Mabfan's Musings

[Rule quoted from Robert's Rules of Writing: 101 Unconventional Lessons Every Writer Needs to Know by Robert Masello (Writer's Digest Books, 2005). See my original post for the rules of this discussion.]

It turns out that I'm very glad I waited this long to discuss Robert's Rule #72, simply because I now have a better understanding of grids and the geometry of a page.

With this rule, Masello discusses the look of prose on a page. He points out that if you are trying to read a long block of prose, such a paragraph that doesn't seem to come to an end, you're more likely to have trouble absorbing everything in the paragraph. (All right, he doesn't say that exactly, but it's what I infer from what he does say.) Masello suggests looking at your longer paragraphs and breaking them up into more digestible chunks.

I have to say, nowhere do I find this piece of advice more relevant or useful than for those of us who write prose intended for the Internet. Even though a long chunk of unbroken prose in a book might make me pause, I still find myself eventually able to get through it all. But that's usually because by the time I encounter that chunk of prose, I've already made a commitment to read the book and I'm already through quite a bit of it.

On the Internet, I find that I'm inundated with articles and blog posts, and that far too many of them include longish paragraphs that force me to evaluate how much I'm actually inclined (or able) to read the whole thing. I'm far more likely to read something if it's either short or broken up into smaller pieces. Not only is it less intimidating at first glance, but it usually implies that the writer has thought through the piece before composing it, and has done their best to make it easier to read.

Which brings me to the geometry of a page. Even though I've been reading my whole life (or at least since I was two), and I've been working in publishing for a while, I still had difficulty grasping how vital the look of a page is for the reading experience. Now that I've taken the course Publication Design and Print Production Strategies, I have a much better understanding of how to design a grid to make a page look welcoming. And, of course, the more welcoming the page, the more likely someone will choose to read the text contained therein.

I only wish I had had more time to do that here.

Copyright © Michael A. Burstein

[Rule quoted from Robert's Rules of Writing: 101 Unconventional Lessons Every Writer Needs to Know by Robert Masello (Writer's Digest Books, 2005). See my original post for the rules of this discussion.]

Procrastination.

With rule #70, Masello tackles that issue, one that seems to affect all writers at some point or another. Often it feels a lot easier to put off doing our writing than it does to sit down actually do it. As others have noted in their own essays on procrastination, many writers would sometimes rather clean the bathroom than face the keyboard.

Masello's own advice on how to avoid procrastination hearkens back to his school days. He noticed that he always felt uneasy when he put off doing an assignment, and discovered that the only way to relieve this tension was to actually do his work. If he didn't do his work, but spent his time in leisure instead, he noticed that he couldn't really enjoy himself. For him, procrastinating simply wasn't that good an option.

So his main suggestion to fight procrastination is mostly just to do it, because of how it can affect you emotionally. To some extent, I can understand where he's coming from; I too get antsy if I put off work for too long. But on the other hand, the advice he offers isn't very proactive. If you're not the sort of person who gets antsy, you're not going to be able to follow it.

And sometimes, you won't be able to follow it even if you are. On a personal note, this past year I've had a handful of writing projects with deadlines, and I have to admit that I have heard the siren song of procrastination myself. Although I do set goals for myself, like many others, I don't always meet them the way I should. So how do I tackle the issue?

In one of his many essays on writing, "Do It Anyway," Mystery Grand Master Lawrence Block gives advice that is pretty much encapsulated in the title of the essay. He tends to feel that procrastination is rooted in fear that the work you create won't be good enough. The key to facing this fear, he says, is just to do the writing anyway. Chances are it won't be as bad as you think.

(It's possible that I'm conflating two different essays here. If so, there's no need to correct me, as the point is still a valid one.)

But how do we turn Masello's and Block's advice into practical action? I have three techniques I've used to fight procrastination, which might help you as well.

