Tag: fantasy

One of the most common pieces of writing advice you’ll receive is, “Write what you know.” This quote is most frequently attributed to Mark Twain, and it’s not bad advice. Your knowledge tends to reflect your passions, and if you write from a place of passion, you’re most likely to produce words worthy of reading. If you need to communicate a certain idea, then chances are, someone will need to receive that same idea. Write from passion, write from need, and so avoid frivolity.

And of course, if you write what you know, then your readers will likely believe what you’re saying. After all, a seafaring novel written by someone who’s worked on numerous ships will look quite different from one from someone who’s never seen a boat in person.

However, there is a danger that comes from this advice. What if a seafaring novel is the best vehicle for my story? Maybe I won’t get the intricacies perfect, but the Internet exists to aid me where my knowledge fails. Should I forsake the wonderful pirates I’ve dreamed up, even though they speak to me and have something very important to say, simply because I’ve never captained a ship?

In response to Twain’s advice, Ursula K. Le Guin says, “I write about imaginary countries, alien societies on other planets, dragons, wizards… I know these things. I know them better than anybody else possibly could…” And yet, Le Guin never saw a dragon (at least, not to my knowledge). So how could she write the Earthsea series? Perhaps we’re not meant to only write what we know, but instead to also write what we know. If we know about loneliness, if we know about anxiety, if we know about failure, we can write about those things. And we can write about those things in a seafaring setting, even if we’ve never been on a boat. Research is necessary to make it believable, but we might not even need to worry about that until a second draft.

At a NYU lecture, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. once said, “You’ll be writing about your own life anyway, but you won’t know it, if you write a hack western… And if you write an episode for some space program on television, this will somehow parallel things that are on your mind, as unresolved conflicts.” Hence, we’ll write about what you know, even if you’re not trying. Because every word you think, every word you write, is filtered through a lifetime of experience. A lifetime of your experience, not anyone else’s.

Writing and reading function as imaginative tools. The most imaginative tools, one might argue. Through stories, we can live experiences that would remain inaccessible to us in the real world. We can imagine lives that have never existed, except that they have in our minds.

So do write what you know. Write what you’ve learned. Write from passion, from need. But don’t evade what you don’t know. When it comes up, tackle what you don’t know head on. Grapple with ignorance, and come out on the other side more knowledgeable.

– AJG

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Every week, I write and publish an article to this website. These posts usually cover topics related to writing, but I’ve written several about other interests of mine. Sometimes, if I’m especially proud of the piece I’ve written, I’ll promote the article on Facebook. This always boosts the number of clicks I get on my site, but I don’t always do it.

Clicks are not the reason I write here. If they were, I might start ask my audience to sign up for a monthly newsletter. I might have a place for readers to make an account and read comments. I might choose the subjects of my writing with more regard to maximizing Search Engine Optimization (SEO). There are plenty of non-superficial reasons to want more traffic on your blog. For example, if you have hundreds subscribed to your newsletter, you can more easily promote your projects. This is especially beneficial to those self-publishing or writing non-fiction. However, I do not intend on pursuing either of these avenues, at the moment.

I keep a blog for the benefit of my own craft, first and foremost. Even when I’m not working on the first draft of a manuscript, I’m writing blog posts here. This keeps me producing new content, keeps me writing new words, keeps me expressing my ideas. I can experiment with different kinds of writing in a low-pressure environment. I’m training in the same way that a dancer goes to the bar every day, in the same way that a pianist practices their scales. I’m keeping warm. When looked at from this perspective, one article a week seems almost too little. In tandem with my other writing projects, it’s an effective barrier against stagnation, or at least against regression.

To that same end, my craft benefits from the subject of my writing. Because I’m writing about just that–my craft. My perspectives on writing are strengthened by my articulating them. As Joan Didion said, “I don’t know what I think until I write it down.” The lessons I share, the reminders I expound, though often written in the second person, are as much for me as anyone else. This habit forces me to reflect on my work at least once a week, for I usually write about a lesson relevant to that week’s work.

The secondary reason that I keep a blog, which is far less important, but still relevant as to warrant mentioning, is to distinguish myself. When I’m querying agents, I’d like to demonstrate that I’m not just “a bored person with a typewriter,” as I’ve heard it phrased. I do this in a number of ways, such as by mentioning the short plays I’ve had produced by an off-Broadway theatre, but I do mention the blog. And of course, I link agents to my website. I hope that, if any agents do make it here (hi!), they will see one more example of my dedication to the craft. If no one stops by, that’s no problem! Most of my writing has been seen by less eyes than this blog gets.

These are the reasons I keep a blog. If any of these seem to apply to you, or you’re a writer whose success depends largely on building your own audience, perhaps consider starting a blog of your own! And if you made it to the end of this meta-article, thank you for reading.

– AJG

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Stories are about people first and foremost. When your reader understands the motivations of your characters, they can begin to grow invested in your narrative. However, if your story contains flat and uninteresting people, then most of the time, your reader will abandon you–no matter how interesting you’ve made your setting or plot.

Seldom is a story worth telling without strong and interesting characters. Thus, it becomes imperative to establish your characters as such, and to do so quickly. But this is no easy task. Writing believable characters takes skill, and quickly building a nuanced understanding of those characters takes even more. In order to do this, you’ll need to utilize a variety of tools. And of those tools, point-of-view is one of the most powerful.

