I’ve seen heated debates in more than one fandom about the proper role of the story’s villains.  The more I see of these arguments, the more I feel that one side isn’t “more right” than the other; it’s a case of two different audiences, each looking for something different from their fiction.   This article grew into a trilogy where I’ll take a look at each side of the antagonist debate and examine the different techniques for writing each type.

One of the teams in the villain debate is looking for stories with black and white morality.  They want heroes who are heroic; sometimes role models, but more often, wish-fulfillment figures.  These are characters who do what the reader likes to fantasize that she could do if she were stronger, richer, a spy, a sorceress.  The reader would like to be the hero.  The villain, therefore, must be very villainous.  There is a sense of security in knowing for a fact that the villain is bad and the hero is justified in whatever measures she might need to take in order to bring him down.

This isn’t to say that the antagonist has no reasons for his actions, nor does it force him to become a cartoon villain who does what he does purely for love of evil (or hatred of goodness).  The villain might represent a different political ideology (a dictator, a terrorist, a Nazi,).  He might be a criminal.  He might be a social deviant.  He might covet the hero’s love interest, or be jealous of the hero, or be motivated by some other negative personality trait such as greed or selfishness.  He might well have a reason for doing what he does, but it’s a reason the reader can clearly recognize as “bad.”

The opposing camp argues that the “black and white team” are looking for a story that isn’t realistic.  When villains are rotten to the core, there is none of the messiness of real life—no innocents hurt, no unjust actions taken, no questioning one’s behaviour, no devil’s compromises.  Taken to extremes, the plot can be very simplistic:  good guys trounce bad guys and the reign of “justice” is assured.

However, those in the “black and white team” aren’t looking for nitty-gritty reality:  they’re looking for escapism.  They want to relax and enjoy a story where they’re assured that they know what’s going on and who to cheer for.  They get their pleasure from feeling a connection to the hero, hating the villain, and following the hero through to her victory.  A well-written “black and white team” story will entertain while it fulfills the reader’s fantasy.

What kind of villain should authors write?  First and foremost, the kind that suits the story.  There is nothing “wrong” with the black-and-white team; they are an audience willing to buy the fiction that delivers what they’re looking for.

If you’re writing “black and white team,” make sure your hero has qualities that readers would enjoy fantasizing about, emulating, or sympathizing with.  Avoid cartoon villainy by giving your villain a reason for his behaviour; be careful not to take him too far over the top into gratuitous acts of evil for evil’s sake.  Create the kind of villain your audience will love to hate, and they will cheer as your hero takes him down.

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I have a deep respect for writers who can tackle what I’ve heard referred to as “high fantasy”; to be able to conquer an epic world filled with magic and sorcery and its own cosmology has always been something I’ve been highly envious of, especially those that have done it well.
And yet, it’s never been something that I’ve been able to really sink my teeth into.
That isn’t to say there aren’t examples out there that I’ve enjoyed, but it seems to take me a lot of effort, and I don’t understand why. A dear friend of mine once began raving about Tolkien – before the movies, even! – telling me that I had to read the Lord of the Rings, it would be one of the most spellbinding things I had ever read, and so on.
So I tried it. And I got a hundred pages in, and set it aside, and have not picked it up since.
I’m not sure what it was. I know Tolkien has his detractors, and I can see their point in a lot of places, but I can’t help but shake the feeling that the story just wasn’t written for me. There are people that enjoy it, and that’s fine. Likewise, most high fantasy has been the same; I don’t think I have the constitution to be able to truly appreciate it. I end up starting series or novels and usually end up setting them aside. I’ve done the same for some sci-fi greats as well; this may be blasphemy, but Asimov tends to be someone I can take in small quantities. Again it’s not that I think the stories are not well-written, but in reading them, I get the sense that they are not written for me.
The ones that do grab me – the Neil Gaimans and the David Eddings and the Jasper Ffordes of the world – well, I can’t really think of what they truly have in common, apart from a healthy dash of humour. There is something in my heart’s core that really jumps at the thought of a good sense of humour in a work, even if it’s a very, very dark one, such as that of Gaiman or Stephen King, another writer whose books have long been friends of mine.
So I look back on my list and wonder if I’m okay for having that bias, because it means that I’ll probably never pick up much Tolkien ever, or I wonder if the humour is there and just too subtle and I’m suffering from preconceived notions about what will reach my sensibilities. Am I being unfair? Am I missing something?
I’d love to hear from other people about how their biases affect what they read – and even better, how that bleeds into our writing.

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We often hear that writers fall into one of two camps: pantsers or plotters.  In truth, most of us straddle those two camps with a toe and maybe an arm in one and most of our body in the other.  I am one of those ridiculously methodical people who have a spreadsheet or a list for everything.  My writing desk needs to be spotless and organised.  I have multiple spreadsheets tracking everything from submissions to budgets to daily word counts.  Wouldn’t you expect me to be a plotter?

Actually, I’m a pantser – I write by the seat of my pants, without an outline, figuring it out as I go.  I usually start with a particular setting I want to explore and as I get to know the characters who inhabit that setting, the story unfolds.  But I’d love to be a plotter.  The methodical part of my brain adores the idea of a neatly-constructed outline, a manuscript mapped out scene by scene, writing with a definite end in mind.