1. Set yourself a daily page or word quota.

It's probably the oldest piece of advice in the book; I know I've heard it repeated too often to count. But it really works. If you say to yourself, today I have to write 500 words (or 1000 words, or 250 words) before going to bed, and you really stick with it, you'll find that the work gets done faster than you expect. As Gay and Joe Haldeman like to say, a page a day is a book a year. Surely those of us who call ourselves writers can eke out the time to write a page a day. Or at least a sentence.

2. Promise yourself a carrot when you're done.

I've also seen this piece of advice elsewhere. In the past, writers used to promise themselves a chocolate or a few pages of reading someone else's novel once they finished their daily quota. Some writers give themselves the license to watch television after they're done. In our modern world, I've known writers who refuse to check their email or anything else on the Internet until they've finished their word count for the day. Find a reward that works for you.

3. Have someone else provide the stick.

This is a technique that I haven't seen recommended elsewhere, so if you offer it to others, be sure to give me credit (he said with a smile). When I took a year off to write full-time, I knew I would need someone else watching over me to make sure I actually got my work done. Since the only reason I had this opportunity was because Nomi was willing to support us for the year, she in essence became my boss. I had a daily page quota, and every day I had to email those pages to her so she would know that I had gotten them done. By our arrangement, I couldn't slack off, because if I did, I'd be falling down on the job. And treating writing as a job, where your boss can fire you if you don't get your work done, can be one of the best spurs for actually getting your work done.

Any other techniques for avoiding procrastination that others would like to offer? My guess is that we'd all benefit from such advice.

Copyright © Michael A. Burstein

[Rule quoted from Robert's Rules of Writing: 101 Unconventional Lessons Every Writer Needs to Know by Robert Masello (Writer's Digest Books, 2005). See my original post for the rules of this discussion.]

With rule #68, Masello warns us against writing in a fit of passion. He seems to be reacting to a piece of advice he's found in other books, which is to write when you feel most passionate about something. But he warns that such writing tends to come out less than coherent, and will most likely need a good dose of revision.

From my own experience, I have to say that I tend to disagree with this rule. Perhaps I'm confusing passion with obsession, but in general I've found that the stories I'm most passionate about are the ones that flow the easiest, and the ones that garner most of the attention.

If I may, allow me to discuss how I tend to come to write one of my own stories. (Yes, I know this is a digression. I'm using Robert's Rules as a springboard in this case.) What usually happens is that I start with an idea. Or, rather, I should say that an idea comes to me. Furthermore, the idea comes to stay for a long time. It takes up residence in my mind, and refuses to even consider leaving until I've started to jot down a few notes on how to turn it into a story. In fact, in order to exorcise the idea completely, I generally have to write the story, submit it somewhere, and see it published. (Examples of such stories include "Time Ablaze" and "Paying It Forward.")

So when I'm obsessed by a story, I tend to write it next. And, interestingly enough, those stories usually require the least revision. It's the stories whose words flow like molasses in winter that require the most rewriting.

So does this mean I would dismiss rule #68 entirely? Well, not quite. Because I can understand how in the throes of passionate writing, writers might rush through so many thoughts that they lose the narrative thread that holds the words together. To me, Masello's rule #68 is just another way of saying that it's always a good idea to take a second look at your work before you offer it up for publication.


Copyright © Michael A. Burstein

[Rule quoted from Robert's Rules of Writing: 101 Unconventional Lessons Every Writer Needs to Know by Robert Masello (Writer's Digest Books, 2005). See my original post for the rules of this discussion.]

Tap, tap....is this thing on? I know the microphone has gotten a bit rusty since I last posted on of these (December 19, 2006, for those of you keeping track at home), but I didn't realize just how encrusted it had gotten. Let me just clean it off...

Ahem.

When I first started this project back in 2005, I tried to post my "Robert's Rules" commentaries about three times a week. Sometimes it ended up being only twice a week, but I still managed to post with some regularity.

Obviously, there have been some recent upheavals in my life, and blogging about "Robert's Rules of Writing" had to fall to the wayside. But I think I'm back now, and my more modest goal is to post a commentary at least once a week. If I manage to do more, that would be great too, but if not, once a week is a manageable goal. And it'll give me something to talk about all the way into 2008.