I just finished reading The Blade Itself by Joe Abercrombie. That book was a masterclass in communicating character through POV. Abercrombie tells the story through the point-of-view of six different characters. Three main characters (Logen, Glokta, and Jezal), and three side characters (West, Dogman, and Ferro). He writes in third-person, but our information is limited to the perspective of one character at a time. Sometimes, the POV switches mid-chapter, but more frequently, each chapter sticks to a single character. This “third-person limited” perspective is the most common way to write adult literature.

Good literature told in this way will deliver every piece of information through the lens of its POV character. And it must do so without growing confused (unless, of course, the point is to confuse). And in his debut novel, Abercrombie does this astoundingly well.

For example, at one point in The Blade Itself, Logen Ninefingers arrives at the city of Adua in the company of a wizard. Logen knows not luxury or frivolity in any sense. But appearances must be kept in the city, so the wizard leads him to a theatrical costumer’s. There, they purchase silly outfits that would be ineffectual in any sort of actual combat.

And yet, when we switch to Captain Jezal dan Luthar’s perspective, the nobleman sees Logen’s outfit as “the height of barbaric splendor.” Jezal is taken in by appearances, which Abercrombie indicates through this description. Not only do we learn more about the captain in this way, but we also get some dramatic irony. We know that Ninefingers is wearing a costume, but Jezal does not.

Descriptions all throughout the book are similarly infused with POV. We learn about our protagonists by the way the descriptions contrast one another. By the end of the book, when the POV changes multiple times every chapter, we have no problem determining whose eyes we’re “seeing through,” because each person’s worldview is so unique.

Are the descriptions overly concerned with appearances? Do they demonstrate a familiarity with the city of Adua? We’re likely in Jezal’s perspective. Are the descriptions focused more on the potential lethality of a given situation? Do they demonstrate an unfamiliarity with “civilized” society? We’re likely in Logen’s perspective. And so on.

Even syntax changes with POV here. In Dogman’s chapters, for example, Abercrombie uses shortened words such as, “’em” instead of “them.” Because of little details like this, every one character feels different.

Most often, authors communicate character through thoughts, speech, and actions. Don’t discount point-of-view as a tool. Everybody has an idiosyncratic way of seeing the world; that’s what makes us unique. Channel that into your writing, and your characters will be unique, too.

– AJG

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Last week, I wrote an article about the “Ice Monster” prologue, which is one tactic that you might employ in order to hook your readers. I took a trip up to my hometown of Dallas shortly after writing this. During the drive, I listened to an audiobook of a classic middle grade novel that I never read growing up: The Giver by Lois Lowry.

With hooks on the mind, I paid special attention to how this book opens. The first passage of the book is almost entirely navel-gazing. Jonas spends the whole passage trying to find the right word for how he feels about an approaching event, and he eventually settles on the word “apprehensive.” In that time, we also get a little bit of world-building, as Jonas remembers the passing of a plane over his strange, dystopian community.

Typically, I would say that opening a book with a passage devoted entirely to navel-gazing–that is, a character’s thoughts and feelings–would be a bad idea. A better hook would come in the form of action. Not necessarily an action sequence with swords or blasters, but a character taking action. Events unfolding before us in real time that tell us about the character and the world.

Nonetheless, The Giver‘s navel-gazey opening worked for me. Why?

We begin with Jonas feeling frightened. Now, I want to know why he feels that way. My curiosity is piqued. I want to know what this book is about, so I’m not going to put down the book until I find out what’s causing Jonas’s fright. Unless, of course, the book doesn’t tell me in a timely manner. Lowry has bought herself some of my attention with her opening line.

Fortunately, she tells us why Jonas feels frightened (“No,” he realizes, “apprehensive.”) in the first few pages, by the time we get to the first page break. A special December is approaching for him and all of the other eleven-year-olds in the community. Again, I’m interested. What upcoming event would make this December so special, and why would it cause Jonas such apprehension?

Again, Lowry tells us in a timely manner. The “Ceremony of Twelve” is approaching, where all of the children in Jonas’s year will be assigned to the jobs that they’ll work for the rest of their life. Jonas has no idea what sort of job he’ll be assigned to, but since we’re reading a book about him, we know that it likely won’t be any ordinary job.

The Giver has twenty-three chapters. But the Ceremony of Twelve doesn’t happen until chapter seven. That’s nearly a third of the way through the book! How does Lowry hold her readers’ attention with her inciting incident so far into her novel?

She does so by building our apprehension. We begin to feel the same apprehension that Jonas feels. By repeatedly referencing a big, upcoming event shrouded in mystery, she builds our curiosity. And by repeatedly foreshadowing that things may go wrong at this event, she builds suspense. She guarantees that we’ll read her novel until we see the Ceremony. And once you’re a third of the way through any book, you’re far less likely to put it down. By building apprehension, she buys herself time. And once that time is spent, you’re invested in her novel.

So how can you apply this to your own writing? Well, not every tactic for hooking your reader will work for every novel. For example, the “Ice Monster” prologue would have felt very strange in a book like The Giver. But if your characters can know that the inciting incident is approaching, and if they have some inkling that something might go wrong, you can play into that. Shroud your inciting incident in just enough mystery to pique curiosity, but grant bits and pieces of information to reward your audience for reading on. Foreshadow how the incident may not go as planned.

In doing so, you’ll buy valuable time to introduce your readers to setting and character. By the time you answer their biggest questions, you’ll have them invested enough in your story. They won’t be able to help but finish reading.

– AJG

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