I’ve tried to be a plotter.  I really have.  Before I started writing my previous manuscript, I wrote a detailed outline.  I knew exactly where the manuscript was heading and what would happen in every chapter.  I lasted two scenes and then deviated irretrievably from the outline.  Perhaps I could have forced the story to follow the path I had originally chosen, but the way it went instead felt more natural and the outline was abandoned.

Yet I still longed to be a plotter.  So this time I’m trying something different.  I have a very brief outline written on index cards – lovely big, pink ones.  I adore index cards and the methodical part of my brain is thrilled at having a stash of those pink cards spread out around me as I write.  It makes me feel like a “proper” writer.

The index card method is working well.  Because I can change the order of the cards, I’m finding it easier to insert additional scenes or move them to a more appropriate place as the story changes.  The story is coming out more easily because I do have some sort of plan in mind, however brief.  As I get to know my characters and understand what drives them, the story I had intended naturally changes.  With my new index card system, I can shuffle around a few cards, add others in, remove the ones I no longer need, and hey presto, I still have an outline of sorts and the yet the story can follow its own course.

I’m not saying I’m a reformed pantser, not by a long shot.  By I have discovered that pantsers and plotters are perhaps not as mutually exclusive as I once thought.

How about you?  Are you a pantser or a plotter?  And which would you prefer to be?

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I’ve been a reader for over 50 years.  I’ve read a lot of good books, and some not so good.  And I’ve heard other writers talk about the craft and about books in general.  From all of that, following are some common missteps in the area of world-building.  (And yes, I’ve been guilty of most of them at one time or another.)  All identifying logos have been removed and serial numbers have been filed off or otherwise obfuscated.

* * *

If I’m going to write in contemporary Earth settings, if I’m using a city for my setting du jour, I’d best know its geography well.  For example:

• If I’m going to lay a story in Sacramento, California, or Denver, Colorado, or Anchorage, Alaska, I’d better know which sides of the cities have mountains near them, and which mountains they are.  Same story with rivers:  what are they named and where do they run in the city?
• If I’m writing in New York City, I’d better know which streets are on Manhattan Island and which are in Brooklyn, I’d better know which direction they run, and I’d better know which streets the major landmarks are on.
• If my character is standing in a certain location in downtown Chicago and looking west, I’d better know which major buildings he’s going to see, and just as importantly, which buildings he won’t see.
• Ditto for London, and Paris, and Moscow, and Beijing, and Oslo, and Tokyo, etc.

* * *

Animals are not machines.  Yes, an ox or a donkey or a horse can work all day, much as a human can.  However, a hard-working animal needs rest and water and food on a regular basis, just like a hard-working human does.

Although I am not a horse person, I know some, and I am reliably informed that, despite what Hollywood shows us, a horse cannot gallop for hours and hours on end.  Oh, a willing horse might attempt it at the urging of his rider, but if pushed to the limit the horse will drop, exhausted, and will most likely die.  I mean, after all, can you sprint all out for six hours at a time?  Neither can a horse.

And it might surprise you that a horse, traveling at a reasonable pace, doesn’t really travel that much farther than a man over the course of a day.

* * *

As remarked back up the chain somewhere, major characters should not have similar names, especially if they are also very similar characters.  (The thought bears repeating.)  It might be considered a characterization issue, but I’m more of the opinion that it’s one of world-building.  Wherever you pigeonhole it, it is confusing to the reader.  I recently “awoke” in the middle of the novel I’m currently working on and realized I had two major characters named Thomas and five characters (three major) named George or Georg.  I was getting confused; never mind what this was going to do to my prospective readers!  So unless that confusion is something you need for the story, you might find another name for one of them.

* * *

Western European culture is considered by many to be an aberration in the history of culture in the world.  (I’m not too sure but what I don’t agree with them.)  Because of this, we need to be very careful about projecting our 21^st century Western cultural mores (political, religious, sexual or otherwise) on earlier periods and places of history.

* * *

Cloth  (This last one may be less an “Oops” moment and more a chunk of “trivial” data that you may find useful.)  I must stipulate that I am not a Clothing Expert.  These are just a few things I’ve picked up along the way, mostly from writing in the 1632 universe.

Pre-industrial societies did not have an abundance of cloth, and what they did have was not for the most part very brightly colored, or at least, not for very long.

• Without powered spinning machines and powered looms, cloth is very labor intensive to produce and turn into clothing.  (Check into how long it takes a hand weaver to weave a three-inch width of cloth.)  In 1996-7 I saw the exhibit of royal Chinese artifacts that toured the US.  They had a suit of clothing (tunic and trousers) that had been produced for a (short) member of the royal family.  I didn’t think it was all that much to look at, but according to the program notes it took over two man years to produce that suit.
• Vegetable/biological dyes didn’t produce very rich colors for the most part.  Even when they did (imperial purple, for example), they faded fairly quickly, so most people ended up wearing dull or pastel hues of blue or brown or sometimes red.  Bright or deep/rich hue dyes were usually scarce, and correspondingly expensive.  I’m told by a fabric maven that producing a good black dye that would hold fast was particularly difficult, so it was very expensive.  Only the wealthiest people would wear black.  (Explains all those Renaissance and Baroque era portraits, doesn’t it?)
• And unless a family was very well off, each member of the family would be fortunate to have two or three suits of clothes.  (Remember the size of pre-industrial families.)
• Variety was sometimes served by making the clothing modular:  detachable sleeves and collars, combined with different bodices or vests, sashes, belts, etc.
• In most pre-industrial societies there was probably a good market for used clothing, possibly even removed from corpses before burial.  (Think of the old cleaning lady’s scene in Scrooge’s vision of the future in A Christmas Carol.)
• This explains a lot about accounts in the Bible and other ancient literature where gifts of clothing were given to a guest or to someone who was favored.  (Joseph’s “coat of many colors” ring a bell?)

