Optimistic Endings

“I wouldn’t want to be one of your characters,” my wife said, as we were discussing one of my stories.  At first I was a little indignant.  I likemy characters.  If I didn’t like them, I wouldn’t write them.

Then she lifted up her hand and started ticking off her fingers.  “One—memories stolen.  Two—on the run.  Three—dead.  Four—arrested.  Five—dead.”  I stopped her there, she had made her point.
Last week I wrote about making characters sympathetic by putting them in pain (one technique).  But it’s how the reader leaves the characters at the end of their journey that makes them memorable.  As you can probably tell by my wife’s list, the characters I tend to like the most, aren’t the ones that live happily ever after.  This is actually a reader bias on my part.  I think there are poignant points to be highlighted and made not by what happens, but by what could and doesn’t happen, letting the reader fill in their own commentary.
But more than one market, more than one editor has said they’re swamped with these kinds of stories and they’re looking for not necessarily happy-ever-after endings, but more optimistic endings.  My goal is to become a better writer and sell commercial fiction, so I adjusted my stories to accommodate more optimistic endings.  After all, each story is just practice for the next one, so I decided to practice optimistic endings for a bit—with mixed results.  But I’m having a blast writing them.
I’m not sure if my wife would want to be one of my characters now, but at least she’s not ticking off her fingers anymore.

Making Characters Sympathetic

One of bedrocks of creating memorable characters is to make them sympathetic.  After all, not many readers want to spend time with characters they can’t stand.  The easiest ways to generate sympathetic characters is to show them in pain, show them doing something heroic, and/or show other characters admiring them.  In general, creating sympathetic characters isn’t something that requires conscious thought on the author’s part.  If the author wants to spend time with that character, writing their story, then generally readers will as well.

Occasionally though, we come across characters that require more effort to get the reader to sympathize–think Sherlock Holmes and Watson.  Those stories wouldn’t work from Sherlock’s point-of-view, he’s an egotist that loves to lord it over others.  So Sir Author Conan Doyle chose Watson as the everyman and more sympathetic character.
Recently, I ran into this problem with a main protagonist.  I wrote the first scene and thought eww, I hate being in this character’s head.  And like Sir Author Conan Doyle, I began thinking about different point-of-views to tell the story.  Ultimately, I decided that no, that character’s point-of-view was the right one.  But I still had this problem.
My solution was to start the story in a different place to show the character being sympathetic, in pain and being heroic.  There’s a reason the reboot of the Star Trek franchise first shows Kirk as a kid stealing a car.  As a kid, there’s an innocence there coupled with the pain of loss of his biological father.  We laugh because we know it’s a foreshadowing of his swagger and that he’s a kid (would we have laughed if he was an adult?  I doubt it).  The next time we see Kirk he’s in a bar and soon in an impossible fight, not backing down—again foreshadowing his heroic nature.  Finally, that sequence ends with Captain Pike admiring him, which firmly plants Kirk as a sympathetic character for the audience—even though he’s cocky and a womanizer.  If they started the story with him in the academy, the audience wouldn’t have likely reacted as favorably to him.
Making characters sympathetic is a key component to storytelling.  If, as a writer, you find your character unpleasant to spend time with a different point-of-view or starting the story in a different place may do the trick.

Just Practice

Writers of the Future (WotF) results for the fourth quarter of volume thirty started coming out around Halloween, a full six weeks before anyone’s most optimist guess.  Earlier this week, I learned the fate of my submission in the second wave of notifications: flat reject. 

WotF is one of my primary markets that I study and write stories specifically for.  It was my fifth entry and when I finished writing it, I felt as if I written a winner.  My beta readers independently echoed my sentiments.  In fact, when I learned about the rejection, I wasn’t upset or even disappointed: I was confused.  And then I realized the trap I had fallen into.
I made the mistake of thinking this entry represented the culmination of all my skill, voice, and vision.  Culmination is the key word there.  Culmination represents a peak, an ending.  The mistake I made was forgetting that this is a journey, that each story is just practice for the next one.  By viewing the story as a culmination, when the rejection came, I felt (after the confusion passed) as if that’s it, I gave it the best I had and it didn’t measure up.  Such a thought naturally leads to more dangerous thoughts of giving up.
But that really isn’t an option for me.  I cannot, not write.  If I go for more than a day or two without writing, I start to get twitchy and grumpy.  The disappointment of quarter four is already passed and I’m writing the quarter one entry for volume thirty-one right now.  And this time, I remembering it’s just practice.

The case against word count goals

Last week, I wrote about developing a writing routine and how that helps increase both the speed at which a story is written and the number of stories written.  A very natural companion topic to this is word count goals.