For those of you who are coming to these discussions anew, note that you can always find all the Robert's Rules commentary posts by using the address http://mabfan.livejournal.com/tag/roberts-rules.

And now, to the actual commentary.

With rule #66, "Doubt Everyone," Masello discusses the pitfalls of listening to the advice of others when it comes to your writing. He points out that although writing workshops are helpful, the advice offered can sometimes dilute a writer's own voice. And he cites the personal experience of listening to agents and editors tell him not to bother with writing certain books, only to find other books on those topics showing up in bookstores a year later.

Having just been a guest lecturer at the Odyssey workshop on Sunday, I've actually been ruminating on this rule a lot. As I listened to the students critiquing stories, I flashed back to my own workshop experiences. I remember how James Patrick Kelly analyzed one of my stories and gave me two pages of notes on how to fix the story...but I couldn't help but notice that his suggestions would have made the story much more a Kelly story than a Burstein story.

On the other hand, I had written a story about our universe getting in touch with a parallel one, and when Howard Waldrop read it, he gave me one piece of advice: set the story in the other universe. I adapted his advice by setting the story in both universes, and it led to a Hugo nomination, so I'm glad that I didn't doubt Howard's advice in that case.

But there are many examples of where Masello's rule is well applied.

For example, it's no secret that Daniel Keyes was told by many editors that if he would just change the ending of "Flowers for Algernon," they would be happy to publish it. I don't want to mention any spoilers here, but anyone who has read the short story or the novel knows how vital the final scene of the tale is. The story's ending resonates so well with what has come before that I can't imagine it ending any other way.

In my own personal experience, I've sometimes found that it's necessary to doubt even one's writing collaborators. A few years back, I collaborated on a story with my friend Charles Ardai called "Nor Through Inaction", that appeared in the October 1998 Analog. Although he writes the occasional science fiction or fantasy story, Charles's forte is mysteries, and in one of the revisions of the story he introduced a plot element involving a computer reading old hard-boiled mystery novels aloud to our trapped protagonist.

But on the other hand...at Odyssey on Sunday, almost everyone gave the same piece of advice to one writer regarding her story. And when it came time for me to add my thoughts, I shared a line from the Talmud, which I paraphrase here: When one person tells you that you're a donkey, pay him no heed. But if two people tell you that you're a donkey, buy yourself a saddle.

So how do you know when to doubt everyone? And how do you know when to accept the advice of others?

In the end, my advice would be to follow these two steps:

1. Solicit the opinions of people you trust.
2. Never take any advice that destroys the heart of your story.

Because in the end, it's your story, and no one else's.

Copyright © Michael A. Burstein

[Rule quoted from Robert's Rules of Writing: 101 Unconventional Lessons Every Writer Needs to Know by Robert Masello (Writer's Digest Books, 2005). See my original post for the rules of this discussion.]

With this rule, Masello tackles the issue of longer books versus shorter ones. In a few brief pages, he gives some advice I've run across in many other books. The essential nugget is that a novel has one significant advantage over short stories. A novel can be long. A novel gives the writer room to explore, to go into detail, and to draw people into the story, in ways that shorter fiction can't.

Now, this is all well and good if your natural tendency is to write long. Then you can explore every nook and cranny of your characters and every facet of your background and plot. But what if your tendency is to write short? When I started trying to write fiction, I was naturally a short story writer. Since then, I've managed to become more comfortable with longer works, to the point where now when I sit down to write a story, it usually comes out as a novelette or novella.

I think part of that tendency to write shorter works came from my own personal preference. I just like short stories. There's something about the dip into a fictional world I find bracing, although Masello notes that he prefers a long soak much more. And, frankly, Masello's preference for novels does have one more advantage over my preference for short stories.

As Lawrence Block once noted in an essay, the readers of fiction bestsellers in this country -- meaning the majority of people buying novels -- seem to prefer longer books. A lot of readers seem to feel like Masello says he does, when he says that he enjoys spending long periods of time inside the fictional world that a writer has created. So if your goal is to hit the bestseller lists, then from a commercial perspective you need to consider the length of your work. And if, like me, that doesn't come naturally to you, what can you do?