Cloth and clothing after the industrialization and mechanization of the cloth industry is a very different topic.  Someone (not me) should do a post on that some time.

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Take a deep breath, relax. What’s got you so worked up?

Is it your three hundredth rejection letter? A hypercritical response from a beta reader? A moron/cyber bully with a keyboard and a bone to pick?

If you’re going through the traditional route, rejection letters are part of the game. It’s kind of like pledging a fraternity…you’re going to get knocked down only to be built back up.

Take Amazon reviews with a grain of salt, don’t let them offend you. If you get upset, the bad guy wins. You don’t want them to win, because that means you lose. And you don’t want to be a loser, do you? =)

If you can distance yourself from your work, your emotional health will be in a lot better shape than if you get wrapped up in all of the personal jibes. It’s perfectly fine to get wrapped up in your book when you write that first draft. Pour your heart out, write everything and anything.

But when it’s time for the second and subsequent drafts, go in with that little violent bugger in the back of your head. Kill your darlings. After your mass murder during the second draft, you should feel a whole lot better about your work and have that emotional distance to know that you’re creating to the best of your ability. Show it back to your hypercritical beta reader. Compare the two drafts, did the comments made/suggested make sense in retrospect? Did you write the best book you possibly could and the reader/reviewer/critic just doesn’t know what they’re talking about?

Or was there more truth than lies? Don’t be afraid of the troll under the bridge. Think of their criticism as the toll you paid to make a second, third, or fiftieth book that much better.

Good luck!

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Last post in this chain we looked at one approach to the “how-2″ of world-building.  Today, just some more or less random musings on this part of our craft.

* * *

There are without a doubt other approaches to world-building, including the “make it up as you go along” approach.

Don’t let all the structure of the last post mislead you.  My experience is that the world-building process is nowhere nearly as organized as all that post would indicate.  Most authors that I’ve heard mention the subject tend to have some degree of organization (usually notebooks or spreadsheets), if for no other reason than so they can find that decision they made six months ago.  And I know of at least a couple of special cases where a group of people brainstormed and designed a detailed story universe that was shared among them.  But that level of detail and control is probably unusual, unless you’re doing work-for-hire for TV, movie, or game tie-ins, in which case someone else has already built the universe and all you have to do is figure out how to tell your story in it.

I’m certainly not that ordered.  In fact, I tend to be very intuitive; jumping to a decision or a conclusion, then looking backwards to figure out why that would be a good idea is not unusual for me.  On the other hand, I typically don’t totally make it up as I go along.  I usually make decisions about the big obvious stuff up front, then fill in additional details as I write the story.  (Sorry, I don’t outline well.  Or often.  Or at all, most of the time.)  And yes, I do tend to carry it around in my head, only making physical notes of really abstract or subtle points.

I suspect the majority of writers are more flexible than rigorous.

* * *

Keep in mind that every change to the starting default should have a price.  If we change one aspect of the world, what will be affected by it?

• I mentioned in a previous post that in the biological “world”, there are desired constructs that might be possible, but only with trade-offs in other areas that might be prohibitive to you or your characters.  (See Robin McKinley’s new novel Pegasus for an example.)
• If you’re going to use a magic system, where does the “power” come from, and how does it get renewed?  For the story to ring true, there has to be a cost to it.  Supermen of any type are boooooring.  But a character who pays a price–perhaps a heavy one–to do something super . . . what can you the writer do with that?
• If a character gets a super-normal ability, what does he/she lose or impair to have it?  For example:  DNA modification produces human level intelligence in elephants:  what do they give up to have it, and how do they feel about it?
• Etc.

* * *

A few thoughts on research.

• Yes, research is necessary.
• Yes, probably lots of research is necessary.
• But “Sometimes plausibility is more important to a story than sheer accuracy.”  (Tim Powers, Soonercon discussion, June, 2011)
• Do Not do your research in other fictional works, lest you trip over another author’s missteps or “plausible” decisions.
• Wikipedia is not 100% reliable.  It can point you in certain directions, but do not accept anything it says as valid unless you know from your own personal knowledge it is correct or you have verified it through other research.
• Actually, the Wikipedia point may be true about the Internet in general, considering how many times I find the same paragraphs (word for word match-ups) posted in multiple locations.  Frequency of occurrence does not necessarily equate to accuracy of content.

* * *

As I said somewhere back up the chain of posts, this series is not an all-encompassing list, partly because each world-building exercise is different from the last one.  You may find other items you want to add to it.  You may have your own list you want to compare to my list.  That’s all good.

If you haven’t seen it before, author Lee Killough wrote an excellent  short book on world-building entitled Checking on Culture. (http://www.yarddogpress.com/Checking%20On%20Culture.htm)  She goes into a great deal more depth than I have, and I freely confess to having learned a lot from it.  Even though it’s slanted toward science fiction and fantasy, the general teachings in it are universally applicable, and I highly recommend it to and for writers of all genres.

Nest post:  Oops!