In any career, it is important to be able to measure progress.  This helps with a feeling of accomplishment, accountability, and lets one know when one as strayed from one’s goals.  Many writers use word count goals in this capacity.  They often come in the form of yearly goals that are then broken down into smaller units, finally ending up at a word count goal per writing session.
I tried this, this past year and ultimately decided such an approach was bad for me.  I know many writers where this strategy works, which is why I tried it.  But I found it sucked all the fun out of writing for me.  I was more consumed with the word count, then the story.  And if I didn’t meet the word count goal, I felt bad and if I did, I felt like: “Great, I have to go through this again tomorrow.”  Then I noticed a curious effect: I would subconsciously use the word count goal as a reason to notwrite.  As soon as I hit the goal, more often than naught, I’d stop writing, using it as an excuse to stop.
I recently wrote a novella using this word count approach, but the process just wasn’t fun for me (I love the story though, now that it’s done).  I’ve hit writing funks before, so I thought it might just be that one story.  I dutifully finished it and started a project I had been really excited about.  Again, I used word count goals.  I wrote the opening (usually my favorite part to write) and it still wasn’t fun.  I began to get seriously concerned that writing had run its course in my life.
Worried that I might stop writing, I went back to the stories that I loved to write and tried to think through why I loved to write them and the process involved in their creation.  I’m sure you can guess at this point what they all had in common.  Yup, no word count goals.  Instead, my goals were by scenes or plot points.  This allowed me to have writing sessions where I didn’t actually write any prose, but flushed out an outline, did research, wrote character profiles and still felt like I made progress.
I’ve definitely thrown out using word counts per writing session.  I haven’t yet decided on whether a yearly goal would be good thing for me or not.  I think I’m leaning toward a goal of number of new stories written over a word count goal.  Either way, writing is fun again.  I’m glad I tried using word counts, but ultimately it’s not for me.

Developing a writing routine

When I first started writing that ill-fated first novella, I just sat down and wrote.  There was no intentionality.  I wrote when I felt like it, and because it was such a new and enjoyable experience, it wasn’t difficult at all to maintain momentum and finish it.

For close to a year and a half, I wrote this way, sitting down when I could find the time and when I felt like it.  The result was it often took me three to four months to finish a story, which at the time, I was perfectly happy with.  Then two things happened in conjunction that forced me from this mindset: a decision to get serious about writing and a baby.  When I finally made that leap to follow after a life-long dream, a different dream materialized in the form of a child.  And any parent out there can sympathize with the sudden lack of time.
My response was to institute a writing schedule.  I never have been and never will be a morning person.  It’s just not how I’m wired.  But I am at my most creative when I first wake up, rested and ready to work.  So, the only solution was to wake up before the rest of the house (approximately 4:45am) and get some writing done for an hour or two.  I have been doing this for about year and every morning is still a struggle to get out of bed.  I can get into a rhythm, but sickness, travel to different time zones, various life idiosyncrasies all kick me out of it and it’s like starting all over again.
But since developing this discipline, my production has doubled, and my story development time shortened to weeks instead of months.  I likened it to going to the gym.  Some days you’re super motivated and it’s easy to get in and get a nice workout in.  Other days, you have to drag yourself in and it’s a slog.  But both days you make progress, make a step closer to a goal.  It’s the same way with writing.  Some days it’s inspiring and words flow faster than you can type, others it’s a slog.  But at the end of the day, the reader can’t tell which sessions were which in the finished product.
One of the best things a writer can do when they become serious about their craft is set a writing routine and stick to it.  You’ll be amazed at the end of the year how much it’s helped.

Setting


I love a good setting.  It gets me invested in the story more quickly and it’s what really gets me excited to write a new story—a new, exciting setting to explore.  Now of course, what constitutes a good setting is as individual as a favorite meal.  For example, I seem to have a mental block on sparse settings (e.g. desert, moonscapes, etc.).  I read these and am almost immediately bored (it goes for movies as well).  The characters and plot have to do extra work to get me over that hump.  But that’s individual tastes for you.

It’s a problem I ran into recently when writing a novella (the length is comfortably outside the word limit of Writers of the Future so it’s okay to discuss).  It’s set on an asteroid cluster passing through space—a sparse setting.  I love the characters, the circumstances surrounding them, the plot, and the theme so I powered through writing it.  But I had to work extra hard to try and make the setting interesting to me so it would be interesting to the reader.
The setting is what almost always incites me to write the next scene, to explore.  The fun ones are near-effortless for me.  Which probably isn’t true, I just really enjoy writing setting so I don’t notice the work involved for the fun ones—that is, it’s not work.
In short, I love a good setting.

Doing What I love

In the last post I wrote a bit about how rejections suck.  How the adage “write more, submit more” does help some in the regards to the anxiety of waiting, but results in rejections coming at you rapid fire and how that can wear on a person.

