22. The dilemma of evidence

I’m considering radically changing my approach to getting published. I’m trying to decide whether I should stop pitching my historical novel. A Prize of Sovereigns, and start pitching my mystery novel, The Golden Illusion.

I’m a scientist by training. I like to make decisions based on evidence. Understanding the signals about your work is hard because it’s not clear what’s evidence.

I just got a really interesting response from an agent to whom I had pitched A Prize of Sovereigns. It was unusual, in that it was feedback, not just a template no. This is part of what he said.

You have a lively style, but – you knew there’d be a “but” – the situation you describe, and the language you employ, is in my opinion too familiar to commend your book to editors who are, like agents, even more boringly cautious than usual about new writers in this extraordinarily harsh publishing climate.

[It} needs – in my view, and you will know that all publishing judgements are wholly subjective – a distinctive narrative voice and original twist if it is to commend itself to today’s jaded and impatient readers

As he says, all publishing judgements are subjective. But, this is the twelfth agent who has turned down A Prize of Sovereigns. The problem for an ex-scientist is deciding whether twelve rejections, all subjective, is evidence. It’s not a statistically significant sample. J.K. Rowling had 12 rejections for her Harry Potter series.

Nevertheless, I think there may be a message there. I’m getting clear feedback that I can write. But I may be putting my effort into pitching the wrong book. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very proud of A Prize of Sovereigns. I believe in the book. It’s a story of two realms in peril, of rulers playing for high stakes, of conflict within dysfunctional families, of ordinary folk trying to build their lives amidst war and chaos. But it’s not just an adventure tale of intrigue, war, and revolt. Buried in the story are some chunky issues. Is goodness a function of a person’s character, or the outcome of their actions? Can absolute rulers bend events to their will? Are there prices too great to pay for personal independence? What does war do to people’s humanity? How did propaganda work in medieval Europe? What does a Prince do when confronted by a teenager who claims to have religious visions of her mission to save the country from invasion? How did technology influence conflict and the exercise of power?

The thing is, there’s no simple way of communicating this to an agent or publisher. The elevator pitch is the one sentence description of your book you’d give to a publisher if you shared a ride with them in a lift. Prize of Sovereigns’ elevator pitch is.

‘Two rival medieval princes attempt to bind events to their wills, with unintended consequences.’

It doesn’t exactly convey much more than knights in armour. Compare it with the elevator pitch for The Golden Illusion.

A mystery story with a difference, in which the detective is a hapless conjurer searching for the secret of an ancient illusion, and the crime spans the centuries.

This makes crystal clear the main twist of the story. It may not be such a complex book, but it’s easier to convey what it’s about. My heart is telling me to keep pitching A Prize of Sovereigns, but my head is telling me to switch horses. I still have three pitches out to agents, so I don’t have to decide quite yet.

21. Breaking the rules – in defence of adverbs

People talk about rules of good writing. I’ve used the term myself. But really, there are no rules, just tips. See? I broke a rule there – I started a sentence with a conjunction, ‘but’. Did it bother you? It avoided the comma and the run-on sentence if I’d made it a clause. You can break the rules if it makes sense. Following the rules blindly just leads to weak writing. Follow the tips when they make sense.

The so-called rules are there for a good reason – they distil a lot of experience. The show-don’t-tell rule, for example, is a pretty good tip. Writing is a collaboration between the author and the reader. Constant telling, constant narration, distances the reader. Showing involves the reader in deciding for herself what is going on.

If I write ‘Peter was old and sickly’ I’m telling you how to see Peter.
If I write ‘Peter shuffled towards me, supported by a stick. The effort of every step was etched in pain on his furrowed face’ I’ve invited you to picture Peter and draw your own conclusions.

Does that mean a writer must always show rather than tell? No, of course not. If the detail is unimportant to the story, tell it. If Jane walks down the stairs, it’s much better to say this, rather than tiring the reader with a long description of the stairs and the walking. Use the show-don’t-tell tip when there’s a good reason to do so.

