Last post I opened a can of worms that a few of you found… confusing.  Even discouraging. 

And some of you, thankfully, found to be liberating and empowering.

I promised a follow-up, but did so without taking into consideration that confusion might ensue.  So today’s post is sort of a dance between clarification and continuation (sounds like marriage to me, but that’s another post), with the goal of making room for all of us on the same page.

If you count yourself among the confused (rather than the discouraged, which is a different response altogether), I ask you to go back to the last post (Part 1) and scroll through the Comments until you find one from Cathy Yardley, an astute blogger on writing craft and a very knowledgeable contributor.  She confessed to being a little confused, too.  Which I took to heart. 

Believe me when I say, I get that it’s probably my fault.  This stuff is thick and gooey and nuanced, which is ironic given that my highest objective is to clarify.

Read my response to Cathy’s call for clarification.

I’m hoping that’ll help.

There’s a reason we go deeper into the storytelling experience.

Since I mentioned marriage, allow me to leverage that analogy for a moment. 

It’s hard.  It continues to be hard the longer we do it.  We succeed at it, if we ever do, in spite of it being hard, applying what we’ve learned and tested and grown into along the way.  Or not. 

Given that easy-to-accept truth,  you wouldn’t think of saying this:

Gee, this is hard and confusing, so stop telling me what makes a marriage work or not, stop breaking it down into its most basic levels and then providing tools to apply to the challenge, and stop telling me how to make my marriage stellar in a neighborhood full of separations and weekend visitations, which is just, I dunno, normal.  Just let me wing it and make my own way, because all that psychological crap is just so darn confusing.  I mean, just look at the Joneses next door, they don’t ever talk about their relationship and they seem happy as hell.

That’s what some writers feel when confronted with the depth of knowledge available about storytelling.

“Just shut up and drive” may work in some relationships, but when it comes to your relationship with your story, it’s a recipe for frustration.  Possibly a train wreck.

The information and the understanding is out there.  We all get to choose whether we wear blinders or reading glasses.

The Feedback

I’m delighted that so many of you “get it.”  That the relationship between storytelling physics and storytelling tools, and the possibility of storytelling art is, while still challenging, an intriguing and promising can of literary worms.

You get that the recognition of three levels of storytelling experience – essences, if you will – is empowering because it provides a variety of ways to approach and evaluate our work.  It’s overly simplistic to just ask, “is this good enough?”  Especially in comparison to “Is there enough dramatic tension… is the pacing right… will my reader feel the vicarious experience of my hero and root for her or him on that path… and is the conceptual centerpiece of the whole thing going to be compelling enough to anybody but me?”

Which question(s) gets you further, faster, and with better outcome?  The ones that are based on an understanding of dramatic physics, that’s which.

One reader commented that these levels and all these component parts and realms and essences and tools and empowering hoo-hah (my words, not his) is starting to feel like Buddhism (apologies to enthusiasts for that belief system, those are his words, not mine). 

Which translates to: why is this so hard?  Why can’t we just write our damn stories and not worry about all this “stuff”?

I’m sorry this is hard.  I’m not the one making it hard.  I’m one of the guys – for better or worse – trying to bring clarity to the inherent difficulty of it.  And in doing so, hopefully add to the bliss of it.

Clarity comes from breaking things down into their component parts, and then examining the relationships between them to help us make better choices.

Just like in marriage.  And in health, investing, spirituality, even politics. 

As in life.

Even when it all seems so… complicated.

Another reader expressed concern that the underlying physics and the six core competencies tended to sound like the same things, or at least overlap.  A fair assessment, and a great can of worms to open.

Because they are, and they aren’t.

Breaking It Down

If you don’t like the term “physics” (my editor at Writers Digest Books didn’t, by the way), then call them literary forces or fundamental qualities.  What you call them is less critical than how well you understand them.

Or better put, understand how essential they are.

These forces are like gravity.  They simply exist.  Deny them and you’re still stuck with them.  Harness them and you can achieve things like flying and dancing and hitting balls for fun and profit.

I’ve broken them down into four areas that writers should grasp (my opinion), because each stands separate and alone – yet related and dependant – in a story that really works. 

They are:

-         dramatic tension (conflict in the story)

-         vicarious empathy (we root for the hero, we care)

-         pace (how quickly and how well the story moves forward)

-         inherent compelling appeal (why anyone will want to read this)

These natural dramatic forces are not tools, per say.  They are, however, what make writing tools and models and processes effective, because such things are designed to harness — optimize – their power.

And that’s the difference between the four forces – physics – of dramatic theory, and the Six Core Competencies that allow us to access and optimize them.

The Six Core Competencies are tools.

They are based on physics, and they describe the physics, but they are not the physics. 

They are an operations handbook to the physics.