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Whether we want to write the next big thing, or simply see our names in print just one time, writers worth their salt will quickly realize: writing the story is but one battle in a multi-front war.  The journey to being published involves many different elements coming together and lots of hard work slowly coming to fruition.  What we do in the meantime, to keep our sanity, or help us along the way, can often be just as important as toiling on that manuscript.  For example:

We need to eat

And that, unfortunately, means we need to work, not just on our novels, in order to put food on the table.  For most writers, writing begins as a hobby, develops into a passion and can even become our single greatest drive.  It would be great to clock in, work on our story all day, and see a paycheck at the end of the week for all our hard work, but obviously that is not realistic.  So what do aspiring novelists do in the meantime to keep the bills paid?  Some find related work, writing or editing, to keep their skills sharp.  Some work the bare minimum and live frugally in order to make time to keep their dream alive.  Others still find jobs that allow them to work on their novels while getting paid.

I know of a couple published authors that first worked as technical writers, which involves writing often dry, technical documentation for companies.  This can range from descriptions in a product catalogue to patch notes for various software releases.  Although this type of writing does not require much creativity, it can be a way to write for a living while you work on becoming self sufficient with your own work.

I know another published writer that worked the graveyard shift for some time at a hotel’s front desk.  He was straightforward with the hotel during his interview: he knew the job did not pay well, but he wanted the ample down time the job provided to work on his writing while collecting a paycheck.

Personally, I’ve been working part time as a bike courier for the past year and a half making lunch time deliveries, while searching for freelance writing and editing gigs.  I’ve found work ranging from editing student’s essays to traveling around the city, gathering information from businesses and compiling them for online listings.  The up side to this approach is the extreme flexibility.  I have short, mandatory hours during the afternoon where I make pretty decent money from tips, and collect additional writing work as needed on a case by case basis.  The downside is the same as the up: the work is flexible, but inconsistent.  You may find yourself struggling for money sometimes, while other times you are doing perfectly fine.  You may find yourself leaning on your significant other or family as a crutch when the money is scarce, which can cause strain on those relationships.

The point is, there are multiple options a writer can pursue to keep food on the table in the meantime.  Dedicating yourself to your art does not necessarily mean you have to starve for it.

We need to learn the ropes

Every aspiring writer is eventually disillusioned when they discover the publishing world is not eagerly anticipating the dawn of their artistic revolution, and is instead run just like any other business out there.

While the artistic integrity of our work is perhaps most important to us, every writer will eventually have to learn the ropes of the industry, try to break in and eventually establish a presence there.  Invariably, that means networking, which can be a shy artist’s nightmare.

Networking is perhaps the single greatest challenge I have faced so far on the road to publication, but take hope!  Once you get over your fear of networking, you will find the veil of fear slipping away, and instead begin to realize how truly advantageous it is towards getting your foot in the door and preventing your hard work from ending up at the bottom of a pile of slush.

Certain generous authors host seminars about becoming successful as a writer.  Superstars Writing Seminars is one such example.  Attending a seminar like this can get you face time with successful, published authors, a wealth of information about breaking into the industry, and a slew of friends and connections working towards the same goal.  How do you think the Fictorians came together?

Another great place to meet affluent members of the industry is at conventions.  I attend Dragon*Con each year in Atlanta.  Not only are some of my favorite authors usually in attendance, but editors from their publishing houses as well.  With a little bit of research, you can find out who will be attending and try your best to swing a social situation into a business opportunity.  Last year I attended a small Wheel of Time banquet and was able to talk to an editor from Tor, walking away with a business card.

We need to keep our sanity

Finally, while hard work and diligence are necessary to success in the publishing industry, do not burn yourself out before you have a chance to make it.  By no means am I telling you to neglect your work, but remember to pursue your other interests as well.

For example, writing fantasy is but one interest of mine.  I also enjoy reading it.  I also enjoy watching it, on television or in movies.  And finally, I also like playing it.  Video games can be the ultimate opiate for the escapist.  While it is certainly a favorite pleasure of mine, it can also suck away your time before you even know what happened.  I wanted a way to combine my love for video games with my passion for writing, as to not have it be a complete detriment to my productivity, so my friends and I started a video game site, The Flashy Review.  By working on the site I get to play my games with the ultimate goal of developing my writing abilities.  This even ties into my first point above, that we all need to work and eat.  A website like this can become a great source of writing samples, which can help land a job doing what you love: writing.

There is no direct path, like a paved road, waiting to guide us to the top, and straightforward, tireless writing is likely not enough to get us there.  It is often what we do in the meantime: meeting and connecting with others, keeping ourselves afloat, and keeping things in perspective, that determines our success as much as the craft itself.

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The human brain can only retain so much information; real estate in there is limited. One of the purposes of our minds is to condense that information to a manageable level. This is done through the formation of concepts, the most abstract of which are like skyscrapers on that limited real estate.

When using your mind to create these concepts (i.e. thinking), you are combining two or more objects or concepts (chair and table) into a higher-level concept (furniture). This new concept in effect gives you information about a potentially infinite amount of chair- or table-like objects (that they have the qualities of furniture). This applies to anything else your mind deems worthy of being called furniture.

Why bring this up in a discussion about character?

I primarily write in the fantasy genre, which is known to suffer from a malady called the cast of thousands, which is exactly what it sounds like. In order to achieve the epic scope they desire, some authors create many cultures and lands and people them accordingly. Some of the better writers attempt to alleviate this problem through masterful characterization and differentiation, but the problem remains: the human brain can only retain so much information.