Closely related to show-don’t-tell is the adverb rule. All writing manuals tell you to use adverbs sparingly. Stephen King goes further and would have us eliminate all adverbs. He argues that adverbs make for sloppy writing, signs the author is fearful that she isn’t getting her point across clearly.

I, like many amateurs, am guilty of breaking the adverb rule. Of 1,000 words in the story I described in the last post, 18 were adverbs. After editing, I reduced this to 14, but that’s still 14 that Stephen King would say shouldn’t be there. Maybe he’s right. He’s a successful author and I’m not.

Let’s look at this though. Why this particular hatred for one part of speech? In case you forgot your school grammar lessons, adverbs are words that modify verbs, and usually end in –ly (though not all do – ‘up’, for example is also an adverb). We don’t have the same rules about nouns, or verbs, or adjectives. Is this just textism? What’s the reason?

Reason one. It makes sense to eliminate adverbs when they’re making the writing weaker. Sometimes they just cover up failure to find better words. For example ‘he spoke quietly’ is unnecessary – it would be stronger to say ‘he whispered’ or ‘he murmured’. Many times, we can eliminate adverbs by using a stronger verb. In this sense, adverbs can be good pointers at the editing stage to where we need to polish the writing.

Reason two. When the adverb is doing no work at all, purge it. For example, in the phrase ‘he shouted loudly’ the adverb loudly is doing nothing – a shout is loud. Or, to take another example, ‘he said interestingly’. If what he says is interesting, maybe that he’s discovered the secret of time travel, then the reader doesn’t need the adverb, and if it’s dull, maybe that he’s tired, the adverb doesn’t change the dullness. Though, even there, if the character to whom he’s speaking has good reason to be interested, the adverb may still justify its place.

Reason three. Adverbs may distance the reader by telling, rather than showing. They can narrate details the reader should be filling in for themselves. For example ‘she looked suspiciously at the box’ could be better written ‘she examined the box, checking for booby traps.’

There may be other good reasons for eliminated adverbs. I couldn’t think of them while writing this. The point is that if there’s a reason not to use an adverb, don’t use it. By the same token, if there is a reason to use an adverb, then use it. Adverbs are pretty much like adjectives. Adverbs can add description to verbs, bringing a picture to life, in the same way as adjectives can bring nouns to life.

For example, take this phrase from the story I’ve just edited, ‘trees perched crazily like sure goats on precipitous falls.’ I spent some time considering whether to remove or change the ‘crazily.’ It’s doing some pretty important descriptive work, showing the random arrangement of the vegetation. It can’t be turned into the adjective ‘crazy’ since neither the trees nor the goats are crazy. The only thing that’s crazy is the perching. So, I retained the adverb. I think I had good reason to do so.

Technically, I suppose you could argue that the ‘crazy’ and the ‘sure’ contradict each other and one of them should go. I would disagree – crazy paving isn’t less secure as paving for being crazy. You might also argue that the description is overdone, with two adjectives and one adverb in the phrase. Overusing descriptive words in the belief this makes the writing more literary is a classic error of amateurs. You might be right, but there are some good reasons in the context to be highly descriptive.

So, here’s my conclusion. We give adverbs too hard a time. It’s a good tip to think long and hard about why an adverb is there, and what work it’s doing. But, should we eliminate every adverb? No. As with every other part of our writing, we should make it as crisp and effective as we can. I’m all for better verbs, adjectives, gerunds and nouns, as well as better adverbs. The prejudice against adverbs is simply textism.

There is a big however to the defence of adverbs. Agents, editors and publishers often believe in the ‘no adverbs’ tip as an iron-clad rule. If you submit a work full of adverbs, however well-chosen and hard-working, they may just put a red pencil through it and decide you’re an amateur. You pays your money and you takes your choice.

