Number of entries received for the 2007 InnermoonLit Award for Best Short-Short Story to date: 165
As is the practice with most writing contests, we judge entries anonymously. Since ours is a fee-free online contest, we have the luxury of requiring that very little identifying information be attached to each entry.
But what if that one piece of information—your email address—compromises your anonymity? If your real name is embedded in your email address, should you open up a new Hotmail account and go incognito?
Of course you can, but you really needn’t bother. That is, unless you’re someone we know—a friend, relative, or former student, say. That’s the point of anonymity, to keep us from being biased in case anyone we know should ever enter.
Rest assured, if your name appears in your email address, we don’t Google you, or keep track of whether you’ve emailed us a question, or keep up with whether you’ve entered before, or really pay much attention to the address at all.
Like I’ve said before, I record the addresses when the entries come in, but when our reading period begins, we honestly don’t pay attention to the address on the entry. So don’t worry about going to a lot of trouble to establish a secret identity. At least not for our sakes.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Deadline is approaching
Number of entries received for the 2007 InnermoonLit Award for Best Short-Short Story to date: 141
Consider this your friendly reminder that the deadline for this year's short-short story contest is Saturday night at 11:59 p.m., EST.
I was hoping we'd get more entries than last year (194) but at this point it doesn't look like that's going to happen. There's usually a last-minute rush, though, so who knows. C'mon and get those puppies sent in! Anybody out there have 50 pieces of flash fiction lying around? ;) Or one will do.
This also means if you're chomping at the bit to enter the InnermoonLit Contest for Best First Chapter of a Novel contest, you will soon be able to do so. And yes, if you've snuck in your first chapter early, it has been disqualified. We begin accepting entries for that contest on September 1.
Consider this your friendly reminder that the deadline for this year's short-short story contest is Saturday night at 11:59 p.m., EST.
I was hoping we'd get more entries than last year (194) but at this point it doesn't look like that's going to happen. There's usually a last-minute rush, though, so who knows. C'mon and get those puppies sent in! Anybody out there have 50 pieces of flash fiction lying around? ;) Or one will do.
This also means if you're chomping at the bit to enter the InnermoonLit Contest for Best First Chapter of a Novel contest, you will soon be able to do so. And yes, if you've snuck in your first chapter early, it has been disqualified. We begin accepting entries for that contest on September 1.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Plot versus story
Number of entries received for the 2007 InnermoonLit Award for Best Short-Short Story to date: 132
In Technique in Fiction, Macauley and Lanning make what I think is a helpful distinction between story and plot. (Others have made this distinction too--I just thought I’d cite this book because it gives a pretty comprehensive overview on the subject.)
A story is a sequence of events prompted by the question, “And then what happened?” whereas a plot contains events causally linked to each other, prompting the question, “Why?”
Story, of course, is the primitive granddaddy of the two. The slice-of-life fiction I referred to last week would fall under the story category. Plot is an artifice and a much more recent invention. It’s a story structured into a basic pyramid shape, consisting of establishment of characters and situation, rising action, climax, and falling action (the names of these elements vary, but this is the simplest example). Real life doesn’t have a single plot in which events build upon each other neatly, causing other events, which bring about a dramatic moment of change or crisis, after which everyone dies or lives happily ever after, depending on whether the tale is a tragedy or comedy.
In real life, it is difficult if not impossible to establish causation. In fact, if you study logical fallacies, you know that one of the most common is post hoc, ergo propter hoc, or mistakenly assuming that one event caused another merely because it happened beforehand. Maybe that’s part of what makes fiction so satisfying: we can replay the chain of events and see exactly what caused everything to go to hell in a hand basket. Sure, we guess about the causes of the things that happen to us in our real lives, but when it comes down to it, it’s always just that: a guess.
As a writer, you may rail against the practice of following any plot model and think it’s formulaic, but I know when I think back over my favorite books, they all have some kind of discernible plot structure. Sometimes it’s better to use the tried and true guidelines of your predecessors than to try to completely reinvent the wheel.
In Technique in Fiction, Macauley and Lanning make what I think is a helpful distinction between story and plot. (Others have made this distinction too--I just thought I’d cite this book because it gives a pretty comprehensive overview on the subject.)
A story is a sequence of events prompted by the question, “And then what happened?” whereas a plot contains events causally linked to each other, prompting the question, “Why?”
Story, of course, is the primitive granddaddy of the two. The slice-of-life fiction I referred to last week would fall under the story category. Plot is an artifice and a much more recent invention. It’s a story structured into a basic pyramid shape, consisting of establishment of characters and situation, rising action, climax, and falling action (the names of these elements vary, but this is the simplest example). Real life doesn’t have a single plot in which events build upon each other neatly, causing other events, which bring about a dramatic moment of change or crisis, after which everyone dies or lives happily ever after, depending on whether the tale is a tragedy or comedy.
In real life, it is difficult if not impossible to establish causation. In fact, if you study logical fallacies, you know that one of the most common is post hoc, ergo propter hoc, or mistakenly assuming that one event caused another merely because it happened beforehand. Maybe that’s part of what makes fiction so satisfying: we can replay the chain of events and see exactly what caused everything to go to hell in a hand basket. Sure, we guess about the causes of the things that happen to us in our real lives, but when it comes down to it, it’s always just that: a guess.