You could argue, perhaps, that they somewhat overlap with the four forces (essences) described above, but they’re really a defining context and a list of standards, criteria and elements that allow the writer to optimize the physics.

A concept – one of the six core competencies – touches on all four of the inherent set of physics (forces, essences) in a well told story.

Characterization focuses on three of them.

Theme touches all four.

And structure… that completely defines how effectively all four will perform.

Scene execution is the means by which all four happen.

Writing voice is the delivery vehicle, squeaky wheels and all.

Still confused?

Allow me one more shot at an analogy here in an effort to clarify.

The physics of cooking are: heat, food, seasoning, presentation.  They aren’t things, per se, they are qualities.  They aren’t even activities until, well, they are put into play.  They are what you have to work with.  They are what you seek to optimize.  You deal with all of them, to some degree (or absence), every time you cook a meal.  Leave one unhonored (like, serve the chicken raw) and the meal will bomb.

None of those, however, stand alone as a recipe.  They are the raw materials, the variables, of a recipe.

A recipe is, in fact, a set of core competencies that coalesce into a strategy and a plan that allow you to optimize those four forces, or variables in the cooking equation.  Each one of those four things – heat, food, seasoning, presentation – can be understood, applied and put on a plate in any number of combinations.

The core competencies of cooking are what allows you to optimize those forces.  To harness their power for good, for effectiveness.  The core competencies become a recipe.  And not necessarily a formulaic one (you still get to pick the china, determine the strength of the spices and decide between rare and well done).  You still select the levels you desire to put into the outcome, from a pinch to a pint to nothing at all.

And if a recipes calls for you to zest a lemon, which is a skill-based activity, then you’d best understand what that means, practice it, perfect it and nail it.  Especially if your goal is to cook professionally.

Or you could just wing it, make it up, or skip it altogether — because this is so freaking hard! — and take your chances. 

In our stories, the Six Core Competencies are a set of tools that allow the writer to understand and optimize the raw forces from which a story is made.  The better you apply them, the better the story.

Physics are just there.  Wai ting to be used or abused or worse, taken for granted.  Waiting to help you or kill you.  They are eternal. 

They are waiting for your creative choices and tastes.

The Core Competencies are a means by which to make sure that what you serve your audience is both delicious and nourishing, and in a way that allows you to impart your own touch. 

A set of tools.  Working with a set of physics.

Which leaves us with the third realm of writing experience (again, the first being physics/forces/essenses, the second being the six core competencies, or however else you wish to label them: and that is the polish, the final veneer.

And therein, in what has heretofore been craft, resides the possibility of art.

Whether by design or by pure blind stumbling luck… whether by trial and error or focused intention… whether after decades of effort or after a single informed and enlightened draft…

… art doesn’t stand a chance until craft has been served.

And craft, no matter how you define or apply the tools, is totally dependant on physics.

My book — “Story Engineering: Mastering the Six Core Competencies of Successful Writing” — has recently been published by Writers Digest Books and is available at most bookstores and online venues.

Image courtesty of Eric Fredericks, via Flickr.

Part 2: A Deeper Understanding of Craft is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

I used to think that the title of this post describes what we are all out to achieve as writers.  That this is, in fact, a description of the writing journey as well as the destination.

 Not so sure anymore.  I’m certain that it can be – and I suspect that it should be – but I’m more convinced than ever that it doesn’t have to be, nor is it always so. 

 Like the song says, some girls just wanna have fun. 

 Some even get rich and famous in the process.

The more I study this stuff, though, the more convinced I am that, whichever side of this fence you are on, a richer level of understanding opens deeper access to a set of empowering tools and principles that might otherwise prove elusive.  A set of criteria, checks and balances that allow us to optimize our stories both before, during and after we’ve written them.

Imagine if you could look at the story you are about to write, and/or the story you’ve just finished, and assess it in context to something that is universally true and essential – a set of forces and principles and criteria that exists whether you acknowledge them or not – wouldn’t that be a good thing?  I think it would be.

Without such an understanding… well, you’re stuck with your instincts and the mathematical probably that you’ve hit the target as close to dead center as you possibly can.  That there are no better creative decisions left on the table that trump those you’ve already made.

In other words, a crap shoot.  And in a game that offers you a path to bettering your odds.

Some writers get to the promised land placing these kind of bets.  Others spend decades waiting for their horse to come in.

I say, learn how to build a better horse and watch what happens. 

You can wait for the game to come to you, or you can go after it. 

As it is with sports and music and other forms of art – even in relationships and business and our health – it certainly is possible to dive in, experiment, learn, grow your instincts, get better and advance along the storytelling path – perhaps even to a professional level – without aspiring to truly understand what you’re up against and what, as a result, you are up to.

Or, put another way, to break it all down into its component parts. 

We know we need to cut down on calories to lose weight… but do we always know why?  The science behind it?  The real analogous question here is, would we be better at it if we knew why?  