I'll tell you what I did. I learned to outline.

I'm veering off somewhat from Masello's own discussion, but that's okay, as the point of these posts is to use his rules as a springboard. And even though I've probably discussed outlining before -- in fact, I'm about to reiterate what I said when I discussed Robert's Rule #49 -- it's still worth mentioning.

In order to learn what made a novel different from a short story, I sat down with a copy of The Terminal Experiment by Robert J. Sawyer and I created my own outline of it. Doing so taught me a lot about how to make a work of fiction more layered and longer, without just puffing it up with air. So to anyone else who also writes more naturally at the shorter lengths, I offer that suggestion. Perhaps we'll all end up on the bestseller lists one day.

Copyright © Michael A. Burstein

[Rule quoted from Robert's Rules of Writing: 101 Unconventional Lessons Every Writer Needs to Know by Robert Masello (Writer's Digest Books, 2005). See my original post for the rules of this discussion.]

One of the most difficult things for any human being to do is to get inside the mind of another human being. We all live our lives from one perspective, our own. We all experience the world from within our fragile shells, and with our own personal biases. Entire professions exist to try to delve inside other people's minds, a task which sometimes seems impossible for the average person.

But writers have to try to get into other people's minds. And not just into the minds of friendly, good, and wholesome people like yourself. To create complete, complex, and well-rounded characters, writers need to get inside the heads of some of the most vile people imaginable.

I am in complete agreement with Masello's rule #62, and in fact I've seen it mentioned in other forms by many other writers before. For example, Orson Scott Card, in his book Character and Viewpoint, discusses the way Michael Bishop managed to get into the mind of a character who was dying of AIDS. Another book I read, whose title I can't recall at the moment, advised writers to get into the minds of murderers by asking ourselves what might cause us to feel murderous rage. Just because we're not such people ourselves doesn't mean we can't figure out what makes them tick, at least well enough to write a story about them.

But although I agree with this rule, I also often find it the hardest one to follow. Many writers will say that all their characters are extensions of themselves, and I'm afraid that I am no exception. Often I will find my characters reacting the way I would, even if I'm trying to write someone who is worlds apart from myself. So I've used a few tricks to stop myself, tricks that many others have used. Those tricks include creating characters with belief systems totally anathema to my own, and having characters do the opposite of what I would do in any given situation.

I welcome other suggestions.

Copyright © Michael A. Burstein

[Rule quoted from Robert's Rules of Writing: 101 Unconventional Lessons Every Writer Needs to Know by Robert Masello (Writer's Digest Books, 2005). See my original post for the rules of this discussion.]

According to Masello's rule #60, one of the best things about being a writer is that you get to be nosy. Because only by being nosy do you get the details right.

It's fairly obvious that research is invaluable if you're writing nonfiction. If the article you're writing is supposed to be based on fact, you need to know the facts, and sometimes the best way to get those facts is by asking questions.

But it's also true that good fiction also relies on those twin concepts of accuracy and verisimilitude.

Although Masello mostly discusses how asking questions can help you create more believable characters, I'd like to revisit an experience of my own in asking questions -- and, in some sense, in being shameless.

A few years ago, I was working on a project for which I needed some information on what the FBI did on 9/11 and shortly afterwards. I had read some articles on how the events had affected them, but nothing gave me the immediate details that I needed to make a particular story come alive. And so I picked up the phone and called the FBI's New York City offices.

Fortunately, most law enforcement agencies have public information officers, whose job it is to deal with the press and public. I reached one of those agents, explained what I needed, and asked if it might be possible for me to pay a visit to their offices. As it so happened, Nomi and I were planning one of our regular trips to New York within a few weeks, and so we made an appointment to visit with the agent on a Wednesday.

