice green as the guest touring pro appears, and that the same question is asked: how many of you here today aspire to be a professional golfer?

I submit to you that nary a single hand would appear. Why? Because these folks appreciate just how good their professional heroes – the ones who make it look so easy – really are, and because this isn’t their first fairway rodeo, they know how hard the damn game is. They’ve come to this little golfing workshop to learn something and to get their game in shape, but that’s it.

Would they like to turn pro? Of course. But do they expect to turn pro? Never in a million tee times.

And yet, every butt in every chair at a writing workshop fully expects to turn pro.  To publish.

At the risk of being a buzz kill, let’s get real. 

We need to understand just how high the bar is in the publishing world, and just how deeply we must dig to reach that level.  Too many writers with casual affection for writing and an equally soft work ethic still maintain the loftiest of goals.  They hope to publish, as if such a level is a casual aspiration.  It’s not. 

This violates a law of the universe — you have to scratch and claw your way to the top.

Here’s the really scary part.  The odds of getting your book published by a legit New York house, the kind of contract that gets your work on the shelf at Borders, are about the same as someone setting out to play on the PGA or LPGA tour. In a word, miniscule. When you add up the new tour cards awarded at the pro schools, then add the new club pros hired in a given year, that roughly equals the number of never-before-published writers who land a New York contract for their first novel.

Or, even more roughly, about one in a thousand submissions. The number goes up with small press publishers, and skyrockets when you count publish-on-demand, which you shouldn’t if it’s a bonafide writing career you’re dreaming of.

Are you that one in a thousand?

That’s the tough question all of us at a writing workshop, or simply sitting in front of a blank screen with an idea and a dream, need to answer. And with the answer, while daunting, resides hope: you could be.

All of those professionals who make their craft look so easy, be they artists or athletes, know one thing better than all of us sitting in the next writing workshop. Not to mention that every last one of them was where you are right now, fantasizing about seeing their name on a dust jacket. They know that writing at a professional level is about more than a killer idea and a knack for whipping out nifty little sentences.

It’s all about craft. A craft that is deeper and wider and more challenging than you can imagine (the astute reader will realize that in that sentence lies the key to everything you want). And yet, a craft that can be packaged and taught, and therefore (unlike professional-level golf), learned. When practiced, it can even be mastered. Even if you aren’t blessed with athletic ability or the sensibility of an artist.

What you need — the ante-in to this businesss — is a willingness to learn and to work at it, to go deep and wide, and evolve your killer ideas and clever prose into something that becomes a symmetrical, structurally-sound, compelling story.

I’ve nearly been lynched for speaking this truth at a few writing conferences — other than the agents and publishers in the audience, who more often as not hugged me after my comments — but it’s the most precious gift I can bestow: the gift of truth.  And, the gift of hope that the dream is real if, and only if, you’re willing to do the hard work required.

Dreams are just that: they remain in your head. So let’s get real about turning your writing dream into your career reality, or at least (because the career part of the equation is largely out of your hands – more on that later), into the moment in which the book you hold in your hands has your name on it.

That moment is worth every sleepless night, every rejection and every new start, I promise you.

Next up this week — another early Storyfix post, while I cram to meet my book deadline.

Reprise: The First Two Storyfix Posts. And So It Began. is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

The Minimum First Tier Things an Organic Writer Needs to Know About a Story Before It Will Work

The second installment of a two-part series.

(Read Part One of this series here.)

The Nine Things You Should Know Before You Begin Writing

This reminds me of that old Steve Martin joke: How do you avoid paying taxes on one million dollars?  Okay, first you get a million dollars…

Insert nervous laugh here.

The nine things you need to know break down into two categories: the four sequential parts of your stories, roughly defined as quartiles… and the five essential story milestones (story points) that chart your course.

Again, if your story is to work, you will discover these nine things.  Either within a plan, or within a draft that will require significant rewriting.

The suggestion here is that you really can discover – and should – each of them ahead of time.  When you do, the organic process you apply to the manuscript will turn your metaphoric car into a high speed bullet train.

Not quite nearly the speed of sound, like that airplane, but orders of magnitude more efficient than writing blindly from the jump seat of a car.

The four contextual parts of your story. 

You can’t really go deep into these until you know the five story milestones, but this is what you’ll be shooting for when you do.  Each of these is comprised of about 12 to 18 scenes, and eat up about 25 percent of the total length of the story.

-         a Part 1 set-up – scenes that introduce the hero, the context and stakes of the story, all before something huge happens (the First Plot Point) that really ignites the hero’s journey, need and quest, which is what the story is really all about.

-         A Part 2 response to their new journey – whatever their life course and need was before, it’s either put on hold or altered because of a new calling or need, as presented and defined by the First Plot Point.

-         A Part 3 attack on the problem – whereas the hero has been reeling and reacting and fleeing and rebounding, at the mid-point of the story they begin to fight back, to move forward to seek a solution.

-         A Part 4 resolution – wherein the hero conquers their inner demons and becomes the catalyst for the resolution of conflict and the meeting of their goal.

These four parts define the context of your scenes.  Even if you’re pantsing.  For example, if you’re in Part 2 (reaction/response) and you’re writing a scene that has your hero acting perfectly heroic, and successfully so, it won’t work as well (because it’s out of context) and will ultimately sabotage the flow of the entire narrative.

Again, if the pantser knows this they’re on safe ground.  If they don’t, they won’t understand the rejection slip that becomes an inevitability.