It’s happened to everyone I know (myself included) who reads fantasy, especially the doorstoppers. We come across a character, and the name seems vaguely familiar, but we just cannot remember who that character is. We either figure out who the character is by the context, just ignore him, or treat him as a completely brand new character, history forgotten. None of these is ideal for a writer trying to tell a coherent story with a powerful emotional impact.

One solution to this problem is the very same process that you’ve used your whole life to make sense of the real world: combining lower-level units into higher-level abstractions.

Let’s say you have a character who is a policeman. Then, later on, you decide you also want to include a serial killer in your story. Nearly opposites, to be sure, but what if you combined these characters? A serial killer that is also a cop? Such a character already exists: Dexter, from the popular show of the same name. One of the hallmarks of both the book series and the show is how complex and interesting the main character is.

Of course, it’s easy just to smash two characters together and call it a day. But, like forming real concepts, it has to make sense (or rather, you have to make it make sense, since you are the one creating the character). You would never subsume chainsaw under the concept furniture. Also, the concept needs to have something essential about it that justifies its existence. The concept furniture tells us more about the world than just knowing about tables and chairs. The same must be true of the character. That essential attribute is that character’s identity, which in fiction usually boils down to his motivations, his personality, his beliefs, his psychology, etc.

In the example above, that identifying attribute could be Dexter’s homicidal urges as framed by his strange moral code.

Some of the immediate advantages of doing this should be obvious. First of all, your readers know who all of the characters are. But also, those two characters, who were perhaps a little flat to begin with, become three-dimensional when combined into one (if handled properly). This leads to deeper, more thoughtful fiction. Remember when I said that thought is concept formation? That’s why: the reader actually engages in that process when coming across characters like this.

Of course, this applies to other aspects of fiction as well, such as worldbuilding. So, take pity on your poor, confused readers and please, please economize your characters. Not only will they enjoy your stories more, but you’ll have made them feel smarter by the end, and that is always a good thing.

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If books were trees, I’d have a forest in my head. It’s 842,622 words long, filled with sweeping character arcs, murky intentions, sacrificial heroism, the syncopated percussion of snapping bones, the crackling discharge of magic, the heady musk of blood. It’s a trilogy that has marinated in my conscious for near twenty years. It dwells in the vaults of my mind, the limbs of its beautiful prose framed by spaces, commas and periods, yearning to live the life of ink, dripped and stamped into meaning. My epic magnum opus.

Of course, I pulled that word count out of the ether, but I tend to read and desire to write doorstoppers . . . as long as they’re well-written. Twice before I tried to write the first book of my planned trilogy, and twice before I wrote myself into more corners than any house has a right to claim. The trees of my series blinded me, cramped the single tree I was trying to cultivate. It wasn’t until I heard other authors I respect and read talk about postponing larger projects that consumed their younger years while they honed their craft that I realized I was biting off more than my writing chops could chew. Carrying a story through a single book is far easier than trying to drape one over the frame of a series.

This is why most authors I’ve spoken with advise not trying to write a series fresh out of the gates. Usually, the untried author won’t be up to the challenge. Does this mean you’ll never be able to write a series? No.  Michael Jordan didn’t dunk the first time he jumped, Brett Favre didn’t throw a touchdown the first time he picked up a football. And besides, most publishers won’t buy a series from an unknown author, though there are the occasional exceptions: Joe Abercrombie, Sam Sykes, R. Scott Bakker and others. Some publisher submission guidelines even go so far as to say if you’re submitting something that’s part of a larger work not to provide any info on the later books. If they’re interested, they’ll ask.

So, the advice which was given to me and which I now pass on to any other aspiring speculative fiction writers out there is to write a self-contained, stand alone novel—or six—before tackling a series. Prove to yourself you can carry a story from its beginning, through the muddy middle to its brilliant climax. The best series—in my opinion—contain books that stand on their own with beginnings, middles and endings, so focus on that when you’re just starting out. But—and this is important—don’t hold back! Don’t cling to your best ideas so you can use them in an eventual series, use them in what you’re writing now! You want anything you write to stand out and wow the reader . . . like a majestic tree standing apart from the forest.

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There is a misconception that writing is a solitary activity. Insofar as the first steps of the process are concerned, it is. The initial draft and the rewrites can only be done by the writer. But check out the thank you or acknowledgement pages of any published book. It lists writing groups, friends, family, editors, research contacts, mentors – in short, it’s a community of support and resources which helped the author create a publishable book.

Support systems are integral to our success. They inspire us. They challenge us to perfection. They nourish our thirst for knowledge on craft and genre. They help us understand the business of writing – how to get the first contract, who to approach and how. And it’s a blessing when that support system is found within your writing group.

Every good writing group has members who help each other, by giving advice on craft and genre. But, most importantly, we need to be with like-minded people – those who understand the writing life – the joys and successes or the struggles and crazy times. These are the people who celebrate with us when the first draft is complete. They share our angst as we rewrite and perfect our work. They commiserate with us through the rejections. They party with us when the manuscript is sold and finds a home in bookstores.

I love the writing groups I belong to. One is this group which founded The Fictorian Era. Although we span three countries, we set weekly goals, support each other through highs and lows, beta read for one another and discuss issues for emerging authors. A local group, Mystery Writers Ink, provides awesome speakers and resources on matters of crime and craft. And, the third group, Imaginative Fictions Writers, is a critiquing and professional development group many of whose members have spearheaded the When Words Collide, a multi genre popular fiction conference for readers and writers.