As a writer, you may rail against the practice of following any plot model and think it’s formulaic, but I know when I think back over my favorite books, they all have some kind of discernible plot structure. Sometimes it’s better to use the tried and true guidelines of your predecessors than to try to completely reinvent the wheel.
Friday, August 24, 2007
A dachshund digression that’s probably TMI
Number of entries received for the 2007 InnermoonLit Award for Best Short-Short Story to date: 124
Forgive me. It’s the first week of school, and I’m having trouble focusing on anything other than surviving the madness. Thankfully the dogs' shenanigans never cease to provide fodder for the blog....
If you give it much thought at all, you probably think of urination as a simple means of emptying the bladder. Kasay would concur, but not brother Brodsky.
To him, peeing is a way of laying claim to what he believes is rightfully his. And he has his own bizarre sense of manifest destiny, firmly believing that once his stubby legs have trodden any given piece of dirt, it becomes his private property. On walks, he stores up his urine, strategically parsing it out on a shrub here, a sprig of monkey grass there. Hydrants and fence posts are his favorites. When Kasay relieves himself, Brodsky swoops in after to cover Kasay’s scent with his own.
So I had to laugh a few days ago when the karma gods paid Brodsky a visit. Our next door neighbors have a large shepherd mix named Jacob whom Brodsky can’t stand and who is often allowed to roam around off the leash on his walks.
Jacob happened to be out for his early morning potty break right when we were headed back into the house from ours. As soon as the boys saw Jacob, it was the usual mayhem: Kasay whining and straining at the leash, wanting to go make friends, Brodsky whipped into a fierce barking frenzy, straining just as hard (being considerate dogs, they want to make sure both my biceps get an equal workout), wanting to go attack. Jacob ran over and nuzzled with Kasay a minute before prancing up to our front door and peeing on the bush right beside it.
Brodsky was as infuriated as I’d ever seen him. His bark went from lion to tyrannosaurus rex level. The enemy urinating on the one bush he has to pass every time he enters and leaves his own home!
When Jacob finally went home and the dogs had settled down enough that I felt able to take a step without being pulled over, I led them to the door where, predictably, Brodsky made a beeline for the Jacob-scented shrub, intending to cover over the foul cur’s attempt at claiming his boxwood.
You’ve never seen such a disheartened dachshund as Brodsky when he realized that no matter how high he threw up his back leg, there was simply no way he could reach the much taller dog’s mark.
He’s been trying ever since, though, and will not pass by that shrub without marking it. Let’s hope we get a good rain soon, before he kills the poor plant.
Forgive me. It’s the first week of school, and I’m having trouble focusing on anything other than surviving the madness. Thankfully the dogs' shenanigans never cease to provide fodder for the blog....
If you give it much thought at all, you probably think of urination as a simple means of emptying the bladder. Kasay would concur, but not brother Brodsky.
To him, peeing is a way of laying claim to what he believes is rightfully his. And he has his own bizarre sense of manifest destiny, firmly believing that once his stubby legs have trodden any given piece of dirt, it becomes his private property. On walks, he stores up his urine, strategically parsing it out on a shrub here, a sprig of monkey grass there. Hydrants and fence posts are his favorites. When Kasay relieves himself, Brodsky swoops in after to cover Kasay’s scent with his own.
So I had to laugh a few days ago when the karma gods paid Brodsky a visit. Our next door neighbors have a large shepherd mix named Jacob whom Brodsky can’t stand and who is often allowed to roam around off the leash on his walks.
Jacob happened to be out for his early morning potty break right when we were headed back into the house from ours. As soon as the boys saw Jacob, it was the usual mayhem: Kasay whining and straining at the leash, wanting to go make friends, Brodsky whipped into a fierce barking frenzy, straining just as hard (being considerate dogs, they want to make sure both my biceps get an equal workout), wanting to go attack. Jacob ran over and nuzzled with Kasay a minute before prancing up to our front door and peeing on the bush right beside it.
Brodsky was as infuriated as I’d ever seen him. His bark went from lion to tyrannosaurus rex level. The enemy urinating on the one bush he has to pass every time he enters and leaves his own home!
When Jacob finally went home and the dogs had settled down enough that I felt able to take a step without being pulled over, I led them to the door where, predictably, Brodsky made a beeline for the Jacob-scented shrub, intending to cover over the foul cur’s attempt at claiming his boxwood.
You’ve never seen such a disheartened dachshund as Brodsky when he realized that no matter how high he threw up his back leg, there was simply no way he could reach the much taller dog’s mark.
He’s been trying ever since, though, and will not pass by that shrub without marking it. Let’s hope we get a good rain soon, before he kills the poor plant.
Monday, August 20, 2007
The winning ingredients: plot
Number of entries received for the 2007 InnermoonLit Award for Best Short-Short Story to date: 115
Some literary theorists have said all stories can be boiled down to one of two basic plots: Romeo and Juliet or David and Goliath. That tends to make the search to create plot seem deceptively simple. If you’ve ever written fiction, you know how difficult it can be to come up with a plot that is surprising yet feels inevitable, that is both unique and satisfying for the reader.
Plot is the driving force behind fiction, after all; it’s what makes a story a story. Our need for story is a primeval one, dating back to preliterate times when our ancestors gathered around fires asking, “And then what happened?”