The Five Milestone Story Points

In looking at those four contextual story parts, it’s clear that you also need to understand the transitions between them.  If Part 1 is a set-up for the arrival of the First Plot Point (which is the most important moment in your story… did you know that?  If you didn’t, let this be a wake-up call for you…), and if Part 2 is a response to it…

… then obviously and with absolute necessity you need to understand what a First Plot Point even is, where it goes, what it does and why this works.

The same is true of the other four major story milestones.  Your story won’t work – planner or pantser – until they’re functional and in the right place.

Here are those five moments that your story depends on:

-         the opening hook

-         the First Plot Point

-         a Mid-Point context shifting transition

-         the Second Plot Point

-         the ending.

Some of these can unfold as tight sequences of scenes, especially the ending.

Each of these is its own clinic on dramatic fiction, because they are the essence of dramatic fiction.

The nervous pantser might, at this point, say: hey, where’s characterization in all this?

The answer is – it’s all over it.  These four parts are a roadmap to the presentation and flourishing of your character in context to the dramatic need and action you’re giving them.  If you implement your characterization outside of these guidelines, your story won’t work as well as it should.

Sometimes people reject what is true simply because it’s new. 

They’re not comfortable doing it that way.  Exercise and diet, for example.  Relationships.  Money management.  All of these life challenges depend on certain principles, and you can reject those truths until you are blue in the face, and you can do things your way if you want (the singles condo complex is full of them)… but you won’t get near any of those goals until you live according to certain principles.

Same with your stories.  Pants if you choose, but do so with an awareness that there are, at a minimum, nine things you need to understand when you do.  Or you will either most certainly fail, or you’ll stumble upon them instinctively without ever really knowing how it happened. 

All nine of these story ingredients and principles can be developed ahead of time.  Brainstorming, percolating, trying out scenarios and sequences using note cards and conversations over drinks… all of them are a viable means of discovering what dramatic conventions serve your story, and even your character, best.

I wish you well on this journey.  I hope, at the very least, that I’ve eased your fear of flying, and that you’ll gift yourself with this new engine of creative efficiency and productivity.

For more information, check out these two ebooks from Storyfix that go deeper into issues of Story Structure and Characterization.

The Pantser’s Guide to Story Planning – Part Two is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

The Minimum First Tier Things an Organic Writer Needs to Know About a Story Before It Will Work

The first installment of a two-part series.

Over the course of this debate about story planning versus organic, seat-of-the-pants story development, I’ve come to realize several things.

Most notably, that we are all in the same boat, planners and pantsers alike.

First, pantsers don’t want to hear about it. 

For some reason the very notion of planning out major story points before you actually begin working on the manuscript is judged as either offensive or unworkable.  At least for them.

This is, in my view, much like someone claiming they can’t fly in an airplane… because they’ve never set foot on one.  And so they choose to drive.

The truer statement is that they won’t fly in an airplane.  It’s a choice, a preference, rather than a statement of fact. 

Great analogy, that.  Multiply the time it takes to get there via air by a factor of ten, and that’s about the same ratio of completion efficiency in comparing story planning to beginning a story with no idea where it’s going.

And guess what – both vehicles get you there in one piece.  It’s just that the long way might cause you to miss the very thing you came for.

Here’s the second thing I’ve learned. 

Not about the issue – I’m very clear on that – but about what it means.

Everybody who writes a story engages in some form of story development.   There’s no escaping that, no matter what you prefer to call it.

If you pants, if you just sit down and start writing with no clue what comes next, and then when you get to the end of a chapter you just keep writing and making stuff up from your gut, chapter by chapter… then that, too, is story planning.  Even if you don’t like the term. 

In that case pantsing, or organic storytelling is your chosen methodology.  And we all must live with the consequences of our choices, in writing and in life.

Pantsing actually can work.  

It’s like exploratory surgery versus a targeted operation.  The exploratory surgeon doesn’t know what she’ll find inside, and when she gets in there she does what seems right, making precise and critical judgments in real time.  The pre-planning surgeon, however, enters the O.R. with a stack of MRIs, blood tests and a certainty about what’s waiting for her, and she goes straight at it, with a minimum of time under anesthesia.

Good analogy, there, too.  Because until we know what we’re doing and why, we’re unconscious and in jeopardy. 

Even if the result is the same – the very same tumor in either case is located and extracted – the pantsing surgeon takes orders of magnitude more time, and at greater risk, than the planning surgeon. 

In this case, both doctors know what they’re doing.  So both procedures will work.  But that’s not always the case with writing a story.  Sometimes – often, in fact – the author has no real idea what they’re doing.

Here’s a fact, accept it or not:

The more you know about what makes a story work, about what goes into it, what goes where, and why, the more likely the writer will be – the more compelled the writer will be – to execute at least a minimum level of story planning before they begin the actual narrative process.

In other words, the less you know about story structure, the less likely you are to plan, because you don’t (for lack of a better way of saying it) even know what to plan.

And whether you plan it or pants it, if the requisite story milestones and the dramatic arc don’t unfold properly, the story will fail. 

The key there is recognizing that there is, in fact, a proper unfolding to be had. And this very thing, the rejection of that notion, is the undoing of many pantsers.

Organic writers sometimes drop names of successful authors who swear by the pantsing process.  But here’s the deal – those famous folks are in complete command of the principles of story architecture.

If you’re a pantser, here’s the $64,000 question for you: are you?