20. Costa Short Story Award

It’s Costa Short Story Award time. The competition opened at the beginning of July and closes at the beginning of August. First prize is £3,500 and a massive boost to reputation. I’ve been dithering about which story to enter. If you’ve read previous posts you’ll know that my strategy for achieving fame and fortune is to rack up some literary credits, with which to impress agents and publishers. Perhaps the thoughts I’ve had about the Costa will help others whose strategies are similar.

Forget the question, why enter the competition. I can’t tell you. Yes, I know the chances of winning are smaller than those of dying in a meteor smash (which are 1 in 250,000 if you care to know). Call it the triumph of hope over experience.

Deciding to enter was easy. Deciding which story to send, that was a whole other problem. I looked at the shortlisted stories for 2014 and for 2013. I also looked at the profiles of the judges, though that’s less importance, since you have to get through the panel of readers to the shortlist before the judges ever set eyes on the story. For what it’s worth, the judges are three novelists (two of whom write women’s fiction, and one rather more experimental stuff), an academic who specialises in publishing, and a literary agent.

The profile of shortlisted entries wasn’t hugely comforting. Five of the six 2014 shortlist were women, and so were five of the six 2013 and 2012 shortlists. Two of the 2012 shortlist also made it in 2013. The judging is blind, so this has nothing to do with reputation. The stories all had three things in common – they were about the inner life of the main characters, the writing was elaborate and literary, and they dealt with the oddity of everyday life. I’m not a woman, and this really isn’t the way I write.

For about a month, I was sure the story to enter was one about a man who has memories that are not his. This is one of the stories that almost got published, and that I have been invited by the magazine editor to rewrite and resubmit. I read it to my writers’ group this week, and they made helpful suggestions for improvement. But one of the comments stuck in my mind. One group member said ‘Don’t put it into Costa. It’s a proper story. It’s got a beginning, a middle, and an end.’

I went back and looked again at the shortlisted stories, and sure enough they’re more dreamlike, with less identifiable structures. So I added ‘anti-narrative’ to my list of characteristics. Then I assessed what I think are my four best-fit stories against all four criteria. My intended story scored highly on the psychological dimensions but more poorly on others.

So, I’ve changed my mind. According to the competition rules, I had better not say anything about the story in case this reveals the identity of the author during the judging process. But I can say it’s much more anti-narrative, literary in style, and playful. I’m hoping that the playfulness will scrape it through the reading panels by virtue of intrigue, on the same basis that a tutor at University once said of an essay I’d written ‘I can’t tell whether this is very clever or very stupid.’

As I gave the story a final polish, just for fun I ran it and the winning 2014 entry through the copy editing tool I described in the last post, Pro Writing Aid. The comparison didn’t really tell me much, but was amusing. My story scored better for over-used words, for clichés and redundancies, and for ‘sticky sentences’ (sentences with low impact words). The winning entry scored better for avoiding adverbs, passive verbs, and slow-paced sentences. These comparisons say nothing about the quality of the story, but do maybe say something about the writing.

I still haven’t submitted the story, but I’m getting there.

19. Writing and editing tools

There are many tools for writers out there. Goodness! How on earth did Shakespeare and Dickens managed without them?

Plot, structure and character

I’ve already talked about te tools for plot and character that I use for keeping track of the storyline, scenes, and characters. You can buy software that does this, but I make my own in spreadsheets. Obviously, you also need something to write on. Like most people, I use a word processor, but you can also get dedicated author software.

Depending on how you write, such software may help you. I tend to write in a fairly linear way from the beginning to the end. I know that some people write scenes just as they occur to them, starting in the middle of the book. Shuffling and re-ordering scenes can be very frustrating on a word processor. I can’t review any of the dedicated tools that make this easy, because I don’t use them. The most popular, however, seems to be Scrivener, which combines a word processor and a project management tool.