Would our options increase and our risks be mitigated if we knew?

I think so.  Doesn’t mean you can’t lose weight simply by skipping lunch and not sweating the details.  It also doesn’t mean you’ll end up reaching your goal, or possibly paying the wrong price to get there.

Unless you seek to become a professional nutritionist.  Then it matters that you know.

Sometimes a result is a natural outcome of an organic experience over time (like skipping lunch).  Sometimes it’s just too much fun and too rewarding to allow a story to just flow out of you, instead of sweating the underlying principles that make it work.

I’m not talking about planning. 

No, this mindset is as effective if you plan as it is if plod (pants) your stories.

I’m talking about the application of criteria, principles and even instinct that is based on something bigger than yourself, outside of yourself.  Something that is true for everyone, before and after your time on the writing stage.

As important to writing as, say, gravity is to playing golf or flying airplanes.

We can’t alter the physics that make a ball curve in mid-air when thrown properly (or a golf ball curve in mid-air when struck improperly)… make a song pierce the heart like a whispered truth from God… or make a painting into an unforgettable frozen frame that captures the essence of the soul itself.

We can ignore them and hope for the best, betting that our instincts make up for our ignorance or rejection of what is true. 

Fact is, a set of underlying physics are at work in these outcomes whether the athlete or artist acknowledges or leverages them or not.

For those who seek to understand what storytelling craft is all about at a deeper level – an understanding that can lead to a steeper learning curve and a hastened outcome as well as jacking the fun factor through the roof – I offer the following.

There are three realms inherent to the storytelling experience.

These aren’t issues of process as much as they are issues of essence.

A cynic could easily mush them together into a single breath of creative exhilaration and call it good, labeling them as different takes on the same thing.

But storytelling absolutely can be broken down… into three different realms or essences.  Those who see them as separate essences are uniquely equipped to optimize their stories, and in a way that those who don’t or won’t cannot.

If you are building a structure – a bridge, a house, a strip mall – or writing a novel, there are three essences in play.  Three levels.  Three focuses.  Three forces.  Three stages.  Three contextual lenses through which to view your project.

And they are paradoxical, because they play out in sequence, and then at a certain point they combine to play out in simultaneous three-part harmony (intentional mixed metaphor).  You can look at them backwards, retroactively, sequentially or melded and gain great value… or you can harness them out of the starting blocks and also gain value.

Or you can ignore them and hope that your instinct, rather than your proactive hands-on working knowledge of them, will have imbued your story with what they provide.

They are:

-         the physics that allow a structure to bear weight and hold together in a stiff wind…

-         the blueprint that shows how the structure will hang together, a plan that comes together as the result of the discovery of what the end should look like…

-         and then the final coat of paint and polish and artful touch that makes the structure an aesthetic, qualitatively judged piece of real estate.  

There exists only one set of underlying physics.  

Those physics comprise the first realm, or essence, of storytelling.  Or of any craft.  They don’t care whether you recognize them or not, because they will rule your outcome in spite of you.

But you should care.  Because to not recognize, say, the physics of story pacing in your novel is to leave that essential quality up for grabs. 

Name your field of endeavor, you’ll find that these three realms or essences apply in some form in evidence: the physics that govern it all… the search for effective application… refinement .  That the last one is what separates the successful from the masses who apply the same set of physics and tools.

Notice, however, that the reverse isn’t true. 

Form over function may work in interior design, but its a deal killer in storytelling.

It is literary physics… discovered and pro-actively applied with a set of tools used in the search for story… that provide function for the layer of paint that is the sum of your words.

Stay tuned… I’ll go over the three realms of the storytelling experience in my next post.

A mindset is a beautiful, powerful thing once ridded of limiting beliefs. 

A Deeper, Richer Understanding of Craft is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

“Nobody knows anything.”

- William Goldman, Oscar-winning screenwriter and novelist

You are a writer.  Which means you will hear the word “no.” 

Frequently.  Cruelly.  Usually without explanation.  Often without reason.

They will tell you no.  And it will suck.

You may not hear anything at all.  When that happens… it means no.

You are left to interpret the word “no.”  To assign meaning.  And this is the great abyss of writing.  It has a slippery slope at its precipice.  Once you fall into it, everything gets harder.  You become part of the problem.  The bottom of the pit is littered with the dreams of genuinely talented writers who heard and believed the word “no.”

But here’s the thing.  When it comes to writing, “no” doesn’t mean “no” at all.

It means, “I don’t know.”

Even if they tell you what’s behind their “no,” they still don’t know.  The wise writer listens, filters, applies, and moves on.

“I don’t know” is truer than “no.”  It means more to you than “no.”

No is a lie.  I don’t know is the absolute, take-it-to-the-bank truth.

And that, dear writer friends, it what sustains us when the abyss calls our name.