Again, the more you know about it, the more accepting you’ll be of the need to plan out at least a few elements of your story in advance.

Because you can’t, you won’t, write a successful draft until you know precisely how your story will end. 

Let me say that again.  If, for example, you’ve unleashed a story organically, and then at the 60^th percentile finally come to realize how it should end, and at that point begin pointing your narrative toward that goal… your story won’t work. 

Your only viable option at that point, now that you know the ending, is to start another draft.  One that puts all of the moving parts and contextual elements into their proper place.  Retrofitting rarely accomplishes the goal, and when it comes close, it’s usually less than clean and elegant.  It’s compromised.

It’s impossible for story milestones to be in the proper place, revealing just the right things, until you know your ending.

There’s good news for writers that are scared to death of this truth:

You actually can do both. 

You can continue to write your stories organically – which is another way of saying, to develop them organically – but with a wildly improved chance of success…

… if you’ll understand, plan and implement nine specific things ahead of time.

In the scheme of things, that’s not all that much.  But they are the nine most important things you need to know about your story, whether you figure them out ahead of time or during the writing itself.  They are essential, unavoidable (and if you do avoid them your story will fail), and they don’t discriminate between planners or pantsers.

I’m not suggesting you plan out all sixty to ninety scenes of your story.  Some planners do just that – I’m one of them – but you can slash your writing time by more than half (by writing fewer drafts) and significantly boost your odds of success if you’ll just plan these nine key elements first.

Next up, Part Two of this series: The Nine Things You Should Know Before You Begin Writing.

For more information, check out these two ebooks from Storyfix that go deeper into issues of Story Structure and Characterization.

The Pantser’s Guide to Story Planning – Part One is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Here I go again.  Exposing the underbelly of the writing dream in ways that some perceive as dark and gloomy.  Discouraging even. 

Hey, I’m sorry this is hard.  Do you really think that getting published and maybe even having a career as a fiction writer is anything other than hard? 

Allow me to clarify.  Writing, as a process, can be and should be rewarding and fun.  But it is rarely easy, at least if it’s done properly.  Getting and staying published is never fun, rarely rewarding (other than a sense of achievement, which is worthwhile), and it is the antithesis of easy.

If you bristle at these notions, if your positive thinking (which I do believe in) blinds you to these truths, nothing I can say here will either help you or discourage you.  On the former count, because you probably don’t understand how high the bar is, and even what it looks like.  On the latter count, because you won’t believe me anyway.

I assure you, my intention is not to discourage.  And trust me on this, these truths challenge me as much as anyone.

The intention here is to help you navigate this landscape successfully. 

The hiker who enters the jungle unarmed, or in denial about the dangers that lurk there, is orders of magnitude more likely to become some creature’s lunch than the hiker who enters the jungle aware, armed and prepared.

It’s fun until the wild animal tears out your spine.  It’s more fun when you emerge alive and well and able to tell the tale, even if you are bleeding from the forehead.

Here, then, are five things to not kid yourself about. 

All of them are the subject of much debate, and those who side with the truth – rather than an illusion that is easier to swallow – are the ones who are empowered to use them to their advantage.

Instead of allowing them to eat you alive.  Which they will if you let them.

Truth #1: The Publishing Business is Changing Rapidly

Deep inside we all harbor the dream of seeing our book on a shelf at a Big Chain retailer.  Of doing signings there.  Of seeing our interviews in print.  Of making a bestseller list.

The road leading to that outcome used to be the only viable path available, and thus it was crowded with all manner of ambition. 

But not anymore, and for many reasons. 

If you write fiction, the traditional New York publishing machine still very much dominates the business.  But take heart, new options are opening up.  Just look at how the music industry has decentralized to elevate independent producers and labels to prominence, in some cases attracting marquee names. 

In the movie business, some of the best films out there, including Oscar nominees, are independently-produced efforts.  They end up with a studio logo on the front end because they’re good enough to attract an audience.  And, because the creator has managed to forge key relationships while maintaining their autonomy as an artist.

That’s precisely the trend in publishing.  More and more independently published books are deservedly finding a readership.  And when they do, New York sits up and notices.  Even if they treated you like rotting meat when you first submitted a manuscript to them.

This age of the independent producer – and publisher – is just now dawning.  How it will shake out is still very much up in the air, but trust me, it will continue to grow and become more respectable.

So keep writing.  Even if New York doesn’t return your phone letters.  Take comfort in the fact that they don’t even return the letters, emails and phone calls of a lot of legitimately established writers anymore.   You’d be shocked at how many published authors have lost their contract and are either writing under another name, or pursuing non-traditional publication options.

Stay in the game, and be there when the game changes.

Truth #2: Pansting IS Story Planning

The debate rages on, and I’m in the middle of it.

But here’s an irrefutable truth.  Pantsers – those who refuse to plan their stories and just write by the seat of their pants, intuitively and instinctively – and plotters (those who plan their stories out ahead of time) are out to achieve the very same thing.

One uses an outline to find their story.  The other uses a series of drafts.

At the end of the day it’s the same process, with – when executed successfully—the same outcome.  It’s all a search for story.  A draft by any other name – like, an outline – is still merely a story planning tool.

Don’t take sides.  Take action. 

The inherent risk of pantsing is that you’ll stop before your story meets all of the inherent criteria for excellence.  Before it’s done, before it’s good enough.   

If you don’t, whether you pants or plot won’t matter.  At least until you do.

The plotter will be patiently waiting for you at the finish line, and with a hug and a B-12 shot.