I will admit that, for the short-short story contest, Brian and I prefer stories that are complete, with beginnings, middles, and endings, over the slice-of-life Carveresque pieces that leave us flipping the page over, wondering whether the last paragraph got cut off. For the best first chapter contest, we look for plot potential, whether a conflict has been established that’s interesting and complex enough to carry the reader through.
Friday, August 17, 2007
"Everybody Change Places!" by M. J. Amft, Part 3
Number of entries received for the 2007 InnermoonLit Award for Best Short-Short Story to date: 110
Click here to read "Everybody Change Places!" Part 1
Click here to read "Everybody Change Places!" Part 2
Sometimes the hunch to try “everyone change places!” comes partway through a story. One of mine was coming along nicely. A funny, bossy mother was advising her daughter not to moon over a summer romance, waiting for a Christmas reunion. In the background (away at college) there was a sympathetic sister. The characters were lively and the dialogue bright, but who really listens to a mother or sister? Change places! I sent the girl off to college, killed off the sister, shoved mama in the background, and gave the girl a funny, bossy roommate and sold that story.
I once saw a young nursemaid at a summer resort. She was dimwitted, with a homely face and a figure like Sophia Loren’s. A young boy was snowing her but behind her back snickering about the “good time” he was going to have with her before he dumped her. I tried writing a story from her point of view, but I couldn’t identify with a stupid, slow but physically full-blown girl, and I didn’t think Seventeen readers could either. So I tried changing point of view to the boy’s side. But no one can see himself as a complete cad, and the boy began developing redeeming features, seeing the girl as an unfortunate human being, not just “a body.” Still she was out of his class, and when (on the last page) his snobbish cousins, a boy and a girl, appeared, he had to snub the girl to save face. Just before slipping the story into the brown envelope, I read it one more time. The hero seemed unbelievable. He had gone through too many character changes in too short a time, and the last-page cousins interested me more than anyone.
Out came my lethal pen. I killed off the hero. I had the girl cousin become the main character and the storyteller. She became the one who met and befriended the voluptuous dimwit. She sat helplessly by while the cad cousin made his plans, and a totally new hero came out of nowhere and wrapped the story up in a surprising and most satisfactory way. That story sold.
It is hard to mutilate your characters. It is hard to write fiction. You have to start with so little: a brief scene glimpsed; a sentence overhead; an old emotion suddenly remembered; an outstanding face; someone’s trite tale of woe or joy. From these small kernels you must create characters who are real; who act, react, and interact. But as a fiction writer you have one big advantage. If your characters are not right for the part, you can command them to change roles. They are your characters, and if it will make for a better story, you can make a handsome hero change places with an ugly girl. If there is something wrong with your mother, you can try her out as a father. If a big brother becomes too sentimental, you can tell him to be a little sister.
Be bossy with your characters. Shove them around. Be courageous. Pick up your pen and give them the order: “Everybody change places! Now!” While your pen is slashing—altering genders, changing ages, shifting loyalties—you’ll feel pain, and sometimes it won’t even work. But if it does—ah! Your labor will be forgotten in the knowledge that thousands will read your story; some will reread it; some will share it with friends; and some will never completely forget it.
Click here to read "Everybody Change Places!" Part 1
Click here to read "Everybody Change Places!" Part 2
Sometimes the hunch to try “everyone change places!” comes partway through a story. One of mine was coming along nicely. A funny, bossy mother was advising her daughter not to moon over a summer romance, waiting for a Christmas reunion. In the background (away at college) there was a sympathetic sister. The characters were lively and the dialogue bright, but who really listens to a mother or sister? Change places! I sent the girl off to college, killed off the sister, shoved mama in the background, and gave the girl a funny, bossy roommate and sold that story.
I once saw a young nursemaid at a summer resort. She was dimwitted, with a homely face and a figure like Sophia Loren’s. A young boy was snowing her but behind her back snickering about the “good time” he was going to have with her before he dumped her. I tried writing a story from her point of view, but I couldn’t identify with a stupid, slow but physically full-blown girl, and I didn’t think Seventeen readers could either. So I tried changing point of view to the boy’s side. But no one can see himself as a complete cad, and the boy began developing redeeming features, seeing the girl as an unfortunate human being, not just “a body.” Still she was out of his class, and when (on the last page) his snobbish cousins, a boy and a girl, appeared, he had to snub the girl to save face. Just before slipping the story into the brown envelope, I read it one more time. The hero seemed unbelievable. He had gone through too many character changes in too short a time, and the last-page cousins interested me more than anyone.
Out came my lethal pen. I killed off the hero. I had the girl cousin become the main character and the storyteller. She became the one who met and befriended the voluptuous dimwit. She sat helplessly by while the cad cousin made his plans, and a totally new hero came out of nowhere and wrapped the story up in a surprising and most satisfactory way. That story sold.
It is hard to mutilate your characters. It is hard to write fiction. You have to start with so little: a brief scene glimpsed; a sentence overhead; an old emotion suddenly remembered; an outstanding face; someone’s trite tale of woe or joy. From these small kernels you must create characters who are real; who act, react, and interact. But as a fiction writer you have one big advantage. If your characters are not right for the part, you can command them to change roles. They are your characters, and if it will make for a better story, you can make a handsome hero change places with an ugly girl. If there is something wrong with your mother, you can try her out as a father. If a big brother becomes too sentimental, you can tell him to be a little sister.