Martha’s Story

A friend of mine named Martha had a great concept for a provocative thriller, one that challenged religious paradigms and personalized our own response to the question of belief. 

Great theme.  Wonderful drama.  High tension suspense.  I loved it.  Martha loved it.

Her critique group didn’t love it.  No matter how Martha spun it for them – it was just a concept at this point – they wouldn’t gift her with an endorsement. 

They said no.

They didn’t get it.  They couldn’t see it.  And they wouldn’t be swayed by Martha’s enthusiasm for it.

And so they said no. 

Martha wrote it anyway.  Thus avoiding the abyss.

They still said no.  They didn’t get.  They couldn’t see it.  And they weren’t swayed by Martha’s execution of it.

But what they said really meant was this: they didn’t know.  Either at the pitch stage, or the manuscript stage.  They just didn’t know.

Martha recently pitched this story to a handful of agents at a writing conference.  None of them said no.  What they did say was: send us more.

Here’s the irony.  The agents don’t know, either.  The publishers they submit your work to won’t know. 

Nobody knows anything.

Which is why, in this context, “no” means nothing other than I don’t know. 

Because if what you’re writing is solid, if it meets the criteria for solid story architecture and dramatic resonance leading to thematic impact, someone along the path will say something other than “no.”

Getting them to do that is your job.  Recognizing it when they see it is their job.  And both jobs are as imprecise and subjective as any work on the planet.

You’re working to find that one person who counts who says something other than no.

Larry’s Story

Bef0re I sold my first novel I was a struggling screenwriter.  I’d had an agent for nine years, and we’d had a couple of options and some success in the Nicholl Screenwriting Fellowship competition, which hatches the occasional produced script (14 of them, in fact, like Mike Rich’s Finding Forrester, and, less frequently, a handful of viable careers… especially Mike Rich’s).

I wanted to turn one of my scripts into a novel.  My agent said no.

I started it anyway.  My agent said no again.

I finished the adaptation.  My agent said “hmmm.”  Totally forgot that she’d said no, but that’s fine, this isn’t about that.

She submitted the draft to four publishers.   Three said no.

One said yes.

That publisher (Penguin-Putnam) threw some national advertising at it and propelled Darkness Bound onto the USA Today bestseller list for three weeks.  A couple of hundred thousand copies and an open door for more novels going forward. 

All leading toward a website called Storyfix and the book that it would become.

No meant I don’t know.

Even the publisher who said yes didn’t know.  That’s the game we’re stuck with, this isn’t a sport in which an object either goes into the goal or it doesn’t.

Yes means: I think I know. 

They’re not always right.  But that’s the best we’ll get.  Because once we hear yes, we’re pretty much done.  What comes next has almost nothing to do with us.

We’ve reached the goal.  The ball (or puck, your call) went into the net (or out of the park) this time.

Nobody knows anything when it comes to deciding which book is good, which will find a market, and which won’t.  William Goldman said it first, and he’s right. 

At least, at the level at which this game is played.  Some manuscripts scream “amateur” so loudly you might as well stamp it on your cover page.  That’s what this site is all about – avoiding that particular abyss.

Once your story and your execution is at a certain level… nobody knows.

And most of the time, because it’s their business, they say “no” instead of “I don’t know.”  Saying “I don’t know” is career suicide for agents and editors.  And so they say “no” instead.

Even when they think they know, they are often wrong. 

Three of the editors who rejected Darkness Bound were wrong.  One — the one who published it – wasn’t wrong.

Harry Potter was rejected nine times.  The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance was rejected 104 times.  Stephen King’s Carrie was rejected 30 times.  Frank Herbert’s Dune was rejected 23 times.  Gone With the Wind was rejected 38 times.  Jonathan Livingston Seagull was rejected 18 times.  Watership Down was rejected 38 times.  M*A*S*H was rejected 17 times. 

Chicken Soup for the Soul, which inspired dozens of spin-offs and more money than the White House spends on Air Force One catering, was rejected 140 times.

Those authors didn’t let no stop them. 

They understood that “no” means “I don’t know.”

But they knew.  In their heart.  In the deepest crevice of their gray matter.  These authors knew.

“Know” translates to “believe.”

The Only Way to Know

Notice how most of the books mentioned above were risky, freshly-minted concepts.  A school for magic.  A society of rabbits.  Philosophical seagulls.  Shenanigans in a military field hospital.  Thinly masked pop psychology masquerading as commerical fiction.

Our stories are always delivered on two levels, from within two realms: the conceptual and the executional.  (Don’t look that last word up, I take great liberties here… but you get my drift.)

The first can seduce you.  The second will never betray you.

If your belief in your story – if knowing – is based on the appeal of your idea, and little else, then you will hear “no” until you wake up and smell the embalming fluid.