We learned a lot on that visit, and I picked up some detail that will be useful if I ever do get back to that particular project. For example, the elevators that go to the FBI offices are behind bulletproof glass. When visiting, you have to turn over all personal electronics and weapons, and you have to wear a bright yellow badge that identifies you as a visitor. You are not to wander anywhere alone; you must have an escort with you at all times. (Of course, the details I really wanted was the feel of the offices, and I got that as well. But the impact I felt was mostly what it was like to be a visitor.)

Afterwards, Nomi and I still felt a certain level of disbelief that we had been allowed to visit the FBI's offices. But that disbelief was tempered with the knowledge of how we had done it. Basically, I had taken myself seriously as a writer, as someone who would have a legitimate reason for visiting the FBI's offices, in order to get the details right on a piece of fiction. By following my own dictum of not knowing shame, I was brave enough to make that phone call and request a visit.

So when it comes to Robert's Rule #60, I'm behind him 100%.

Copyright © Michael Burstein

[Rule quoted from Robert's Rules of Writing: 101 Unconventional Lessons Every Writer Needs to Know by Robert Masello (Writer's Digest Books, 2005). See my original post for the rules of this discussion.]

First, second, or third person? Many pages have been written about the benefits and pitfalls of those three different choices. How does one pick the appropriate narrative voice for a story? Masello shares his thoughts in the two pages he devotes to this rule; I thought I'd share mine here.

I've always subscribed to the notion that first person is the most natural way to write. For example, when we tell stories to others orally, we often use first person because, well, we're telling stories about ourselves. I'm not going to tell someone about something that happened to me and refer to myself in the third person. The point is too obvious to belabor.

When it comes to writing a story, however, some writers advise staying away from first person, and they list all sorts of pitfalls and traps one can fall into. For me, the oddest trap is having someone read a work of fiction I've written and assume that the "I" in the story is actually me. (My mother told me that it worried her when she read my story "Paying It Forward," since I began it with the sentence "I'm dying.") But despite the traps, I think first person is a fine narrative voice; I have to admit that most of my favorite books tend to be written in first person.

As for second person, I can see only one reason to use it, and that's to create an air of detachment. The perennial example of a good use of second person is Jay McInerney's novel Bright Lights, Big City; in fact, Masello mentions it before pretty much dismissing second person entirely. The entire point of that novel is that the main character, who remains unnamed throughout, is drifting through his life after the death of his mother. He can't get a handle on his daily existence, and in some ways it's like he's watching his own life through a haze from outside. Second person was the perfect choice for that kind of story.

(It occurs to me that second person is also useful in Choose Your Own Adventure books and interactive text adventures, but that's a different sort of story than a traditional narrative.)

And finally, we have third person, the traditional way to write a story. Although I haven't actually done a survey of my stories, I think most of the ones I've written have been in third person. The advantages to third person is that the writer can also alter viewpoints, and take on a more omniscient role in telling a tale.

So which voice should a writer use? As always, it comes down to what fits your story best.


Copyright © Michael Burstein

[Rule quoted from Robert's Rules of Writing: 101 Unconventional Lessons Every Writer Needs to Know by Robert Masello (Writer's Digest Books, 2005). See my original post for the rules of this discussion.]

I love this rule, because Masello takes to task the oft-asked question, "Do you want to write...or do you just want to be a writer?"

Here's the background. Aspiring writers are often asked that question by more well-established writers, who know that the private life of a writer is different from that of the public perception. The point of the question is to remind the aspiring writer that real writers don't just sit back and receive admiration from the world around them. Nor do they sit around fantasizing about the accolades that will one day be theirs. Instead, they go back to their computers, day after day, filling their actual need to write. If you don't need to write, the question implies, then you're not a real writer. And to be a real writer, you shouldn't waste your time imagining your life as a success.

To which Masello says: hogwash.

(Well, not quite. But you get the idea.)

Masello points out, quite correctly in my opinion, that there's nothing wrong with imagining yourself as the writer you want to be. He notes that it can serve as a form of motivation. And I have to agree with him. Yes, I work at writing my stories. But I also dream about how those stories will be received by others, and how people will react favorably toward me when they've read something of mine that moved them.