It’s not a competition, it’s a comfort zone.

Truth #3: Good Isn’t Good Enough

This is perhaps the most intimidating of the truths, because it forces us to listen to the wild howls of all those hungry animals lurking in the dark forest of the journey we seek to take.

The bar is high.  So learn it, understand it, and step up to it.  Sure, the best you can do is all you have to offer, so make sure your best is up to snuff.

Which is better than merely good.

We hear daunting statistics about the miniscule percentage of submitted novels and screenplays that ever sell.  What is perhaps more daunting is the statistic that, if published, would expose the fact that a large percentage of the stories that are being rejected are actually pretty darn good.

Good isn’t good enough to break in, to get your bad self published.  You need something more, something better, something unexpected. 

And yet, delivered within expected parameters.  That’s not a contradiction, it’s an opportunity.

It isn’t enough to cover the basics.  Any more than it is enough shoot par in golf, to play tennis without falling on your face, or carry a tune.

The municipal course, the playground court or the neighborhood karaoke bar is not your intended destination.  Good cuts it there.  But beyond those venues, on a national stage for real money, always remember: good isn’t good enough.

Truth #4: Published Authors, Even Bestselling Authors, Are NOT More Talented Than You Are

Here is where we must separate the established notions of talent versus skill. 

Unlike athletics or music, writing is more skill-dependant than talent-dependant.  Which means, you can learn all you need to learn to reach that high bar.

Even if you’re not blessed with the talent of John Updike, Colin Harrison or Alice Sebold.  Poetic prose is not the requisite deliverable.  An effective, compelling story is.

Perfectly unremarkable, mundane writers publish great stories all the time.  Just as astoundingly gifted writers get rejected all the time.

And that truth is something you can wrap your head around, study, experiment with,  test, practice and recreate until the day you stop writing, for whatever reasons.

Truth #5: Perseverance is Required

People write for all sorts of reasons, some of them very personal.  It is when you cease to do it for personal reasons and seek to attract an audience that you step into an arena in which you are no longer in full control.

Within that arena there is stiff and skilled competition.  There are rules and principles to observe.  There are odds against you and unfair outcomes.

And yet, you do retain full control over two things, and two things only:

- First, you can always control what you put on the blank page.

- And secondly, you have complete control over how you attempt to bring your writing into the public eye, and how often. 

A huge part of the equation is persistence.  Because the most astoundingly beautiful and original of stories find rejection every day, and your masterpiece is certain to be among them.

Don’t give up.  Keep writing.  Keep believing.  Keep reaching for that bar.

And keep an eye on those hungry animals that would have you for lunch.  They live in your refusal to acknowledge the truth, and they await in the periphery of your denial.

Next up: “Deconstructing Avatar” – a series of posts that analyzes each part and milestone of this two billion dollar story for the purpose of modeling the basic principles of story.

Five Scary Truths About Writing That Are Actually Good News is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Sometimes the blank page mocks me.  I face it many times each week in the creation of these posts, and each time I ask myself, what can I say that might make a difference? 

How can I help my readers reach their writing goals today?

Sometimes it feels like this daily calling sends me, and this site, bounding off down a circular path.  Revisiting the past, retreading previously covered ground.

If I hadn’t been an athlete all my life, this might be the source of anxiety.  Okay, it still is, but I draw upon my sweaty past to reconcile the fear that readers will feel like they’ve been here before.

Those who protest this cycle – show me something new, damnit! – are the poster children for the reason we need to revisit the basics.  Over and over and over again. 

Because those who do not value the fundamental principles of storytelling, and who are assumptive about their command of them, do not publish.  Ever.

Are you in command of them?  Really?  Don’t nod too quickly.

Because the most obvious one of all is the one that will bring you down quickest.

Writing a story is no more or less complex than mastering a sport. 

If you’ve ever tried to do that, you know what I mean.  The subtleties and nuances of the game make or break you.  At least if you are aiming for a professional level of performance.

And if your goal is to publish, that’s precisely the level you need to reach.

In sports, though, retreading the hallowed ground of fundamentals isn’t bad, it’s an expectation.  It’s called spring training in baseball, training camp in football and basketball, and while it doesn’t have a name elsewhere, pre-season training is a fundamental part of the process in any sport.

It’s called practice.  And inherent to it is an understanding of the game itself.

In writing, more writers who claim to be actively pursuing professional status don’t understand this game at the most fundamental of levels, than those who do.

Never has a coach opened pre-season practice by saying, okay folks, today we’re going to show you a brand new way to swing a bat.  And yet, during spring training each player takes hundreds, even thousands of swings under the watchful eye of a mentor who knows.

Because if you get it wrong you will fail. 

And if you don’t practice it – in the case of writers, if you don’t understand it – you will eventually get it wrong.

Whether we’re professional writers or relief pitchers, we rely on – and should return to – the fundamentals on a regular basis.  We study them, we exercise them, we commit them to muscle memory. 

Because we know we cannot succeed without a mastery of them.

Here’s the wisdom, though.  When we say success depends on subtlety and nuance, this assumes that the fundamentals are solidly in place.

And that isn’t always the case.  Writing conferences offering programs full of subtlety and nuance are full of such case studies.

Subtlety and nuance without an underlying base of fundamental understanding and mastery is nothing short of a nice try.

Most rejected stories are nice tries. 

They bear a resemblance to the texture and nuance of a professionally told story, but something is missing.  Something is wrong.  Something isn’t good enough.