What begets belief most is an understanding and practice of craft, of storytelling principles and criteria.

Your heart will tell you if the soul of your story is a winner.  But it’s your mind that knows.  Because this is where craft resides.  In your inner story architect, your inner fiction engineer.

The heart and the mind can yield a product that exceeds the sum of the parts.  Make sure you employ both in your storytelling.

Will craft guarantee success?  No.

Ah, there it is again.

But in this context, no doesn’t mean I don’t know.  Because nothing guarantees anything in this business, unless your name is already on the A-list.

But it – craft – is your only shot.  That much is certain.

Craft is what turns no into I don’t know when you hear it.  Once spoken, they are speaking the truth: they really don’t know.

But you do know.  The author is always the first to know.  This is what keeps them from slipping into that dark abyss.

It is craft that allows you to know.  And knowing is the imperative magic bullet of getting published.

Don’t submit your work until you know.

Learn more about story architecture here and here. 

My new book on the subject comes out February from Writers Digest Books, see more about it here.

Know what “No” Really Means is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Before we get into that…

I’d like to invite you all to visit “Conquer All Obstacles,” a wonderful website created by a writer’s writer and promotions expert, Jo-Anne Vandermeulen.  She was gracious enough to allow me to guest blog on her site yesterday (Thursday, July 2) and I hope you’ll visit and see what this site has to offer.  And, what I have to say.

Also, J0-Anne’s new novel of the same name is coming out, let’s all find it and buy it, she deserves an audience.

Click HERE to go to Conquer All Obstacles… but be sure to come back!  I’m just getting started.

For all my new visitors, the following post is one of my earliest, and therefore probably one you haven’t come across yet.  It’ll give you a flavor of what Storyfix.com is about, and just how serious I am about helping writers achieve their dreams.

REPRISE: WHAT ARE MY ODDS OF GETTING PUBLISHED?

At the risk of being a buzz kill, let’s get real.  The reason for doing so is to make you understand just how high the bar is in the publishing world, and just how deeply you 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.  This violates a law of the universe — you have to scratch and claw your way to the top.

This blog is for people who want their writing dream fulfilled that badly.

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. More realistically, in 2.5 words, almost non-existent. 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 our hope: we 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, sitting in a writing workshop 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.

And that’s what this blog is all about. About packaging and delivering the nuts and bolts of that craft.  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 hug me when they hear this — 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.

I invite you to stick around. That is, if you really want to navigate the complexities of developing and writing publishable stories to that place on the other side, where simplicity really does reside.

Reprise: What Are My Odds of Getting Published? is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

This from a guy whose first book had a tied-up woman on the cover. I should know, right?  (See my books page if you’re curious… and I bet you are.)

Actually, that cover — not my idea — has caused me as many headaches as it has book sales. But that’s another blog.

Most of us are drawn to writing with something that comes easy and something that doesn’t. More than a few of us find writing fancy sentences an easy labor of self-absorbed love (sometimes so much so that we have to back off our eloquence to dim the purple in our prose) and some of us are naturals at creating great characters right out of the chute, too.

Me? Not so much. I’m a plot guy, and the crafting of deep, resonant and compelling characters, the kind that excite reviewers and elevate the work to something worthy of a dust jacket, has been something I have to work at. Still do.

There’s more stuff written about characterization than any other aspect of storytelling, and it continues to elude a lot of writers because, unlike structure, there’s no template or format for a great character. But…

… there is a checklist. And a good checklist shall set you free.

Before I offer up that checklist — each entry of which is fodder for an entire workshop or book — allow me to share my favorite tip about writing great characters. More of a warning, really, since this is the most frequent abuse of characters found among new and unpublished writers, and a few published ones:

Don’t confuse personality with character. Personality — or quirks — is only one of the items on that checklist, and yet for some it becomes the alpha and the omega of characterization. A quirk-heavy character without corresponding depth is what reviewers and high school creative writing teachers call flat or one-dimensional. And what editors call “pass.”

Think Jerry Seinfeld in his fabled television sit-com, which was self-admittedly about nothing at all. One dimension — funny. Now think Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye. Also funny, but much, much deeper. Immortally so, as it turns out.

From a character-evaluation standpoint it doesn’t matter what they wear or like to eat or if they chew gum or bite their nails or sit with their knees too far apart. Those are all just quirks.

Other quirks can be more telling and therefore valuable — like whether or not they shower, if they’re good tippers of not, if they’re litter bugs, etc. These are issues that connect to deeper roots, and therefore are something more than quirks designed to amuse or differentiate. Rule of thumb: a quirk is not an indicator of character, it just is; if quirky habits and values link to something deeper and connect to the story, then it’s of value.

What does matter when it comes to characterization is the nature and depth of their values, their integrity or the lack thereof, their decisions under fire, their actions despite their darker urges, what they say versus what they mean, their relationship with the truth, their dreams, their courage, their kindness, the way they love, or not. In other words, their “character” as a human being.