In other words, I think all of us who write have, in some way, bought the smoking jacket. We're writers, after all, with (we hope) vivid imaginations. Surely we've imagined ourselves in a variety of successful scenarios and used those dreams to help us get started.

Another writer, Carolyn See, discusses this as well in her book Making a Literary Life: Advice for Writers and Other Dreamers. She talks about visualizing yourself as the kind of writer you want to be -- and then becoming that person once you've proven you can.

Let me take you through a small piece of my own personal journey for a moment, if you're willing to come along.

( Read more... )

So I have to recommend that visualization exercise to anyone who wants to become a writer. Sit back, relax, and close your eyes. Imagine yourself as the kind of writer you want to be. And then get up and write, but also do something else to start living that role, even if it's only in your own head for a while. Order the "Writer" business cards and keep them locked in your desk for the moment. Create a set of personalized stationery for yourself that calls you a writer. Or, as Masello recommends, buy that smoking jacket.

Once you've published a bit, you can begin to take on the public persona that you wanted to develop. For example, when I started to go to conventions, I chose to wear a blazer over a button-down shirt, but with no tie. Now, I know that ties tend to be mostly absent from science fiction conventions, but blazers also aren't as common as T-shirts. However, I decided that I was the kind of writer who wore a blazer, and so that's what I did. And sometimes, when the words flowed like molasses in winter (to use a cliche), keeping up a self-image of a successful writer was what kept me going at the keyboard.

So dream. It's what we writers do best.

Copyright © Michael Burstein

[Rule quoted from Robert's Rules of Writing: 101 Unconventional Lessons Every Writer Needs to Know by Robert Masello (Writer's Digest Books, 2005). See my original post for the rules of this discussion.]

Falling in love is almost always a wonderful feeling. Finding that special someone, that person who is just right for you, can make you feel like the happiest person in the world.

So, Masello notes, it's just as important to fall in love with your writing project. If you're not in love with your subject, you might find it difficult to see your project through to the end.

This is one rule that I agree with one hundred percent. If you don't love what you're writing, then why are you writing it?

Ahem. Okay, I will concede that there are many situations in which this may come up. If you're working as a freelance writer, taking on business assignments, it's unlikely that you're going to fall in love with the material. Or if all you know how to do is write, and you're desperately trying to pay the bills, then you might very well take on a project simply because it pays and you need the money.

But when you choose to take on a project of your own devising, or to write something on spec in the hopes that it will sell, you'll be a lot better off if it's something that you love.

Frankly, I find this valuable advice to remember when it comes to anthology invitations. Every so often, I get invited to contribute to an anthology. Usually, these anthologies have a specific theme for the stories. For example, perhaps all the stories have to be written from the first person PoV of an alien (I, Alien). Or maybe from the first person PoV of a woman, and all the writers are men (Men Writing Science Fiction as Women). Or your protagonist has to be a hero in training, at the start of a career (Heroes in Training).

Now, it's very easy to say "Yes!" the moment you're invited to contribute to an anthology. After all, you know that the editor expects you'll write an appropriate story, and chances are more likely than not that you'll have an easy acceptance to the book. But...if the theme is one that doesn't immediately get you thinking of an idea you'd like to play with for a week, chances are you'd be better off declining the invitation.

Going back to Lawrence Block again (I cite him a lot in these essays), in one of his books on writing he mentions how he hated confession stories, the kind that used to appear in pulp magazines, and he could never manage to write one. But one day an editor who knew him had three holes in a confession magazine, and he asked Block if he could help out by providing him with three stories by the end of the day. As Block put it, the editor bought the stories because he had to, and that was some of the hardest money Block ever earned.

Like many writers, I always have more ideas than I have time to write. So I sometimes do an exercise to help me choose my next project, an exercise I will share with you. I take my list of five or so ideas that are currently clamoring for my attention, read it over, and close my eyes. I let images from each idea come to mind, and whichever images seem most vivid, whatever idea is calling to me most loudly...that's what I write next.

Copyright © Michael Burstein