And sometimes – too often, in fact – everything is perfectly executed at a professional level, complete with nuance and subtlety… and the story still doesn’t sell.

There’s a reason for that.

The reason goes back to the most basic fundamental principle of all. 

It resides at the very genesis of the decision to write a story. 

The destiny of a story is cast in that moment, before a single word has been written, before a single neuron has been employed to bring it to life.

The single most critical, sensitive and all-powerful moment in the story development process is when the nature and power of the idea announces itself.  The story’s heart and soul, it’s concept.  It’s reason for being.  Compromise here, and your story will punish you for it.

If that idea is weak, no degree of artful execution on the planet can make it compelling.

Is your story idea worth of the year of your life you will sacrifice to it?  Why will anyone care about this?  What are your standards for answering that question?

More than any other, this issue divides the published from the unpublished.

For every 1000 manuscripts submitted, perhaps only 100 are actually competently told to the point of being publishable.  In other words, these writers have delivered on the six core competencies of storytelling required to reach that level.

Why, then, will only 10 of those 100 get a publishing contract? 

Because those 10 winners have a more compelling story idea than the other 90, which in some cases may actually deliver equal or even superior execution.

A great trap awaits at the very gateway to the process of writing a story. 

And that is the fact – the phenomenon, really – that the allure of storytelling itself, the very notion of actually finishing a manuscript, makes the writer blind to the prerequisite power of the idea itself. 

The writer is so enthralled with the notion of writing a story, so attracted to the mechanics of it and so seduced by the vision of seeing it on a bookstore shelf, that they adopt an idea that is less than it must be to succeed.

It’s like falling in love with someone else because they are beautiful.  That attraction is addictive and wildly exciting.    

But you don’t know until you live with the person if the relationship is going to last.  That initial attraction is never enough to stand up  over time.  More is required of the lasting relationship that sexual chemistry.

It’s like a group of athletes trying out for one last spot on a roster.  All of them have an equal grasp of the game and the same basic skill set.  Who gets that uniform?  That one that, at her or his core, is the better athlete.  Even if their skills aren’t as good as some of the folks who will go home empty handed.

So it is with our stories. 

Are you in love with your story idea, or are you in love with the notion of writing it? 

 Just give me an idea and I’ll make it work… is the epitaph of deceased writing dreams.

One of the biggest breakthroughs you can have is a writer is the realization that you can’t make any idea work.  Even if you execute the hell out of it.

You can’t breath live into the dead.  The six core competencies model isn’t a formula to bring life to the dead.  Indeed, a compelling story concept is one of those six core competencies.

You can’t turn a cow dropping into a silk purse, even if you have the most expensive and beautiful sewing machine on the planet.

Because there is no market for purses made from cow droppings.  No matter how well crafted and aroma-free.

Is your story idea a cow dropping or a sheath of beautiful silk?

You can’t save an inherently dull or inconsequential idea, even if you slather it with character and stakes and poetic prose.

This decision-point – is my story idea good enough? – is where art resides, every bit as much as it does in your words.  Some people can smell a great story idea, some can’t.  Personal taste and aesthetic preference is something that can be neither taught nor channeled.

The former get published, the latter usually don’t.

Think of your story idea as a life force…

… that spark of energy that causes the human heart to beat.  All our medicine and technology cannot bring life to the still-borne, nor can we save a patient whose body wants to release its life force to the universe.

We can only put it on life-support, a functioning body with no soul.  And it will never open its eyes.

You can and should play God with your story.  Indeed, if you don’t who will?  And within that analogy, you need to do what God does – she/he, however you define God, infuses the body with life. 

So it is with our stories.

Wrap your head around that principle, then get honest with yourself about the stories you’ve chosen to write.   When you create a balance between the life force and the nutritional regimen of your story, you’re on your way to success.

If the idea, at its heart, isn’t as good as your ability to write it, then don’t sell yourself or your writing dream short. 

Place the bar high.  It’s the only way to give your story the wings it needs to really fly.

The Most Important Storytelling Challenge of Them All is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

(Continued from yesterday’s post… if you didn’t read it, click here (or scroll down if you’re already on the site) first, then come back to finish up.)

So here we are, at this point, facing the creation of two very separate and necessary tools – the query letter and the synopsis, the latter being one of three animals: a very concise story summary embedded in the letter itself… a one-page version included with the query letter… or a longer version sent to the agent upon request in response to the query letter.

You need to know how to write all three versions.  And powerfully.

For the query letter, refer to the previous post (Part 10 – Pitch Perfect: The Art of Selling Your Story Verbally).  Add traditional letter-writing skills to that art form and there you have it.

The structure of a query letter is identical to the live pitch – the short version – with one exception: you need to introduce yourself and your qualifications to write this story, as well.  But not necessarily in that order.

Open your query letter with a compelling narrative hook, sort of like what you’d hear at a movie preview.  A what if? question works, often the same one that inspired your story in the first place.

If Dan Brown were to query The DaVinci Code, the opening sentence(s) might read like this:

What if Christ didn’t die on the cross?  What if the religion devoted to that one single moment is a lie, and the people who run the Church based on it have been killing to keep the truth quiet?  What if a message from a dead priest, written in his own blood, set in motion a race for this truth that could change the very fiber of society as we know it?  And what if some of the greatest minds in history, including Leonardo DaVinci, belonged to a secret sect devoted to keeping the truth alive?

