Author: admin

If you are a writer, there is a good chance you work at home. You probably have your workspace set up and you do your best to write as much as you can. Right?

Not so much. When people know that you work at home, they think that means you are endlessly available. So while you are struggling with getting just the right word for a complex sentence, they think nothing of dropping by to ask about the replacement part for your vacuum cleaner. I never want to talk about vacuum cleaners in the best of times, and certainly not when I’m working.

You could be working diligently, filling up those pages, but it’s going to be hard if you are constantly interrupted. The phone rings. It’s your child’s school asking you to bring snack the next day. A text pops up. The bank is letting you know about a wire transfer. Your sister-in-law wants to know if her anniversary party should be next weekend or the weekend after.
What do all these things have in common?

They are not important when you are working and they are irritating. And ALL of them can wait.

How do you get around this?

Simple. Have set working hours, just like people who work in an office. You work in an office too, even if that office is your kitchen, and you want your work time to be respected. How to resolve this?

Stick to your work hours and demand that everyone else stick to them too. Put your phone in the other room so that you won’t be bothered by it. Out of sight, out of mind. If someone knocks on your door, either don’t answer it or tell them politely but firmly that you are working and cannot be disturbed.

I once had an author who used an answering machine. When people called, this is what they heard: “Hi, this is Martha. I’m writing right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll call you right back.” Click. That was it. She demanded respect for her work, and she got it.

Your work time is your work time. Period. Even if you throw out everything you wrote that day, it is still your work and it’s as important as anyone else’s work. Writing is isolating, and it’s hard. It requires serious concentration. Sometimes it is very challenging.

Would you call your spouse, who is a surgeon, in the middle of a difficult operation to ask where the can opener is? No, you wouldn’t. Maybe your spouse is saving a life, and that’s more important. But writing may be saving your life. Isn’t that important too?

If you have written a science fiction romantic thriller, you may have written a hot mess. Publishing falls into different types of books. Ask yourself which area in the bookstore your book will be shelved. If you don’t know, the publisher won’t know either. That’s how it works. You have to know. Study that area, read a lot of books in that area, and know exactly what you’re going for. This can be less true if you write something literary, but even that has to have some kind of draw. There is such a thing as a literary thriller, a literary science fiction novel, and a literary romance (calling all Brontes). But when you mash them all together, it can become a problem. If they don’t know what to call it, they don’t know how to publish it. Why can’t it just be a good novel? Well, it can, if you are really good. But short of that, you’re a lot better off if you know what to call it. Or maybe you wrote something brilliant that crosses boundaries, challenges the old school, and breaks new ground. That’s great and maybe you’ll start a new trend. But in general, know where your book fits into the market. Imagine that you are the publisher. How are you going to publish this book? Is it just “fiction”? Then it might get lost, unless it is brilliant. Brilliance occurs and we all welcome it. There is always a place for excellent writing, clever plots, relatable characters, and vibrant settings. But go easy on yourself.

What is a plot? You think you know what a plot is, but chances are you don’t. I say that because I have seen plenty of good writers who can write wonderful characters, evocative settings, use gorgeous language, and write according to what the market demands. Just one teeny problem. They forget to include an actual plot.

Here is what a plot is not:

It’s not a series of episodes. Episodes do not add up to anything in particular. It’s like a situation comedy that is just that–a situation. Every week they come up with a plot against the situation as a backdrop.

It’s not and then she did this and then she did that. That’s not a plot, it’s a journal.

It’s not the true story of something that actually happened. That’s a biography. If you write about someone who really lived and their life isn’t that interesting because they are never challenged or have something at stake, you don’t have a plot. I once read a novel about the wife of Daniel Boone. It seemed to be a good subject, but then I realized that Mrs. Boone had a dull life. She spend much of it waiting for her husband to appear. He was away for months or years at a time, exploring things. Maybe HE had a plot, but she did not.

Any of those things could be the germ of a plot, if they added one all-important ingredient that will keep us turning those pages. If Mrs. Boone’s life had been beset by a serious challenge–say the man who lives next door is always trying to worm his way into her life and she’s not interested. He wants something she doesn’t want to give.

Let me put it this way.

Let’s say you have a story comprised of scenes or episodes about a mother and son who escape the Nazis during WWII. They go through all kinds of hell–hiding, running, escaping. That is dramatic and real, but it’s episodic. We’re going from one episode to another. But then they become separated and we don’t know how they will survive or if they will ever see each other again. When you add that element, you suddenly have the missing piece—a plot! Now we have something to worry about other than their general survival. No matter how much you may veer into other stories, the overarching story is will they or won’t they ever find each other. Without that question, you have a series of unrelated scenes about what happens to them along the way. Which would you rather read—the unrelated scenes or the one with a plot?