Be bossy with your characters. Shove them around. Be courageous. Pick up your pen and give them the order: “Everybody change places! Now!” While your pen is slashing—altering genders, changing ages, shifting loyalties—you’ll feel pain, and sometimes it won’t even work. But if it does—ah! Your labor will be forgotten in the knowledge that thousands will read your story; some will reread it; some will share it with friends; and some will never completely forget it.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
"Everybody Change Places!" by M. J. Amft, Part 2
Number of entries received for the 2007 InnermoonLit Award for Best Short-Short Story to date: 105
Click here to read "Everybody Change Places" Part 1
I had once known a real Ronnie, a very handsome, very wealthy Ivy Leaguer who broke a tiny bone in his wrist. That bone would not heal. For nine months casts were removed only to be replaced immediately, He was a boy who had everything, including a swimming pool, a tennis court, his own baseball diamond, and a glamorous girlfriend. But he also had that damned cast. He seemed like a good character for a Seventeen story.
So while he was off in New York having surgery on the wrist, I dreamed up the candy striper. As soon as the real Ronnie met the make-believe Gay, the story flowed as fast as I could write. But that ending…
I uncapped my all-powerful pen. With it I yanked Gay out of that red and white uniform. I made her much more beautiful, very rich, and slightly spoiled. And I broke her wrist. I pulled Ronnie out of bed, healed his bone, took away all his money and rich friends, and made him a lowly part-time City College student and lab technician. I pulled Gay’s drab visitor out of the past, stuck him in the present, changed him into a girl who liked Ronnie, gave him a nurse’s aide uniform, and christened him Jenny. I could do it. They were my characters.
When beautiful Gay left that hospital, Ronnie didn’t wait, hoping for a call. He called her. When she wasn’t home, he called again, and when she was busy he asked her when she would not be busy. And he got the message, loud and clear, got it in a way that no girl ever would; because he was a boy, with that masculine inner core of toughness, he could appreciate a final twist of irony that I added.
I re-typed the battle-scarred manuscript and sold it.
To be continued...
Click here to read "Everybody Change Places" Part 1
I had once known a real Ronnie, a very handsome, very wealthy Ivy Leaguer who broke a tiny bone in his wrist. That bone would not heal. For nine months casts were removed only to be replaced immediately, He was a boy who had everything, including a swimming pool, a tennis court, his own baseball diamond, and a glamorous girlfriend. But he also had that damned cast. He seemed like a good character for a Seventeen story.
So while he was off in New York having surgery on the wrist, I dreamed up the candy striper. As soon as the real Ronnie met the make-believe Gay, the story flowed as fast as I could write. But that ending…
I uncapped my all-powerful pen. With it I yanked Gay out of that red and white uniform. I made her much more beautiful, very rich, and slightly spoiled. And I broke her wrist. I pulled Ronnie out of bed, healed his bone, took away all his money and rich friends, and made him a lowly part-time City College student and lab technician. I pulled Gay’s drab visitor out of the past, stuck him in the present, changed him into a girl who liked Ronnie, gave him a nurse’s aide uniform, and christened him Jenny. I could do it. They were my characters.
When beautiful Gay left that hospital, Ronnie didn’t wait, hoping for a call. He called her. When she wasn’t home, he called again, and when she was busy he asked her when she would not be busy. And he got the message, loud and clear, got it in a way that no girl ever would; because he was a boy, with that masculine inner core of toughness, he could appreciate a final twist of irony that I added.
I re-typed the battle-scarred manuscript and sold it.
To be continued...
Monday, August 13, 2007
“Everybody Change Places!” Part 1
Number of entries received for the 2007 InnermoonLit Award for Best Short-Short Story to date: 102
Despite the fact that this is going to make my entries seem lifeless and uninspired in comparison, I’m going to have a guest blogger this week. I dug up this article, written by my late grandmother M. J. Amft and published in The Writer magazine in 1969 and thought it’d be a shame not to share it. And it fits perfectly with our current topic of characterization.
I need to get a more complete bio put together, but in the meantime, here’s the ‘About the Author’ blurb they published at the bottom of the first column: “M. J. Amft has had more than thirty stories published in Seventeen. Two of these were reprinted in an anthology, Seventeen from Seventeen (Macmillan), another in a high school literature textbook, Counterpoint in Literature (Scott, Foresman), and another translated and reprinted in a Swedish teenage magazine, Bild. Mrs. Amft’s record is an encouraging one for the free-lance writer, since, she writes, ‘I have never had an agent, never had any “ins” with anyone, have never met a Seventeen editor, did all my own typing (even though I’m a rotten typist), and had to be on duty as “Mother” during all the writing.’”
EVERYBODY CHANGE PLACES!
By M. J. Amft
Your story has an instant-appeal beginning, a smooth-toned, fast-paced middle, and an end. It is slanted for a definite market, and it’s all typed, ready to go. But there is something wrong with that story.
This may be a story saved by, “When I say, ‘Go!’ everybody change places!”
No matter that your characters are very much alive. You made them, and you can unmake them. They are your characters, and you can shake them all up and turn mothers into fathers, boys into girls, minor villains into major heroes. You have the power. All you need is the courage and a pen.