My favorite non-literary example to make this literary point clear is a fellow named Bill Clinton. Brilliant. A true public servant. Funny. Eloquent. Nice hair. But what was his relationship with the truth, even when that truth was accountable to the entire American public? Where was his integrity when Monica wanted to play Hide The Cigar? What were his values when it came to his marriage? Just who was this guy?

Say what you will about Bill, he was complex and compelling. He stirred it up. Like him or hate him, there’s little doubt that he would go to the ends of the earth to defend his country and our way of life. Heroic in one sense — even if he’s a bit cloudy about the definition of the word is — very human in another.

If Bill Clinton was a character in a book, he’d be interesting.

Here’s that checklist about great characters. Much more on each in future posts.

What is your character’s backstory, the experiences that programmed how they think and feel and act today? What is their inner demon, and how does it influence decisions and actions in the face of the outer demon you are about to throw at them? What is the character’s arc, how do they change and grow over the course of the story, and how to they apply that learning toward become the catalytic force that drives the denouement of the story?

There’s more, but those are the basics. And they’re a whole lot deeper than a few quirks and a great sense of humor.

As for faster and harder… well, these, too, are products of all of the above. Just ask Bill.

Great Characters Go Faster Deeper Harder is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

I used to love Elance.  I want to love them again.  Don’t know if it’s the economy or if somebody’s asleep at the wheel over there.  I’ve made over fifty grand on Elance in the last two years, writing all kinds of stuff for clients around the world, and while it was always bluecollar writing with absolutely no glory (as in, no bylines) — hey, that’s the definition of freelance writing, isn’t it? — it’s all gone to hell in the proverbial handbasket.

If you aren’t familiar with Elance — and if you’re a blogger you should be, because there’s work there — it’s the eBay of online writing gigs.  People from around the world who need to hire writers post projects there, and then writers bid on them, backed by a proposal, samples, and an infrastructure that provides user ratings and feedback, categorization and full-service money exchange and conflict resolution.  On paper it’s perfect, and for a while it was the answer to any writer’s dream of actually writing for money.  And while all that’s still in play, Elance has turned into the garage sale farmers market art fair marketplace of cheap writing.  (Note: writing is only one of several skills auctioned off on Elance; some rocket scientist decided to categorically pair it with “translation” , so you’ll be working in the “Writing and Translation” category, which in street terms is like working in the “Tax preparation and car tune-up” category.)

Here’s what’s wrong with Elance lately.  Because the posting and bidding process is largely unregulated (the only rule is that buyers can’t ask for free work, though the point here is that they might as well be), the economy — combined with large does of greed, desperation and utter cluelessness — has driven rates for writing services down well below minimum wage.  When a buyer posts a project they declare a budget range, and about 80 percent of the time buyers select a bidder at the lower end of it.  If the range was reasonable that would be fair, but here’s the shitty reality: they want entire books written for $500… they want twenty articles delivered for $50… they want an entire web page written for $75… they want 1000 articles written for, again, $500.  I’ve seen all that, and worse.  Much worse.  Somewhere Robert Bly (look him up) is being fitted for a noose in his garage.

Here’s an example project I saw this week.  Some buyer — and they truly come from around the world; if you read the postings, at least half are obviously prepared by English-as-a-distant-second-language self-proclaimed newbie entrepreneur — is asking for 850 articles of 550 words each.  His budget range is $500 to $1000.  Do the math.  Then get angry.  That’s less than a buck an article, up to slightly more than a buck an article.  But forget the slightly more option, because somebody, somewhere (think India), will actually bid $500, or even lower, and no matter how strongly you pitch your credentials, the buyer will more than likely select the lowest bidder.  Almost always.  If you can write four of those things in an hour — and if you can, then you’re a real pro, or just the opposite — that’s a working wage of four bucks an hour.  When you apply this same formula to the guy who wants a 50,000 word book for $500 — one that won’t have your name on the cover, by the way — the math is even worse.

The economy isn’t Elance’s fault.  What is their fault is that they have no quality standards in place, or even a standard of fair play and equity.  You’d think they would understand and honor the value of professional writing, and when they support highway robbery and insulting pricing they show that they obviously don’t.  And why should they, the site still posts about 15,000 new projects monthly, on which they get 7.5 percent of the action, in addition to the very reasonable membership fees.

Bit of a rant, I admit.  And I don’t really have an agenda, other than fair warning and a sad lament.  My Elance user name is Wryterman – check my client feedback and my numbers, and you’ll see that I’ve been there and know what I’m talking about.

And if you’re a blogger, know this: more than ever we must cling to our values and self esteem as writers who deliver value.  And as for “free” writing, doing this is far more rewarding that what Elance is schlepping these days.