Here, I want to talk about tools that can help with the third essential element – the writing itself. Good writing is about sentences that are easy to read, dialogue that sings, evocative description, and scenes that make the reader want to keep turning the page. The most important thing here is, of course, practice. Write lots, get friends and colleagues to criticize it, and you’ll improve. Reading your work aloud to yourself can also help you spot the bits that don’t work. But there are some tools that can help.

Spelling grammar and words

A good word processor will have inbuilt spell-check and grammar-check, as well as a minimal thesaurus. A thesaurus is invaluable for authors. You read your sentence, like “John stared in fright at the apparition.” You can see the sentence should pack more punch. The problem is “in fright”. The word should be working harder. You consult your Thesaurus and find alternatives – panic, terror, dread, for example. You can buy a Roget’s Thesaurus or use the online version (http://www.thesaurus.com).

If you write, as I do, historical fiction, you have another word problem. There’s nothing worse than a Tudor character saying something like “you’re messing with my mind”. It transports the reader straight back into the twenty-first century and the spell is broken. So how do you check when a particular word first came into use? Enter the Etymological Dictionary (http://www.etymonline.com). I used this a lot in writing A Prize of Sovereigns. The archer, Reuven, for example addresses his comrades in arms as “mate”. But when did this first come into use with this meaning? Is it modern? The dictionary reassured me that it goes back to the mid-fourteenth century.

Stringing the words together

Sounds obvious, but this is where most of the trouble comes in. There are so many mistakes you can inadvertently make. We all have favourite words that we tend to over-use. We can inadvertently repeat the same word too close together. We overuse adverbs. We write sentences that are too long, or that make the reader stumble. We use the passive instead of the active. We allow the pace to drop.

There is editing software that can help you detect and correct these and other problems. There’s quite a neat little fee website at http://www.thedreamside.com/machine.html, which gives you word-counts for frequently used words and which flags up “hot-spots” where the same word is used repeatedly close together. You can find more sophisticated editing help from Pro Writing Aid (https://prowritingaid.com). The free version will give you reports on 17 different aspects of your writing. It will check for things like over-used words and repeated phrases, pacing, clichés, writing style, over-long sentences, and sentences that don’t flow well. The image, for example, shows the check for pacing on two of the chapters from The Wheel Turns, the sequel to Prize of Sovereigns, which I’m working on now.

Pacing

The blue bars show areas of action or dialogue, while the white spaces are areas of background or introspection. Areas of white should be sprinkled through the text, rather than all dumped in one place. I was reasonably happy with the pacing, though there is a warning sign in the first chapter, with a slower area coming very close to the beginning.

I’m fairly impressed with Pro Writing Aid. With 17 reports, the amount of information you get back can seem a little daunting, but, as you work through them, you can decide which suggestions to respond to, and which to ignore. If you’re not employing a real copy editor, software like this can help sharpen up your prose

18. The moral core of your characters

Plot, writing, and character – those for me are the three crucial elements of an author’s craft. In posts 3 I talked a little bit about character and plot, and in post 12 I described some of the tools I’ve used for developing and keeping track of plots. I haven’t said much about tools for developing characters. That’s probably because I haven’t yet encountered many tools I find really useful, beyond the checklist in post 3.

  • Name
  • Age
  • Origins (including family and background)
  • Appearance
  • Characteristics (positive and negative) and flaws
  • Distinctive mannerisms
  • Likes and dislikes
  • Goals
  • Key relationships

As I started work on the sequel to A Prize of Sovereigns, I’ve been wondering whether there aren’t other tools I should think about. There are new characters in this sequel, whose working title is The Wheel Turns, but most of them have already appeared in the first book. I know these characters well. They’ve lived with me for the last two years. So why the anxiety about them?