My neatly typed story was the tale of a glamorous boy, stuck in a hospital bed, bored to death, and happy to have a nice little candy striper while away the dreary hours. When he left the hospital, he forgot all about her and went back to his glamorous life. You saw the story from her viewpoint, and you knew how painful it was for her. She took it philosophically—remembering that she too had treated a devoted but drab visitor of her own, when she was once a patient, in much the same way—but you knew how crushed she was that with this charming boy it was all over, permanently.
“All over, permanently!” That was what was wrong! A girl never realizes that it is all over (unless she reads a wedding announcement, and this boy was too young for that). A girl always has hope. Maybe he is trying to reach her and somehow just missing her each time. Maybe he is ill or his parents have whisked him halfway around the world. A girl can go on hoping and on and on waiting. But boys don’t have to wait and hope! Boys can, and do, pursue the issue.
“O.K., Ronnie,” I said. “You are going to be a girl, and you, my little candy striper, are going to be a boy.”
To be continued…
Despite the fact that this is going to make my entries seem lifeless and uninspired in comparison, I’m going to have a guest blogger this week. I dug up this article, written by my late grandmother M. J. Amft and published in The Writer magazine in 1969 and thought it’d be a shame not to share it. And it fits perfectly with our current topic of characterization.
I need to get a more complete bio put together, but in the meantime, here’s the ‘About the Author’ blurb they published at the bottom of the first column: “M. J. Amft has had more than thirty stories published in Seventeen. Two of these were reprinted in an anthology, Seventeen from Seventeen (Macmillan), another in a high school literature textbook, Counterpoint in Literature (Scott, Foresman), and another translated and reprinted in a Swedish teenage magazine, Bild. Mrs. Amft’s record is an encouraging one for the free-lance writer, since, she writes, ‘I have never had an agent, never had any “ins” with anyone, have never met a Seventeen editor, did all my own typing (even though I’m a rotten typist), and had to be on duty as “Mother” during all the writing.’”
EVERYBODY CHANGE PLACES!
By M. J. Amft
Your story has an instant-appeal beginning, a smooth-toned, fast-paced middle, and an end. It is slanted for a definite market, and it’s all typed, ready to go. But there is something wrong with that story.
This may be a story saved by, “When I say, ‘Go!’ everybody change places!”
No matter that your characters are very much alive. You made them, and you can unmake them. They are your characters, and you can shake them all up and turn mothers into fathers, boys into girls, minor villains into major heroes. You have the power. All you need is the courage and a pen.
My neatly typed story was the tale of a glamorous boy, stuck in a hospital bed, bored to death, and happy to have a nice little candy striper while away the dreary hours. When he left the hospital, he forgot all about her and went back to his glamorous life. You saw the story from her viewpoint, and you knew how painful it was for her. She took it philosophically—remembering that she too had treated a devoted but drab visitor of her own, when she was once a patient, in much the same way—but you knew how crushed she was that with this charming boy it was all over, permanently.
“All over, permanently!” That was what was wrong! A girl never realizes that it is all over (unless she reads a wedding announcement, and this boy was too young for that). A girl always has hope. Maybe he is trying to reach her and somehow just missing her each time. Maybe he is ill or his parents have whisked him halfway around the world. A girl can go on hoping and on and on waiting. But boys don’t have to wait and hope! Boys can, and do, pursue the issue.
“O.K., Ronnie,” I said. “You are going to be a girl, and you, my little candy striper, are going to be a boy.”
To be continued…
Friday, August 10, 2007
A tip about antiheroes
Number of entries received for the 2007 InnermoonLit Award for Best Short-Short Story to date: 97
In How to Write Best Selling Fiction, Dean Koontz emphasizes the importance of a likeable main character. Then again, that advice was published twenty-five years ago…and besides, maybe your goal isn’t to write a bestseller. (Don’t laugh.)
If you decide to go the antihero route but still want to have broad appeal, I have two words for you: ironic distance. This is your subtle way of showing the reader that you are not your main character. You know she’s flawed and hateful, and you do not approve of her actions.
How does one establish ironic distance? You could go into another character’s POV and let him say what you really think about your antihero, or have someone tell off the jerk, or of course your could turn karma loose on her.
Reading about a sleaze who just keeps sleazing around damaging people with impunity may keep the pages turning, but it can leave your reader feeling depressed and dirty. Reading about a sleaze who gets a brilliant telling-off and/or a satisfying comeuppance can be cathartic and leave you reader cheering, “Thus be it ever to tyrants!”
In How to Write Best Selling Fiction, Dean Koontz emphasizes the importance of a likeable main character. Then again, that advice was published twenty-five years ago…and besides, maybe your goal isn’t to write a bestseller. (Don’t laugh.)
If you decide to go the antihero route but still want to have broad appeal, I have two words for you: ironic distance. This is your subtle way of showing the reader that you are not your main character. You know she’s flawed and hateful, and you do not approve of her actions.
How does one establish ironic distance? You could go into another character’s POV and let him say what you really think about your antihero, or have someone tell off the jerk, or of course your could turn karma loose on her.