From there you proceed into the pre-pitch set-up (just as you do in a live pitch situation), followed by either the embedded synopsis itself, or the declaration that one accompanies the letter as a separate document.

Then, in either case, you close with an introduction of yourself and a statement of what you believe to be the viability of your story in the commercial marketplace.

The Length of a Query Letter

If the letter includes a short synopsis of the story embedded within it, it should be no more than two single-spaced pages.

If the package includes a letter and a separate one-page synopsis (called a one-sheet), then the query letter should be no more than one page, resulting in a combined proposal of no more than two pages.

The Nature of the Synopsis

Once again, refer to the first installment of this post for a description of the three-phase structure of the synopsis.  When presented live it’s called a pitch, and there is very little difference between them, other than your trembling voice.

With that as a model, the best I can offer within these space parameters, is to show you an example.  Click HERE to see the one-sheet synopsis of Whisper of the Seventh Thunder, the novel I placed with a publisher last year, and which comes out in less than two months from now.

Yeah, I’m pretty excited, but that’s a different post.

This synopsis was written after the book itself had been completed, which is absolutely the best time to address the issue of a synopsis.  You could pull it off if you have a solid outline that takes you all the way to the final moment – even though you won’t be using that outline in the selling process itself – but for many writers this doesn’t happen until three or four hundred pages of manuscript have been birthed.

You shouldn’t be trying to sell the thing until you’re done with it, anyway.  You may actually succeed at convincing an agent to read your story, but if you haven’t written them yet, you’ve just created perhaps the most stressful situation a new writer can find themselves in.  And it’ll probably take you  long enough for the agent to forget you anyhow.

Don’t go there.  Write your story, and then try to sell it.  Trust me, you’ll be much more likely to get a green submission light when you do.

Two years ago, when I was in need of a new representation, I used this particular synopsis as my calling card.  I sent it to 13 agents, all first-tier, New York based major players.  (Unpublished writers should aim lower, since the established agents rarely take on a first novel; that said, it doesn’t mean that a less famous agent can’t place your book at the very highest levels of the publishing business, it happens all the time, in fact.)

Eleven agents consented to read the entire manuscript based on this synopsis.  I had telephone conversations with four of them.  One asked me to rush the sample pages to him because he was flying to London to meet with Ken Follett, his client, to polish the final draft of his latest novel, World Without End.

At the end of the day I landed a great new agent.  Not through that particular guy, but I’m not complaining. 

I’m just sayin’.  This stuff works.  And rarely the way you think it will.

Oh, that lengthy outline I mentioned earlier?  The one that can go 50 to 60 pages, or more?   A true outline is rarely used in the selling process.  In fact, it’s risky to show it to anyone at all.   An outline is a powerful tool, and it is primarily for you, the writer, to use as an evolving and growing blueprint for your story.

Once you have an outline nailed down, then your synopsis, whether it be one or three or ten pages long, is a condensation that cuts to the heart of what you’ve created… preceded by a contextual set-up… and summarized by a shameless sales pitch.

On one level the query process is very intuitive, not unlike applying for a job or selling a product to a client.  But the heart and soul of it isn’t the letter itself, it’s the description of the story that it delivers.

Master that, and do it with all the care and precision you put into your novel, and you’ll find yourself thrust into the heart of the game that is getting published.

Get Published, Part 10 – Writing a Killer Synopsis (the second of two installments) is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

(Quick note: check out my guest post today on Procrastinatingwriters.com.)

It’s on.   You have an appointment with an agent at a writing conference.  Or, you find yourself stuck in an elevator with one.  Or perhaps you’ve been told an editor will be at a party you’re going to and you intend to corner her.

Heck, maybe your strategy is to trail the poor soul to her car when she leaves the office at the end of the day.  Whatever.

Moment of truth.  Do this well and the rest of your life could change. 

There are two things you need to have at the ready when that moment arrives:

1. A pitch, which will determine whether or not the agent or editor wants to hear more.
2. What to say when they do.

They are not the same thing. 

One is rehearsed, polished, stylized and powerful.  The other isn’t.  The other is organic and responsive to the moment.  It could take one minute or one hour, and you need to be ready for either.

Confusing them is the great downfall of writers who are attempting to sell their story face to face.  Not so much because the story isn’t compelling – agents are pros, they can usually weed through the chaos to find a story in there somewhere – but because the writer isn’t. 

Notice I said sell.  Not tell.  Big difference.  Critical difference.

The Key to Pitching: Knowing What Not to Do

In case the term is new to you, a pitch is an efficient and brief introduction to your story, either verbally or in writing. 

You need to understand how to execute both with confidence and elegance.

I just Googled “how to pitch a novel or screenplay.”  There are 795,000 websites available that claim to have an answer.

In order to make this answer, number 795,001, actually useful for you, allow me to approach the proposition differently.  By telling you what doesn’t work.

Unfortunately, that’s precisely how most writers do it – the wrong way. 

What not to do? Don’t narrate your story.  At least not yet.

The first thing you should do when the moment arrives – the handshakes and the small talk are all behind you – is to set-up the story before you tell it.  Do this, and do it well, and you’re already head and shoulders ahead of the pack.

Just launching into a telling of the story… that’s a major handicap.  It says all the wrong things about you and exposes what you don’t understand about publishing.

The opening of your pitch is perfectly analogous to someone shopping for a book.  Before anyone opens the cover and begins reading, they already know a short list of specific things about the story.  In fact, those things are precisely what determines if they will, or won’t, crack open the book and sample the pages.