Why Elance Sucks Lately is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Nearly everyone who writes has one thing in common: we do it because we love it. But one of the dark little secrets of the avocation is that the more you do it for money, the less you do it for love. Writing becomes work, and while it’s perfectly normal to love your work, it’s just not the same as those days when you wondered what it would be like to open an envelope with a check in it because of something you’ve written. Many writers consider writing professionally to be the ultimate dream, a fantasy career, a nearly unattainable vision that becomes as much about the process as the goal. But the truth is, those of us who write for money aren’t necessary any better at it than you are. But then, deep in your ambitious little heart, you already knew that.

Newsflash: if, at a minimum, you can cobble together a coherent sentence, you can get paid for your writing. In fact, if you have an extra half hour later, you can throw the switch and actually land a paying writing gig today. I kid you not.

The market for professional writing looks nothing like it did as little as five years ago. The internet has changed everything – you no longer look for a job in the newspaper, you go online… you no longer advertise your old fridge in the want ads, you post on Craigslist or eBay… you no longer use a travel agent, you book your trip yourself on line… an so forth – and this is just as true about freelance writing. In fact, in much the same way that eBay auctions off everything from used shoes to used celebrity chewing gum, there are websites out there that post available writing jobs – and I’m talking everything from a simple tagline to articles to promotional material to ghostwritten novels and screenplays – upon which writers, any writer, can place a bid. These sites are turn-key: you read the job postings, you place a proposal and your bid, you submit samples, a bidder is selected by the buyer and an agreement and schedule are agreed upon, you deliver your drafts, you exchange feedback and finally finish the job (the good news is that these buyers are usually less than sophisticated and your first draft will usually make them happy), you submit your invoice, the buyer pays you, you collect the cash… all of it online.

While I’ve been writing my novels and, more lately, waxing eloquent about writing here on this blog, I’ve made over fifty grand doing what I’ve just described, all part-time over the past two years.

The best site for this is Elance.com, sort of the eBay of online services. Writing is one of eight skill categories available, and there’s a small membership fee you’ll need to pony up before you can place a bid. If making a few bucks from your writing is something you never thought was available to you, I urge you to check out Elance and see just how deep and wide the available job pool is – they post about 15,000 new jobs each month – and how unintimidating the competition for that work really is. Like I said, if you can write a decent sentence, you’ll be in the top quartile of professionalism among these bidders, and you’ll have a shot.

Check back for more about Elance, because there is definitely a learning curve and I’m delighted to share it with you. If you can’t wait, email me (storyfixer@gmail.com) and I’ll help you. By the way, my user name on Elance is Wryterman, and you can check out my track record there, just in case you think this is all hot air.

No more excuses. If you’re saying “show me the money,” I just did.

Show me the money: how to get paid for your writing… beginning today! is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

© 2007, The Oregonian

Once you write the best book you can write – and that’s the point of all these workshops – what happens to it is almost completely out of your control.

Here’s the deal. Let’s resort to analogy to make this perfectly clear. Writing fiction is like any other avocation that can be undertaken by anyone, anytime. There are those at the top of the field who succeed wildly and get rich and famous – hence, the aforementioned Chuck Palahnuik – and there are those who, no matter how hard they labor, will be forever scanning the ads of the Publish-On-Demand outfits that will print your book for a fee that requires you to sell a paperback for fifteen bucks to make a couple for yourself. It’s a lot like golf (see my first and second blogs on this site). Many people play the game – about as many as those who aspire to write a novel, in fact – some better than others. But the bad ones keep playing, they take lessons, and they still manage to enjoy a game that offers them absolutely no future. It’s all about the experience, the sense of joy that comes with just being out there. Ask yourself how many of the folks waiting in line at the first tee on Saturday morning have a serious intention of turning pro at the game? To make their living at it, even to become rich and famous at it? Answer: zip. And yet, thousands upon thousand of writers pay to sit in writing workshops with partially-finished manuscripts in their backpacks, and each and every one of them intends to turn pro, to publish, and in the most secret place of their heart’s desire, to get rich and famous doing so.

I said this at that keynote that almost caused a mob riot, and I’ll say it again here: you can fit the number of rich and famous authors from the Northwest (where I live) into a booth at Denny’s. And a couple of those are dead.

If this is true, then, why do all these nice folks keep coming back to the conferences and workshops and symposiums that promise to show them how to do the very thing that the odds say is next to impossible? And why do they keep asking me to come back and teach them how to make their writing dreams a reality?

I think I know the answer. It’s the same thing that keeps me at the computer late at night, trying to get my work back into the bookstore. It’s the very essence of passion, the stuff of fantasy and the currency of actually being fully alive. It’s called hope. Hope fuels the writer who continues to seek the holy grail of publication. And to them I say, hang in there. Set the bar high, because we, your teachers, can’t really tell you how high it needs to be or we’ll get thrown back into the parking lot. Keep coming to the workshops, keep learning, and most of all keep writing. Because in the end, I’ve also figured out why they keep asking me back. It’s as simple as this, and as true: if it can happen to me, and it did, it can happen to you, too.