Reading about a sleaze who just keeps sleazing around damaging people with impunity may keep the pages turning, but it can leave your reader feeling depressed and dirty. Reading about a sleaze who gets a brilliant telling-off and/or a satisfying comeuppance can be cathartic and leave you reader cheering, “Thus be it ever to tyrants!”
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Back to character likeableness
Number of entries received for the 2007 InnermoonLit Award for Best Short-Short Story to date: 93
A recent Time article (“Antiheroine Chic” from the 8/6 issue) got me thinking about the whole sticky subject of likeable characters again. The article’s premise is that Tony Soprano single-handedly changed television forever, opening the floodgates for more complex, unlikeable main characters.
It’s funny because Brian and I, having recently Netflixed all the back seasons of The Sopranos, were talking just the other day about whether an antihero as dark as Tony would be as popular in book form. We concluded that he probably wouldn’t. A novel is a much bigger commitment of your time and mental energy than a weekly television show. I’m not sure a mass audience would want to read themselves to sleep with Tony and Carmela every night.
A novel with a despicable main character is likely to generate the dreaded criticisms, “I didn’t connect with the character,” or “I didn’t care about the character”—if not from agents and editors who reject it, then from readers. It is a tricky road to travel. Like everything writing-related, it’s all subjective, and a main character that gives one person the warm fuzzies could very well make another’s skin crawl.
Let’s continue with the example of Tony Soprano. The Time article calls him a “good-bad guy,” a “villain with sympathetic qualities.” I’d call him a straight antihero with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Still, it was hard to stop watching the trainwreck, although I’ll admit I was never pulling for T. Which I think is why it would be a hard sell as a book. Mainstream audiences don’t tend to read about someone they aren’t in some way rooting for.
Of course Brian and I are lucky; as contest judges, we don’t have to concern ourselves with marketability, just with how intriguing and believable the characters are.
A recent Time article (“Antiheroine Chic” from the 8/6 issue) got me thinking about the whole sticky subject of likeable characters again. The article’s premise is that Tony Soprano single-handedly changed television forever, opening the floodgates for more complex, unlikeable main characters.
It’s funny because Brian and I, having recently Netflixed all the back seasons of The Sopranos, were talking just the other day about whether an antihero as dark as Tony would be as popular in book form. We concluded that he probably wouldn’t. A novel is a much bigger commitment of your time and mental energy than a weekly television show. I’m not sure a mass audience would want to read themselves to sleep with Tony and Carmela every night.
A novel with a despicable main character is likely to generate the dreaded criticisms, “I didn’t connect with the character,” or “I didn’t care about the character”—if not from agents and editors who reject it, then from readers. It is a tricky road to travel. Like everything writing-related, it’s all subjective, and a main character that gives one person the warm fuzzies could very well make another’s skin crawl.
Let’s continue with the example of Tony Soprano. The Time article calls him a “good-bad guy,” a “villain with sympathetic qualities.” I’d call him a straight antihero with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Still, it was hard to stop watching the trainwreck, although I’ll admit I was never pulling for T. Which I think is why it would be a hard sell as a book. Mainstream audiences don’t tend to read about someone they aren’t in some way rooting for.
Of course Brian and I are lucky; as contest judges, we don’t have to concern ourselves with marketability, just with how intriguing and believable the characters are.
Monday, August 6, 2007
DD: Doctors of Desqueakification
Number of entries received for the 2007 InnermoonLit Award for Best Short-Short Story to date: 87
It’s too damned hot to think about writing today…which can only mean it’s time for another dachshund digression.
Some dogs play fetch, others hunt, or balance dog biscuits on their snouts, or leap up to catch Frisbees in mid-air, or even warn their masters of impending seizures. I’ll admit that our little guys’ arsenal of tricks is a bit more limited.
Sure, they can sit, heel, and come when called. They can even shake hands dachshund-style (while lying on their backs). But we have discovered their biggest talent: they are champion squeaky disablers. It’s quite an impressive sight, really.
For their one-year anniversary, we bought the dogs matching stuffed cows made of sturdy canvas. We’ve learned to avoid the average furry dog toys. Those are dismembered in seconds. These were heavy duty--cylindrical shaped, with no appendages to tear loose other than the two ears and the snouty nose. Which meant they lasted one whole day.
Kasay and Brodsky’s desqueaking technique is quite methodical. First, they locate the squeaker and clamp down on it repeatedly until the plastic is pierced and the noise is silenced. At least to human ears. Apparently, the dogs can still hear the plastic bladder faintly clicking deep inside and will not rest until, thread by thread, the animal’s outer layer is breached and the squeaker removed and chewed into pulp. Then comes the disembowelment, in which every last bit of fluff is removed from the incision and flung about until the floor looks like it’s covered with clouds. Left behind is the deflated outer layer, which the dogs continue to chew on indefinitely until I hide it away.
Should you disturb the dogs during their surgery for, say, a potty break, they will not be distracted from the task at hand. Brodsky is particularly single-minded and will clamp down on the toy for dear life and give you a fierce growl if you’re foolish enough to try to take it away from him. Best just to let him bring it outside while he does his business. Kasay is a bit easier to distract and will drop anything if you wave a treat in front of his nose.
Day 366 of the occupation, and the dachshunds are training me well. Not only do they devour stuffed toys at $5 a pop, they have devised yet another means of tricking me into showering them with snacks.
Here are your visual aids.