I guess it’s because some of them are going to change in ways they were never challenged to in the first book, most particularly morally. There is morality in A Prize of Sovereigns. It is, among other things, about goodness. I was interested in looking at goodness not so much as measured by individuals’ characters but rather by the consequences for others of their actions. But this is a fairly easy moral universe. Characters either succeed or fail in their stratagems. In The Wheel Turns, different characters’ senses of what is right will come into play, and will be changed. I realised that I didn’t actually know enough about each of them constructed their moral universes, so I began to think and to do read around how other writers had approached this. I tried a couple of the approaches out for my characters.

You can, for example, build your characters by understanding their attributes or traits. There’s quite a lot of this in the Writers Helping Writers website (http://writershelpingwriters.net/). One approach is used by Angela Ackerman, who writes:

‘What really resonates with readers is when a character shows deep convictions–a passion for something meaningful. Why is this? Because buried deep within each of us is our moral center, a belief system that influences our every thought, action and choice. And, for characters to be authentic, they too must display a highly tuned set of beliefs that guide their motivations.’

She advocates building your characters in four onion layers, starting from the moral centre. You work out what particular moral attributes they have, such as kindness, loyalty or responsibility. You then work to the second layer of achievement attributes, aligned with the moral centre and which help the character succeed. Examples of achievement attributes might be resourcefulness or perceptiveness. The third layer, interactive attributes, defines the way your character relates to others, through traits such as honesty or courtesy. The final layer is the identity attributes, which help your character express who she or he is, such as introversion or idealism.

I tried this with my characters. It didn’t really tell me anything about them that I didn’t already know. More importantly, it also didn’t make intuitive sense to me. It’s not how I understand people. It seemed like a sort of character “kit” in which you collect attributes and glue them together to make a person.

Another approach was more intuitive for me. I had quite a lot of fun with this one. It begins with the pyramid of needs, an idea developed by psychologist Abraham Maslow. He argues that people’s behaviour is driven by a set of five needs. At the bottom of the pyramid are basic needs, such as food, clothing, and shelter. Without these, an individual can’t go on to express and try to realise other needs. With basic needs satisfied, people are driven to achieve safety and security. After safety and security come the needs for love and belonging. The fourth level of needs are those esteem and recognition. And finally, at the top of the pyramid, once all the other needs are satisfied, comes the need for self-actualisation – realising one’s potential and achieving personal fulfilment. I mapped some of my characters onto this pyramid.

What was intriguing about this was that I could map my characters’ personal journeys onto this. So Jyoti for example starts with the need to protect her family, somewhere around the border between safety and love/belonging. Her evolution will move her to becoming a fighter for the rights of women, in the self-actualisation tip of the pyramid. In A Prize of Sovereigns she was the only character who underwent no change. She remained strong and cheerful, a helpmeet to her husband Reuven. He is not especially smart or especially brave. He’s a foot-soldier in the King’s war, who returns broken, and suffering post-traumatic stress. In The Wheel Turns, both of them will ascend the pyramid, though Reuven starts from a different place, grappling with esteem issues. Other characters, however, descend the pyramid, most dramatically the King, Byrom, who plummets from the self-actualising tip, to struggling at the bottom of the pyramid to save his life. I’m still not sure I learned anything new about my characters, but I was intrigued by this way of graphically showing the dynamic of their story arcs.

Maslow

The only concrete upshot of all this fun, however, has been that I added one more element to my basic character sheet checklist – moral dilemma. In real life, few of us have a moral code as unshakeable as we like to believe, and in extreme circumstances we may do things that conflict with our codes. Most moral choices aren’t between the good and the bad, but between conflicting goods. So, for example, Jyoti’s character sheet now includes this dilemma:

As she becomes a stronger advocate of women’s rights, is forced to confront her ideals of duty to her husband and family. She becomes ruthless in her pursuit of this goal

The other thing that tickled my fancy was a couple of posts on M Talmage Moorehead’s blog (http://storiform.com) who says, writing about the idea of voice, ‘I think the term ‘voice” applies more to the viewpoint character than to the writer … because it keeps the reader feeling as if all the plot twists are happening to a real person..’ He describes an interesting experiment where he has a secret blog, ostensibly written by his viewpoint character. He uses this to detect where her voice disappears and his own intrudes. I thought that was a really fun idea, if a lot of work. I think he probably lavishes more attention on his characters than I do on mine. One clue to this is another post, in which he says that to make a character’s beliefs credible, you have to know the information on which those beliefs rest. So if your character is a conspiracy theorist, he says, you have to go and read all those conspiracy theories, with attendant dangers to your grip on reality.