What are those things?  Genre.  A title.  The thematic landscape.  Narrative tonality.  A quick peek at the hero.  A tagline about the plot.  Even a comparison to well known stories cut from the same cloth.

And nothing else.  At least not yet. 

In fact, if you think of the set-up to your pitch as what you’d find on the inside flap of a dust jacket, you’re well down the road toward an effective pitch.

A killer pitch has three phases to it. 

The set-up, delivering that short list of information about the story without telling the story, is the first.

An effective set-up might sound like this:

My story is a political thriller set in the near future.  It’s called Whisper of the Seventh Thunder, and it explores the possibility that certain prophesies are coming to pass on the world political stage, and the lengths opposing forces will go to in an effort to find and manipulate the truth, or at least the perception of truth,  toward their own ends.  It’s a bit like The DaVinci Code in that it blends fact and accepted theological premises with human greed and agenda, with an innocent protagonist who finds himself the pawn in a war between darkness and light, perhaps even supernaturally so, with the fate of the world hanging on his decisions. 

If that sounds like a tease, that’s precisely the intention.  The objective is to get the editor leaning forward, eager to hear more.

But this isn’t where you entertain questions.  Once you’ve completed the set-up, you plow directly into the next phase before the listener knows what hit them.

The second part of the pitch – not to be confused with the two things you need to know, as shown above; that’s coming – is a very condensed sequential telling of the story, pausing as you go to introduce the hero and the antagonist at the appropriate moment. 

The most important part of this phase — as in the story itself — is the first plot point, or the inciting incident.   Because this moment defines the nature of the dramatic tension and the stakes of the story, which are critical to the success of the story.  If you use the four parts of the story — set-up, response, attack and resolution — as context for this telling, the pitch will deliver the same power as the story itself.

It’s a mistake to describe your hero outside of the context of the story, or as part of the set-up.  Meld it into the flow of the story.

This is where too many writers screw up, either by leading with this second phase (omitting the set-up altogether), or, more likely by going into too much extraneous detail. 

Any hint of rambling or disconnected dots at this point is the death knell of your pitch.

You need several versions of this second phase: one that lasts about three minutes, and one that you can expand upon at length.

The third phase of the pitch is a summary, a retelling of the set-up – not the story itself — only now referencing the story as examples of theme and dramatic effectiveness.  This is where you overtly sell the sizzle, explaining why this will work, and how it will blow a reader away.

Be prepared to back those claims when asked.  If you’ve done your job, you will be.

Do you tell the ending of the story at this point?  No.  Make them ask you.

The Second Part of the Process

At this point you literally need to go with the flow.  The more effectively you’ve executed the three phases of the pitch, the more likely the agent or editor will grill you about it.

This grilling is usually a combination of two things: they either seek further clarification or information about the story… or they’re testing you.

Which means, you need to be ready.  They may be exploring holes in the story or trying to break it altogether. 

You need to have answers to questions about where the story came from, why it’s important for you, what readers will get out it and why they’ll be interested, how this is different than other stories in the genre, the backstory of your main characters, the motivations of both the hero and the antagonist, the thematic intentions of the story, the nature of the dramatic tension and an succinct definition of the stakes for all involved.

You need a Masters degree in your story. 

You must completely and utterly own your story.

You need to be ready to explain, clarify and defend each and every aspect of it, from concept to characters, themes, structure and even the nature of specific scenes – “so how are you going to show that moment?” – and the choices you’ve made relative to tense, person and narrative voice.

Which, by the way, are the six core competencies of storytelling themselves.

If you survive all this, if you pass this test, then chances are the agent or editor will ask to see more of your work, possibly the entire manuscript.

Bottom Line

In the entire spectrum of the publication process, we writers have control over only two things.  And just those two: our stories, and the effectiveness of our pitches.

One begets the other.  And yet they are separate skills, both of which dictate your destiny as a published author.

Get Published, Part 9 – Pitch Perfect: The Art of Selling Your Story Verbally is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

(Check out my guest post today – Tuesday – on Copyblogger, about blogs and book deals, including mine.)

Earlier today someone accused me of sounding like a car salesman lately.  Which is perfect for today’s post, because at some point in the publishing process you’ll have to do the same thing.   But without the car or a pack of Marlboros in your pocket.

Which lets me off the hook, by the way, since a) I’ve never sold cars, and b) I’ve never had a pack of Marlboros or any such carcinogenic product on my person in my entire life.

But I digress. 

All this talk about jacking the quality of your story to the requisite level over the past seven posts in this series… you may be impatient for something about the process of selling your masterpiece. 

Which it just may indeed be if you’ve been paying attention over the aforementioned seven posts.

Okay then.  Let’s do this.  Now that you know what the most important part of the process is – writing an irresistible story – let’s get you published. 

Allow me to take the mystery out of the getting published process. 

The most effective and reliable step you can take, after you’ve written the very best story you have in you, can be summed up with three simple words:

Get an agent.

I know, that smacks a bit like the last time you were on a car lot and the super-duper friendly sales guy wanted to introduce you to his boss.

But here’s the deal.  For every 100 novels published by established New York-based major league publishers, last year, next year or in the next decade – admit it, this is your heart’s desire – well over 99 percent of them were, and will be, submitted through agents.

And then, to make this even scarier, the 80-20 rule dominates here – 80 percent of those were sold by the top 20% of established agents.  Which, if you are a new-to-the-game writer, are almost impossible to land.