The support we receive, we must give back. That is the nature of the writing life. We are there for each other. So, look at the writing group you belong to. Does it feed you? Does it inspire you? Then, ask yourself, how can I give back to it? Writing groups function because of dedicated volunteers. But, those volunteers can only do so much without jeopardising their own writing. The old adage, many hands make light work, seems trite, but it’s true. If we all do a little, we all get a lot back.

Just remember, successful authors have a community of support around them ….

Check out:

http://www.whenwordscollide.org/

http://www.mysterywritersink.com/

http://www.writtenword.org/ifwa/

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So, I as a writer want to commit fiction.  And I’ve been told I have to engage/indulge in world-building to do this.  What does that entail?  My thinking about this has changed even during the last few weeks since I started ruminating on this.  Today’s thoughts look something like the following.

World-building is nothing more and nothing less than all of the foundational decisions that are made while preparing to commit fiction.  At the moment my concept of this is that it is basically comprised of five components, in more or less the following order.

1. Cosmology
2. Biology
3. Technology
4. Sociology
5. Characters

These labels are being use more as generic buckets and not as precise technical terms.

To begin with, the default of anything we must consider is the Earth human historical experience and understanding of our existing universe—how can it be otherwise, when it is our own physical/emotional/historical/social matrix?  That means we need to make a conscious choice if we want/need to step outside that matrix in our writing.

When we consider the universe we plan to write our story in, the paramount question in our minds should be “Why?”  We as writers need to justify anything we are going to create or change from the default.  “Because it’s a cool idea!” isn’t good enough.  “It’s fun!” isn’t good enough.  “I like it!” isn’t good enough.  As Tim Powers was heard to say at a recent SF convention (Soonercon 2011), he not only asks himself “Why?”, he then comes back and asks himself “Why really?”, in recognition that the first answer may not be the only/best/correct one.  There has to be a reason in the story for that change.  Not just a reason in the story, but it has to be key to some element in the story.  Otherwise, what good is it?

And if we accept the defaults for all or most of our universe, we must answer the same questions, and for the same reason.

Either way, we may have to ask the second question several times to drive the real answer out.

So, briefly speaking, what kind of choices do we writers need to make?  (A reminder:  since I write fantasy and science fiction, I may cast my net a bit wider than some of you.)

Cosmology – the choices we make that determine the size and physical characteristics of the story universe, whether it is a superlatively grand multi-verse concept that authors such as Charles Stross and David Weber have recently utilized, a setting as small as a single mind inside a single skull/brain, or something in-between those two extremes.  This includes the decisions we make about science and magic, most especially the rules that govern any twists we introduce to the Earth normal matrix.

Biology builds on cosmology, to my mind.  If you’re going to vary from the default, perhaps even more important than knowing why certain biological constructs work is knowing why certain constructs won’t work.  In the biological “world”, everything has a price, and the desired constructs might be possible, but only at trade-offs in other areas that might be prohibitive to you or your characters.  Biology also encompasses the decision about what kinds of intelligence exist:  human/alien/artificial/dwarf/elf?  Other(s)?  Blends?

Technology, whether “scientific” or “magical” or blended, builds on cosmology and biology, and is one that often is under-researched and under-developed.  It includes not only decisions about what will work and what doesn’t, but also the questions about what resources are required, how much wealth it takes to own the technology, and maybe even how that wealth is developed.

Sociology:  history, societies, religion, philosophy—the more we deviate from the default, the more intense both our research and our writing becomes.  What twists will we create?  What effect will they create in the universe?

Characters (which builds on cosmology, biology, technology, and sociology):  This is a very nebulous territory lying on the borders of the Sociology aspect of world-building and the whole Writing Element of Characters.  But in that borderland there is room for something that is “east of the sun” of designing a society and “west of the moon” of developing the individual characters in the story.  It’s hard for me to define exactly what this part of world-building entails, but at the very least, this will involve developing the character, conscience and ethos of the peoples in our universe.  This would potentially be very emotion-laden ground.

Okay, enough about the “how-2″ of it.  Next post we talk about some of the ins and outs of it all.

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So, we’ve talked about how to handle receiving a harsh critique, and how to soften giving a harsh critique, but what if you need a harsh critique and your dear, sweet friends and family are determined to play nice?  How can we get them to choke up on the bat and give us the dirty, painful review we don’t want, but need? The answer to any communication crossroad is asking the right kind of questions. Just as questions are necessary to truly understanding another person’s wants or needs, they are equally important in getting the truth from our closer beta readers. (Closer in relationship, not distance.)

Here’s a list of some questions that have helped me. I’d love to hear any additions if you have them. You’ll notice I avoid yes and no questions. I want to get people talking, opening up, and so I try to get their words flowing. I’m often surprised by how much honesty eventually comes out.