When you apply this principle to just about anything, you have a real story with a real plot. You have a dramatic question that needs to be answered. It doesn’t have to be anything big. It can be will Susie get a date to the prom. It can be will Ted make it on time to an all-important job interview. It can be will the ant succeed in getting the crumb into the anthole. It can be will the atom merge with another atom to form a molecule. I could go on and on. Make us care. Make us wonder. Make us wait.

This technique is called “tension” or “conflict”. Something has to be at stake. A story without tension is not a story. It’s a ramble.

A good storyteller understands these tools and uses them wisely. It comes more naturally to some than to others, but the good news is that it can be learned. Not right away and not all at once, but if you apply yourself to the craft, it will happen.

Sometimes people lie. They do it right to your face. Writers are not immune to this. Here’s a story about that.

One Monday morning, an author called in distress. She had just returned from a writers conference and had learned that another author had gotten a $2 million contract. The other author was no better than her. Why should that author get that kind of money?? What was she doing wrong? Let me reproduce the conversation:

Me: How do you know she got a $2 million contract?

Her: She said so. She was giving a talk and she mentioned her new $2 million contract.

Me: How many books are on the contract? It could be a lot of books.

Her: I don’t know.

Me: I see. Then how do you know she got that much?

Her: She said so. In front of people. I know her. She’s a nice person. And we have the same publisher.

Me: Have her sales spiked recently? Do you know what her numbers are?

Her: No.

Me: Then how do you know?

Her: She said so!

Me: And everyone believed her.

Silence.

Me: I’ve got an idea. Let me call you back.

We got off the phone. I called my author’s editor. I told her the story. “So and so just got back from a conference and she said that Other So and So got a $2 million contract. Is that true?”

Now, normally, I wouldn’t ask such a question and the editor would not be likely to share that kind of information. But this was so over the top that I felt comfortable doing it. I felt comfortable because I knew that both authors were in the same range sales-wise, and it just didn’t make sense. Because they had the same publisher and wrote in the same genre, the editor would know how they were both selling. What did the editor say?

Well, when she stopped laughing hysterically, she said of course that was not true. She howled “I wish!”

I called my author back and told her I had checked with the publisher and the $2 million claim was not true.

The author was incredulous. “You mean she—she lied?”

Me: That’s about the size of it. The editor thought it was pretty funny, though.

I was glad that I was able to shut that one down quickly. Agents know to brace themselves the Monday morning after a conference because of what their authors might have heard or experienced. There is often a fire that needs to be put out.

What can we learn from this story?

Lying is wrong. But you knew that. Everyone knows that. And yet people do it anyway. They do it all the time. But why is lying bad?

Because it wastes time. The truth is bound to come out, especially in a small business like publishing, and then you will never be trusted. Because it belittles both parties. When someone lies to you and you find out, how does it make you feel? You feel betrayed. That is not the basis of a good relationship.

Why did that author lie, and what did she think it would accomplish? I guess she thought it would make her sound like a big shot. But she was too easily found out and she looked like a fool.

The funny thing about this is that both authors did eventually get to a place where they were worth 7 figures. And I was happy for the one who lied. She was actually a nice lady who made a very foolish mistake. But I always knew. That was a long time ago, and I’m still remembering it today.

 

After doing this work for as long as I have, I can sniff the good ones a mile away. It starts with the quality of the writing. I can tell that in the first sentence. Also, does the opening grab me? Even if it’s not technically perfect, do I want to keep reading?

Example:

1. “Where’s Janie?” Mom looked up and down the beach, shielding her eyes with her hand as the waves crashed to the shore. “She was here just a second ago.”
2. Mom and Janie and Teddy and I were all at the beach. The sun was shining and we were thinking about going into the water.

Which of these openings is better? Example A gives us something to worry about. Example B does not.

It’s really that simple. Experienced agents and editors can usually find out all they need to know from the first page alone. We will keep reading until we know for sure, and that doesn’t take long.

If I encounter a silly spelling mistake or a serious grammatical error on the first page, I am likely to go right to Delete. If you can’t produce a manuscript without mechanical errors, you’re not going to get very far. Check out: “Please read my memoir about pie polar disorder.”

Most manuscripts do not hook me from the start. That’s never a good sign. A good writer can start with a description of a valley or someone’s face and make it interesting and absorbing. But most writers don’t know how to do that. Don’t think you have to start with someone jumping out of an airplane to create tension. It can be any little thing, as long as we want to know more.

The average time I spend on any manuscript is about one minute. If I spent more, I wouldn’t have time for anything else. The good ones tend to jump right off the page, and that’s what I’m looking for.