And if you hang here with me long enough, it just might.

Writing the Best Book You Can Write is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

© 2007, The Oregonian

I wrote and published four paperback originals from the year 2000 to 2004 (this after six unpublished manuscripts dating back to the Jimmy Carter era… I was truly an overnight success). With this class of books – some call them beach trash, others call them grocery store books; I call them a career — which in the business of bookselling are like B-movies, they appear, they have their run and then they go away, fated to the occasional spotting in a used bookstore. At the core of my dirty little secret is the fact that my publisher, Signet, threw me under the literary bus after three singles and a double in a game of home run derby, critically-praised all, and despite two new manuscripts and a new agent, I’m still out there on the streets schlepping, right alongside the very people who have paid to listen to me teach them how to break into the business.

This is like David Hasselhoff telling a group of fourth-year drama majors how to audition for a Mamet play. He’s been produced on stage and screen – the equivalent of being published – so they’ll listen. And I do know how to write a book that works, that much is not in dispute. It’s just that the shelf-life of my caché to keeping doing it is getting a little thin. At least until my next book comes out. Until, my fifteen minutes endures more as a teacher of writing than as a practitioner.

When I broke in, both as a published novelist and as a writing workshop teacher, there was another instructor on the local scene named James Frey who had a reputation as the Leona Helmsly of aspiring authors, someone with the wit and demeanor of Dick Cheney and the sensitivity of Simon Cowell when it came to giving feedback. At first I was aghast when I heard stories of his cruelty… how could anyone rain on this parade of ambition and burgeoning talent, how could he crush their James Patterson dreams with his insensitive casting of their work into the abyss of the proverbial wannabe slush pile? But I get it now. Not that I approve – I don’t, I still believe that anyone willing to take on the daunting task of writing a novel or screenplay deserves the same respect as someone who, say, wants to erase world hunger – but I do understand the frustration. Because no matter how hard we pound the fundamentals of structure and character and theme into their neophyte literary sensibilities, no matter how clearly we spell it out and urge them to dig deeper into the darkness of their own experience to bring blood and tears to the page, we still get – let’s be real here – drivel in return, and we still get asked when our next book is coming out while we’re at it.

The drivel keeps coming not because they don’t try, but because writing a good novel, one good enough to publish, is incredibly, unthinkably, hard.

That said, the key to getting published is simple. Write something completely fresh and original, not derivative of what you think might sell. Understand the basic criteria of the game, they are inviolate. Don’t listen to anyone who says it’s either good or bad. Just keep writing. And for God’s sake, try to find a way to enjoy yourself as you do.

Getting Published. Really. is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

© 2007, The Oregonian

Deep in the black heart of every writing workshop instructor resides a dirty little secret: we are praying that no one asks when our next book is coming out. We keep talking and sounding oh-so-enlightened so no one will ask this question. Because while getting published was what got us up here in front of these people, all of whom see themselves as the next Chuck Palahnuik or Mike Rich, we know something they don’t, something we don’t dare speak aloud: these days it’s harder to stay published than it is to get published.

And getting published is about as likely as a fifty-something ex-jock getting hired-on at Nike to write shoe copy. Believe me, I’ve tried both, and I’ve only succeeded at the former. Ask anyone who’s been there, it’s absolutely true. More writers are losing their contracts every year than there are writers who are getting their first shot at it.

There are a few names in town more famous for their repeated appearances at writing conferences, workshops and the occasional keynote than for their books, and I’m one of them. I’ve been pontificating on structural paradigms for the Oregon Writers Colony long before any of my four novels were published, long before I knew how to spell or pronounce the word “paradigm,” and long after anyone remembers that my humble books were more critically-successful than they were commercially enduring. And for the past few years the folks at a variety of writers’ conferences have indulged an apparent penchant for nostalgia by inviting me back to teach, including a keynote at one conference that nearly got me lynched for speaking The Truth about the business of writing fiction for money. Because The Truth isn’t the point.

The truth about getting published, you see, is a paradox of vast proportions. Every author who has lived to see their name on a book cover knows that the real joy of it isn’t in the book signings (try being introduced to forty empty chairs sometime, see how you like it), or the advance checks (okay, that was nice while it lasted, which wasn’t long) or the way unpublished writers look at you, like you know something they don’t. Which is true – we know that at the end of the day the reward of it all is found in the process of writing stories, not selling them. In the very thing that got you hooked in the first place. Writing is like that old joke about prostitution: first you do it for love, then you do it for a few friends, and finally you do it for the money.

Getting Published versus Staying Published is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com