1. When you started reading, where in the manuscript (ms) did you stop first and why?
2. Did you ever set the ms down for more than two days? What were you doing at the time?
3. What kind of a person is the protagonist? Antagonist? Sidekick…etc.? (Asking how they see your characters will give you insight into how well you’ve done your characterization and their growth arcs.)
4. What part bored you the most? Why? (This can be a tough one for some if they don’t want to admit any part of it wasn’t edge of their seat thrilling. Get an honest answer and get them talking about it and you might see a plot flaw. Since you’re pushing on this, be careful how serious you take it.)
5. What part was most exciting? Why?
6. Who would you recommend this book to? (Pay close attention to this answer. Read body language. If they suddenly become reluctant, and they’re slow in answering, you may have some work to do. Of course, you also have to be careful you don’t read something into their body language that isn’t there.)
7. What does the protagonist look like? Antagonist? Mother…. Etc? What time of year did the action take place? Where?  (Having them explain descriptions of key people, places, or elements in your story can tell you if you described them to a reader’s reasonable understanding. It doesn’t have to match yours. It just has to exist to the extent you’re trying to convey to your reader.)
8. Who did you like best in the book? (Again, look for body language. Are they animated when they discuss your character, or kind of bored?)
9. Who did you like least in the book? (Have you made a villain they love to hate, one they sympathize with but understand must lose, or one they couldn’t care less about one way or another? Regardless of their feelings, it should be a strong feeling.)
10. Would you like to read the sequel? (Again, watch initial reaction; not just the words that come from their mouths.)

Remember, in all of this, when we try to understand other people our perceptions, positive or negative, and our own attitudes can cloud judgment. If you can have an impartial friend with you, it might be helpful. Also, know when to stop. If someone feels like they’re being grilled, they definitely won’t want to read another ms from you. Sometimes it helps to let your reader know beforehand what you’re doing and why. I’ve found these types of questions helpful; often given in small doses to my daughters who are determined my writing will rival their favorite authors. I love that they love me but…you know. I want my writing to really rival their favorite authors.

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Writers should be in contact with other writers, not holed up in their offices typing to themselves. The result is that you, as a writer, will almost inevitably be called upon to evaluate someone else’s work.

Yesterday, I shared some unfortunate anecdotes about my history as a bad critiquer. All of that was mere prelude to today’s checklist, in which I reveal the tools and techniques I have found to be particularly helpful in the reviewing process.

Of course, I can’t pretend this checklist is exhaustive! In the comments, feel free to share your own unique approaches.

1. Determine the book’s target audience. First thing you need to do is determine who the book is written for. Is it you? If it’s not, say so upfront. Don’t withhold your comments if you aren’t the book’s intended audience, but consider that from time to time you and the author aren’t necessarily going to be on the same page.
2. Be polite. It seems obvious, and yet judging from my responses to the contest manuscripts (see yesterday), I was slow to learn this lesson. Always be nice… bearing in mind that it is possible to be too nice, thus giving the author the wrong impression! Being polite and offering false praise are two very different things. Don’t say things you don’t mean.
3. Be specific. If you’re trying to avoid offending someone with harsh criticism, you might think your salvation lies in being vague. Stifle that impulse; it does no one any favors. By being specific and clear about what isn’t working for you, you’re bringing something fixable and practical to the author’s attention. Don’t leave the author guessing about what you mean.
4. Give examples. In the same vein, provide concrete examples for each point of criticism. Giving examples is an invaluable illustrative tool. Being specific and giving examples also have a secondary, subliminal effect: it demonstrates to the author that you read the book carefully. If you’re vague and can’t point out examples, the author might deduce (perhaps correctly) that you don’t really care about their work.
5. Offer to demonstrate your points of criticism. After being specific about your criticism and providing examples from the text of where it went wrong, offer to demonstrate how you might personally go about fixing it. It’s critical at this juncture that you make it clear that you’re not trying rewrite them or make story choices on their behalf. Such a demonstration can mean writing a few paragraphs or providing a short outline of how you might approach a chapter or storyline differently. One of my writer friends once went so far as to write a three-page alternate opening to my book. I didn’t use it verbatim, of course, and he got a lot of the details wrong, but it easily ranks as the best feedback I’ve ever gotten. And the fact that he took the time to do it meant the world to me. But remember: only offer to do this. Don’t go the extra mile if the author doesn’t want you to.
6. Cut your losses if you have to. If you’ve gotten 10,000 words into a 100,000-word novel and you can already tell the book isn’t worth your time, listen to yourself. It may be that you’re completely the wrong audience. It may be that the writing and grammar is juvenile. It may be that the story is deeply, hopelessly flawed. If this is the case, provide feedback on the part that you did read and be specific about your reasons for not going further.
7. But: offer to read more at a later date. Don’t just leave the author hung out to dry. Let them know that you care enough to follow up. (And you actually have to be willing to do it, when the time comes!)

Ultimately, there are some people out there who are simply not prepared to handle harsh criticism. No matter how polite you are, you may not be able to please them. If that’s the case, you’ll need to accept that and move on.

That said, these final two items can help reduce the damage:

1. Give praise where praise is due. Even in the most hopeless manuscript (and I’ve encountered some doozies), there is always something to praise. Be just as specific about what works well as you are with what doesn’t.
2. Encourage the author that their work is valuable and has promise. Being a great author requires a lot of growth and a lot of work. Even if a book is 90% unsalvageable, recognize the monumental effort that has gone into writing it. I once delivered a critique in which, after all my points were laid bare, my main piece of advice was, essentially: “Have you considered giving up on this one and moving on to your next idea?” Of course, I wouldn’t have said this to just anyone. But the author was a twelve-year-old girl. Even though she was spectacularly good for her age and experience, without a doubt her writing was going to improve the most by continuing to exercise her creativity, not by fixating on editing her first novel to perfection.