If you’re selling a screenplay, make that 100 out of 100 scripts sold were submitted by agents.   This is a system that cannot be circumvented unless your mother runs a movie studio or your uncle has an Oscar nomination.

If your target is a small press publisher, the numbers change radically.  Because – newsflash – agents aren’t interested in submitting to them, which in this case means your only option is to sell the thing yourself.

Which involves the identical process used to land an agent.  So keep reading.

If you’re considering P.O.D. (Publish On Demand), congratulations, your manuscript has just been accepted.  Because anybody can publish their own book in that manner, and you can sell it online and elsewhere as you please. 

So let’s get real here.  If you want a legitimate big time publishing deal, you need an agent.

How do you get one?

That can be summed up with only one word:

Somehow.

The Most Effective Technique to Land an Agent

The best way to land an agent is to be referred to one by a credible source. 

By credible, that means a writer represented by the agent you are targeting, one who likes your stuff and is willing to put in a word for you.  If the referring writer has been successfully published, so much the better, because your pal in your critique group who just signed with an agent isn’t about to risk her credibility by recommending you or anyone else.

A less direct approach is a referral from someone, a non-writer/client, who simply knows the agent and also happens to know you and likes your work enough to take this risk.  Which it is.

In 2003, a writer you’d never heard of came out of nowhere to become a household name… for about three months.  The book was Derailed, and frankly it wasn’t very good.  Neither was the movie they made out of it starring Jennifer Aniston.

So how did that happen?  How did this book get published in the first place, and how did it then score a half million dollar promotional budget from Warner Books (very much one of those major league New York outfits), which is precisely why it appeared in the front window of every major chain bookstore in the land?

Answer: the author ran the advertising agency that handled the Warner Books account.   A lot of lunches and martinis had gone under this bridge.

We’ve never heard of, or from, James Siegel again, by the way.

It’s that simple.  Sure, the publisher – the Big Cheese with the Big Desk – loved the book enough to do it, but rest assured, it was as much about those lunches and martinis as anything else.

Frankly, I don’t even know if an agent was involved in that one, but it makes my point.  People do business with people they know, or people within their network.  The higher up that chain you enter the process, the better your chances.

Don’t know any agents personally?  Don’t know anyone who does?  Don’t know any published authors with an agent who are willing to a) read your book, and then b) love it, and then c) take a risk with their agent and actually recommend it to them?

Didn’t think so.  So now what?

The Next Best Technique to Land an Agent

Two words this time: writing conferences.

Many major writing conferences invite agents to attend and hear pitches.  This process is simple: first you enroll for the conference, then you schedule a series of 10-minute dates with destiny. 

It’s a production line, to be sure.  Each agent hears literally dozens of pitches over the course of the weekend, and while they arrive with the secret hope of finding the next Lovely Bones, they can be pretty picky and cynical about what they hear.

Also, you won’t find The William Morris Agency or ICM at many of these conferences, and if you do you can rest assured that the person in attendance doesn’t occupy an office on the top floor.  But you will meet a lot of smaller agency principles at these venues, as well as owners of regional agencies, which are viable because they usually have the relationships required to get your book a look-see.

Got your appointment?  Okay, this is gut-check time.  You have ten minutes to sell this heard-it-all-before agent on your story.   One shot.

You better know every dark nook and cranny of your story, and you better know how to package it into a pitch.

If they like what they hear, they’ll ask you to tell them more.  If they still like what they hear – and this does happen a lot… they have to justify their expense account one way or the other – they’ll ask you to submit a partial, usually three chapters or so, no more than about 50 pages.

And then you wait.  Sometimes for months.

If they like what they’ve read – and it’s perfectly okay to remind them after you feel enough time has gone by – they’ll ask to see the completed work.

And yes, if two or more agents ask for a partial – good for you, by the way, bravo – you DO it. 

The Most Common and Least Effective Way to Land an Agent

You find their address, then you submit a query letter.

Not all agents will consider queries from unpublished writers who are unknown to them, and when this is the case it is usually stated clearly, because hearing from you is the last thing they want.

And again, it is perfectly okay to query more than one agent at a time. 

That’s how you get published.  In a nutshell.

Now lets crack those nuts open and bake ourselves a nice pecan publishing pie.

In Part 9 of this series I’ll address the issue of pitching your story effectively, either at a conference agent sit-down, a cocktail party or in an elevator, should you be so lucky.

Then in Part 10, I’ll discuss query letters.  Specifically, how to make them rock, and how to write a “one-sheet” story pitch that works.  With a proven sample.

The one I’ll show you – the one I used to find a new agent two years ago – received 11 invitations to submit the entire manuscript out of 13 queries sent.  (The book based on that one-sheet, by the way, will be published in two months.)

And then I ended up signing with another agent altogether, one I found — insert soft throat clearing here — through a referral from another writer.

I’m just sayin’.

Got agent stories of your own?

If you’ve pitched to agents at conferences, or have anything to share about the query process or getting published in general, then please share it here.

And by the way, I do have a slick little ’91 Buick for sale, if you’re interested.

Just in… my ebook,  Story Structure – Demystified, was just named as the #2 entry on writing critic and book promotion guru Carolyn Howard-Johnson’s ”1o Best Books of 2009″ list.  That list, among many other Top 10 lists from established reviewers, can be found at MyShelf.com.

Too car salesy?  Sorry.

Get Published, Part 8 – Put On Your Selling Shoes is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com