The truth is there are many moments of self-doubt, disappointment, and subsequent listlessness that plague the path to becoming a professional writer.  But there are also the great moments of an acceptance, of an editor’s encouragement, or a fan reaching out to you.  Those are some serious highs when they come, particularly the last.
But there’s another kind of moment, that’s quieter, but even more powerful in my opinion.  And that’s the moment you realize that you’re doing it: you’re going after your dreams.  The outcome doesn’t matter.  You’re pursing that which fundamentally drives you, something you’ve dreamt about since you were a kid.  I may not ever reach that pinnacle of success I would like as a writer, but it won’t be for want of trying.
Perhaps because I came to writing later in life, pursued other degrees and livings along the way, I can appreciate what it is to circle back to a boyhood dream.  Appreciate that I’m able to pursue it.  Appreciate that in my twilight years, I’ll never say “If only ….”  That thought always warms me in the coldness of rejection—“Yeah, well.  I’m doing it.  I’m pursuing becoming a writer.  So bring on the rejections, I’m not going anywhere.”
Rejections do suck.  But the satisfaction of following your dreams is immeasurable.

Rejection Sucks

Getting rejected sucks.  There’s just no way around it, and the path to becoming a professional writer is littered with rejections.  And not even once that professional writer belt arrives in the mail (I so wish there was a belt—Texas buckle style) the rejections will continue to pile up.

The solution of course is to write more, keep submitting more, and this is sound advice.  Writing more helps you learn the craft, to experiment, and to grow.  Having multiple submissions out lets you forget and not fret about stories that are out for consideration—although managing those submissions can become like a game of cups and balls, except with eighteen cups and ten balls all zooming around (and don’t you dare get two balls in one cup [multiple submissions] or duplicate the same ball under two cups [simultaneous submissions]—career death will surely follow).
But what no one really talks about when you follow that advice, and you have ten, twenty, thirty submissions out, is that now the rejections come flying in, one right after another, sometimes several on the same day—minutes apart.  It’s a different experience really than when you only have one or two pieces out.
It’s the cumulative effect that wears, rather than any one rejection in particular.  Dear Market A, please consider my story—No.  Market B, I’m submitting—No.  Market C, Enclosed—No.  Market D,—No.  But I haven’t said anything—still, No.  Market—No.
I follow Heinlein’s rules.  The one relevant here is number four: You must keep it on the market until it has sold.  I chart out a submission map for every story so I can get it back on the market in less than twenty-four hours of a rejection.  It helps, but the cumulative effect can still wear on me at times.
Getting rejected sucks, but there’s just no way around it.
Note: This is actually a two part blog post.  The one next week will not nearly be so woe-is-me (every writer is entitled to one of these type posts, writers self-pitying about rejection is a cliché after all).

A Year in Review

October 1st marked the first day of the first quarter of the Writers of the Future contest and one year since I began to seriously pursue a professional writing career.  It’s often good practice in any career to look back over the year to see what progress has been made, both for a sense of accomplishment and to hopefully shed light on where to go next.

My goal before the start of the year was to 1) write six stories (four for Writers of the Future, entering every quarter) and two extra, 2) attend one craft workshop.  You’ll notice I didn’t set any goals about publications—that way lies madness.  I have no control over whether a magazine will buy my story, all I can control is my output and ensuring it’s the highest quality I can make it, so that’s what I slanted my goals toward.
My progress: I wrote 13 stories, more than twice as much as my goal.  Total new fiction word count: 100,148 words. I’m quite happy with that number (particularly since I didn’t have a solid writing routine until halfway through the year).  I attended my first workshop: The Character and Voice Workshop by Dean Wesley Smith and Kris Rusch, it was certainly the highlight of my first writing year (soooo much fun [and work]).  And I had my very first professional publication!
It was a great first year.  Based on some preliminary decisions for the following year I have decided to shift my writing year to the calendar year, instead of the Writers of the Future quarters (although I’m going to continue to entering every quarter).  So I have three months of in-between time to gear up for an even better second year.  I have yet to sit down and realistically set my second year goals, but I have a rough idea where I’m headed (in fact I’m already taking steps in anticipation for the second year, so exciting!).
It was an excellent first year.  I have no reason to suspect the second year won’t be even better.  Standby for second year goals, which I’ll roll out sometime in December.

Writing Flash Fiction

In a previous post, I made the comment “if you count flash, and I do ….”  I’d like to expand upon that.

First and foremost: flash is hard, damnhard–and absolutely delicious to read.  By its very nature, there is no room for error.  It’s a story: in under a thousand words.
Story is the key word here.  Story: a character in a setting with a problem that comes to some kind of resolution–sounds easier than it is.  A lot of flash I come across is really story fragments or a scene or a vignette, which has its place, but mostly I interpret it as a miss.  It’s not a story.
Now I can easily write a thousand words in a day.  I cannot easily write flash in a day.  Why?  It’s very difficult to conceive of a story that can be told at that length.  When I do hit upon an idea that might work at flash length, it almost always runs over a thousand words, and I have to spend time cutting.  In short stories you have more room to explore and develop characters and plot, but not so in flash.  Every sentence, every paragraph has to be doing multiple things at once for it to work—and that’s hard to pull off.  I have more failed flash than successful flash.
And that’s why I count it in my story totals for the year.  It’s hard, damn hard.