Like I said, let’s hear some of your own critique stories and techniques. Taken together, I’m sure we have a broad range of experiences on which to draw.

Come back tomorrow for the concluding post in our series, The Harsh Side, Part IV: The Gentle Shove, in which Colette turns the tables and reveals the various ways that we, as writers, can direct the feedback we receive from our critique partners in order to get the most out of their efforts.

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Three years ago, I got a call from my employer, a small Canadian press who I had just started doing freelance editing for. One of their clients had contacted them and abruptly cancelled their editing contract. Apparently she was so upset by my edit—and my incendiary comments—that she was brought to tears.

To say I was devastated would be putting it mildly. To this day, I feel the sting. While it may be possible that this particular client was unusually sensitive, there are a lot of things I could have done to soften the blow of what had turned out to be a fairly harsh critique.

The problem was that I was very inexperienced at this whole business of delivering critiques. Looking back, my comments to her were pretty tactless. Over the years, I’ve had to turn “softening the blow” into an art form. (I’m still not a full-fledged critique artist, but I’ve come a long way.)

Fast forward a few months. That same small press was receiving manuscripts for a summer publishing contest, and they found themselves taking in far more submissions than expected. Quite a deep slushpile had built up. I was hired to take that slushpile home and whittle it down to ten finalists, a more manageable reading load for the contest’s judges.

Never having done something like that before, I came up with a simple system. I threw down a post-it on each manuscript’s cover page and wrote what I thought of it. Strange that it never occurred to me that these books’ authors would want to know what the critiquer thought of their work. Indeed, my comments were “for internal use only.”

—“Severely incompetent. If my dog could read, he would give this book two paws down. Way down.”

—“Utterly incomprehensible. Does this author even speak English?”

—“Please pardon the dark red stains on the opening pages. I was bleeding uncontrollably from the eyes.”

I’m not sure these comments were even helpful for the purpose of internal use. I can’t imagine the looks of horror on the faces of the poor people who were charged with communicating this feedback to inquiring authors.

To put it mildly, this particular employer has been more patient with me than I deserve.

Of course, I’m more writer than editor, and therefore I have been on the other side of the fence, too. Many, many times.

This past year I wrote a science fiction epic. By the time I hit the one-third point in my first draft, I contacted a published friend of mine and asked him if he’d like to take a look. I was proud of my work and felt confident the response would be a positive one. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t expecting much of a critique; I was expecting praise.

I’m sure a lot of those contest authors had been proud of their work, too, before I eviscerated them!

Similar to what happened with Colette—and if you haven’t read yesterday’s post, make sure you do—my friend only read one chapter and then decided to cut his losses. In retrospect, he cannot be blamed for doing so. I got a lot more wrong in that first draft than I got right.

So what do you do if you’re in the awkward position of providing negative feedback to a fellow writer? Well, tune in tomorrow, for The Harsh Side, Part III: The Key Is Specificity, for my trusty checklist.

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Any of us who have been writing for very long has received them, probably given them, and seen various reactions to them: the harsh critique. Now, I’m not saying we should be grateful to those people who can lay it on the line, say it as it is, and give the word “blunt” a sharp edge. But…well, maybe we should be grateful.

I have a well-published friend of mine, Gini Koch, who offered to look at some of my work early on. Some comments included: “Your protagonist reads like a stuffy narrator.”, “the ending is totally blah — that’s not an ending, that’s a faked out happily ever after. It’s too pat, it’s unbelievable.” and “I’ve done edits on the first chapter. I stopped there because, honestly, this book is so very far from being ready that it’s not a good use of my time.”

Ouch. Yes, we’re still friends, good friends even. I cried, I ranted, and then I got back to work. I tried to separate myself from my hurt feelings and examine her comments with an objective eye. For the most part, she was right; nail-on-the-head right. By following her advice (most of it), my writing ability took a giant leap. I still had plenty of work to do and I still have improvements to make, but I’m better off for her harsh criticism of my work.

Recently, I was placed in a similar position. I received a manuscript with a great concept, good pacing, and loaded with merit; the writing needed serious work. I found myself saying almost verbatim to the last comment quoted above. I didn’t see the point in continuing, only to make the same comments over and over again. Understandably, but unintentionally, I hurt feelings and damaged a friendship. I didn’t mean to. I critiqued the work with the same critical eye I use on my own writing and anybody else’s. I tried to be tactful. I tried to be nice. I don’t think I succeeded.

In the process, I’ve come to realize something I knew, but only now understand. Those painful critiques were the effort of someone who truly cared. My friend wanted me to succeed. She wanted to give me all the tools she could, knock them into me if necessary, so my writing would improve to publishable level.

A few months ago, a short story of mine was published by an online e-magazine.  It was my first accepted work. My friends have raved about how much they loved it. It won third place for the month and was even accepted into an upcoming anthology. I couldn’t have done it without the encouragement and advice from several honest critiques. Thank you to all of my writing friends who are willing to tell me the straight truth rather than spare my feelings.

Still, I wish I knew how to make comments less painful. I worry I might discourage someone from their dreams.  And on that note, keep a lookout for our follow-up post, The Harsh Side, Part II: Lessons Learned the Hard Way, by Evan Braun. In my opinion he’s the master at diminishing the sting of blunt, honest comments. He has some tips to help us soften the blows of a harsh critique.

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