Stage One: Kasay locating the exact position of the squeaker:
Stage Three: Brodsky in the middle of a fluff-ectomy
It’s too damned hot to think about writing today…which can only mean it’s time for another dachshund digression.
Some dogs play fetch, others hunt, or balance dog biscuits on their snouts, or leap up to catch Frisbees in mid-air, or even warn their masters of impending seizures. I’ll admit that our little guys’ arsenal of tricks is a bit more limited.
Sure, they can sit, heel, and come when called. They can even shake hands dachshund-style (while lying on their backs). But we have discovered their biggest talent: they are champion squeaky disablers. It’s quite an impressive sight, really.
For their one-year anniversary, we bought the dogs matching stuffed cows made of sturdy canvas. We’ve learned to avoid the average furry dog toys. Those are dismembered in seconds. These were heavy duty--cylindrical shaped, with no appendages to tear loose other than the two ears and the snouty nose. Which meant they lasted one whole day.
Kasay and Brodsky’s desqueaking technique is quite methodical. First, they locate the squeaker and clamp down on it repeatedly until the plastic is pierced and the noise is silenced. At least to human ears. Apparently, the dogs can still hear the plastic bladder faintly clicking deep inside and will not rest until, thread by thread, the animal’s outer layer is breached and the squeaker removed and chewed into pulp. Then comes the disembowelment, in which every last bit of fluff is removed from the incision and flung about until the floor looks like it’s covered with clouds. Left behind is the deflated outer layer, which the dogs continue to chew on indefinitely until I hide it away.
Should you disturb the dogs during their surgery for, say, a potty break, they will not be distracted from the task at hand. Brodsky is particularly single-minded and will clamp down on the toy for dear life and give you a fierce growl if you’re foolish enough to try to take it away from him. Best just to let him bring it outside while he does his business. Kasay is a bit easier to distract and will drop anything if you wave a treat in front of his nose.
Day 366 of the occupation, and the dachshunds are training me well. Not only do they devour stuffed toys at $5 a pop, they have devised yet another means of tricking me into showering them with snacks.
Here are your visual aids.
Stage One: Kasay locating the exact position of the squeaker:
Stage Three: Brodsky in the middle of a fluff-ectomy
Friday, August 3, 2007
Notes on characterization: consistency
Number of entries received for the 2007 InnermoonLit Award for Best Short-Short Story to date: 85
In a piece of fiction, character inconsistencies make the character less believable and hurt the writer’s credibility. I’m not talking about quirky, unpredictable, stereotype-busting characters (those are good things), I mean unintentional inconsistencies, errors that result from the writer not knowing his character well enough, small things he probably read right over but that stick out to the reader.
For example, you might have your animal rights activist hero come home and casually kick the cat after a hard day of protesting dog fighting…or your poverty-stricken teenagers from the ‘hood might use an expensive sushi restaurant as their favorite hangout spot. Without a lot of explaining, your reader is going to suspect you don’t know much about what it’s like to be an animal rights activist or an underprivileged young person.
Hollywood is especially guilty of this as far as settings go. Have you ever noticed how, in the movies, characters who are supposed to be financially struggling often manage to live in spacious, lovely homes or apartments? Even when the setting is a really expensive real estate market like the West Coast or Manhattan? I guess these directors are more concerned about visual appeal than realism.
I think a lot of times character slip-ups are the result of a writer writing what she doesn’t know. She thinks to herself how interesting it would be to have her main character work as a NASCAR pit crew chief. She herself has never watched a single race and knows nothing about auto mechanics. And that’s fine—it will be a challenge, but with a lot of research, a good writer can pull it off. But even better would be if this writer could seek out someone with a connection to this type of person (a pit crew worker would be fantastic, but even the spouse or cousin or sibling of one would be better than nothing) who could read her draft and point out anything glaringly out of place.
All the little details of your character should add up to form a cohesive picture in the reader’s mind, so be on the lookout for these types of errors when you’re revising, and by all means, get an expert reader if at all possible. You can use an inconsistency to give your character some interesting quirks and dimensionality, but if that’s your intention, you have to draw attention to the inconsistency and explain it.
So if for example you see your no-nonsense, frugal grandmother character throwing on a pair of cashmere socks, you should probably either revise that and make her wear her late husband’s ancient athletic socks with the toes blown out or add a line explaining that granny has a weakness for fancy accessories as her one extravagance. Otherwise it just reads like a mistake.
In a piece of fiction, character inconsistencies make the character less believable and hurt the writer’s credibility. I’m not talking about quirky, unpredictable, stereotype-busting characters (those are good things), I mean unintentional inconsistencies, errors that result from the writer not knowing his character well enough, small things he probably read right over but that stick out to the reader.
For example, you might have your animal rights activist hero come home and casually kick the cat after a hard day of protesting dog fighting…or your poverty-stricken teenagers from the ‘hood might use an expensive sushi restaurant as their favorite hangout spot. Without a lot of explaining, your reader is going to suspect you don’t know much about what it’s like to be an animal rights activist or an underprivileged young person.
Hollywood is especially guilty of this as far as settings go. Have you ever noticed how, in the movies, characters who are supposed to be financially struggling often manage to live in spacious, lovely homes or apartments? Even when the setting is a really expensive real estate market like the West Coast or Manhattan? I guess these directors are more concerned about visual appeal than realism.
I think a lot of times character slip-ups are the result of a writer writing what she doesn’t know. She thinks to herself how interesting it would be to have her main character work as a NASCAR pit crew chief. She herself has never watched a single race and knows nothing about auto mechanics. And that’s fine—it will be a challenge, but with a lot of research, a good writer can pull it off. But even better would be if this writer could seek out someone with a connection to this type of person (a pit crew worker would be fantastic, but even the spouse or cousin or sibling of one would be better than nothing) who could read her draft and point out anything glaringly out of place.
All the little details of your character should add up to form a cohesive picture in the reader’s mind, so be on the lookout for these types of errors when you’re revising, and by all means, get an expert reader if at all possible. You can use an inconsistency to give your character some interesting quirks and dimensionality, but if that’s your intention, you have to draw attention to the inconsistency and explain it.
So if for example you see your no-nonsense, frugal grandmother character throwing on a pair of cashmere socks, you should probably either revise that and make her wear her late husband’s ancient athletic socks with the toes blown out or add a line explaining that granny has a weakness for fancy accessories as her one extravagance. Otherwise it just reads like a mistake.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Character names
Number of entries received for the 2007 InnermoonLit Award for Best Short-Short Story to date: 82
While we don’t take them into consideration when scoring your contest submissions, I will admit I am a bit obsessed with character names. Maybe it’s leftover from my days as an English major. Unlike those science and math majors (of whom I continue to be jealous), our knowledge didn’t necessarily build on itself from basic concepts to advanced ones; the stories you read as a senior didn’t necessarily have anything to do with (or require that you remember) the stories you’d read as a freshman. Sadly, I’ve forgotten much of the literature I’ve read over the years. I have an especially poor memory for character names, so I am always glad to see unusual ones.
Cholly Breedlove, Ophelia, Addie Bundren, Tea Cake—those’ll find a spot in your brain to latch onto for a good long time. I find it difficult to get into a book when the characters all have bland names—particularly when they start with the same letter or are similar in some other way. I’m sorry, but if you have a Stephen, a Steve, and a Stephanie, I’m going to have a hard time keeping them distinct in my head. You probably know multiple people named John and Mary in real life, but it’s confusing for your reader to let your characters share names, unless of course you want to use last names or nicknames.
You can push unique names too far. A character’s name, in my mind, conveys something about the character, but it says something about the character’s parents too. The illusion you want to create is that this is a real person, named by another real person or persons, not by you, The Author. So if your heroine is a 35-year-old New Age hippie chick named Chakra, you’d better not say her parents are conservative Southern Baptists, unless you reveal that Chakra chose that moniker herself and that her birth name was something more along the lines of Charlene.
The more off-the-wall character names you use, the more memorable they will be, but the more likely it is that you need to explain the name’s origin somewhere in your story. Brian is really good at this. His hero in Morning Glory’s Long Lost Order of Worship is called Steer McAlilly. Within the first 30 or so pages of the novel, Brian tells the story of how the nickname ‘Steer’ came about. It’s a funny story and one that reveals a lot about Steer, his father, and his grandfather. So not only does the reader get an unforgettable name but also a glimpse into the family dynamics and a sense of the character as a real, three-dimensional person, not a phantasm plucked from the author’s imagination.
While we don’t take them into consideration when scoring your contest submissions, I will admit I am a bit obsessed with character names. Maybe it’s leftover from my days as an English major. Unlike those science and math majors (of whom I continue to be jealous), our knowledge didn’t necessarily build on itself from basic concepts to advanced ones; the stories you read as a senior didn’t necessarily have anything to do with (or require that you remember) the stories you’d read as a freshman. Sadly, I’ve forgotten much of the literature I’ve read over the years. I have an especially poor memory for character names, so I am always glad to see unusual ones.
Cholly Breedlove, Ophelia, Addie Bundren, Tea Cake—those’ll find a spot in your brain to latch onto for a good long time. I find it difficult to get into a book when the characters all have bland names—particularly when they start with the same letter or are similar in some other way. I’m sorry, but if you have a Stephen, a Steve, and a Stephanie, I’m going to have a hard time keeping them distinct in my head. You probably know multiple people named John and Mary in real life, but it’s confusing for your reader to let your characters share names, unless of course you want to use last names or nicknames.
You can push unique names too far. A character’s name, in my mind, conveys something about the character, but it says something about the character’s parents too. The illusion you want to create is that this is a real person, named by another real person or persons, not by you, The Author. So if your heroine is a 35-year-old New Age hippie chick named Chakra, you’d better not say her parents are conservative Southern Baptists, unless you reveal that Chakra chose that moniker herself and that her birth name was something more along the lines of Charlene.
The more off-the-wall character names you use, the more memorable they will be, but the more likely it is that you need to explain the name’s origin somewhere in your story. Brian is really good at this. His hero in Morning Glory’s Long Lost Order of Worship is called Steer McAlilly. Within the first 30 or so pages of the novel, Brian tells the story of how the nickname ‘Steer’ came about. It’s a funny story and one that reveals a lot about Steer, his father, and his grandfather. So not only does the reader get an unforgettable name but also a glimpse into the family dynamics and a sense of the character as a real, three-dimensional person, not a phantasm plucked from the author’s imagination.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