Now there he has a really interesting point, which I’m still working through. The main knowledge base for the characters in The Wheel Turns is their religion. So I’ve had to build their religion. There’s a bit of religion in A Prize of Sovereigns, most obviously in the religious girl Marta who hears voices commanding her to lead her country’s fight-back in the war. But all of that was easy compared with the new book which is going to be full of religious schisms and revolutionary ferment. I’ve had to add four new Gods to their pantheon and work out in some detail, what the attributes are of each God, which social group they appeal to and why, and the associated theological and ritual elements of their worship. As social ferment accelerates, Jyoti and Reuven are going to transfer their allegiance from the traditional peasants’ God, Kaldin, to Hekla, Goddess of music, love and magic in Jyoti’s case, and to Gobannos, the artisan God in Reuven’s case. Jyoti is drawn to Hekla because her adherents champion the idea of the equality of women and men. Reuven is drawn to Gobannos because his adherents champion fairness. I’m sure the theological and political disputes this couple are going to have are going to challenge my world-building skills.

I shouldn’t complain though. How many people are privileged to build their own worlds? This is the joy of writing.

17. For whom the bell curve tolls

I was leafing through the summer issue of The Author, the journal of the Society of Authors. It has some interesting statistics in it.

The UK book market is the fourth largest in the world by turnover. But researchers at Queen Mary, University of London, found that the median annual income among writers in 2013 was £4,000. The bottom half the 2,500 writers they surveyed earned less than £10,500 a year, and took home only 7% of all authors’ earnings. The top 1% of writers made more than £450,000 a year, and took home 22.7% of the pot.

Statistical analysis is based on the idea that a variable (like height for example) is arranged uniformly in what’s called a “normal distribution” – a bell-shaped curve with most people in the middle and small tails at each extreme. Success, however, doesn’t follow a bell-curve. The odds are stacked in favour of a lucky few. Ask any actor, or musician, or any author.

wealth

This graph shows the distribution of wealth in the United States in 2013 – a classic non-normal distribution.

The same issue of The Author also has this instructive statistic from a publisher: Of every 10 books sold in bookshops, five fail, three break even, and two make profit. Little wonder then that publishers like to reduce their risk by publishing works by people who’re already famous. However, the statistic does also mean that publishers are dependent on continually finding new authors in the search for that elusive two. And of course, two out of every three books sold in the UK now, are not bought at the till of a bookshop. The online market coalesces even more around winners than does the bookshop market.

So what can an aspiring author do about these grim facts? Above and beyond being talented, writing the best work you possibly can, and editing it diligently.

1. Be independently wealthy
If you’re not already rich, go to step 2.

2. Don’t give up the day job.
It goes without saying that if you’re unlikely to make a living out of writing, you should have another source of income.

3. Make yourself luckier.
If you know some leprechauns or genies, now is a good time to ask their help. If you’re an ordinary mortal like me, there are still some things you can do.

  • They say, it’s not what you know, it’s who you know. If you have a large and loyal fan base, publishers and readers are more likely to pay attention to you. The classic example of this is E L James’ Fifty Shades of Grey. She started off writing fan fiction, which got her the base from which she became an international publishing sensation. You can publish work on story-sharing sites like Wattpad and Smashwords, and wait for the adulation to roll in. Goodreads is another important site where you can connect with your readers. I talked about these sites in post 10.
  • E L James is also a good example of another way you can boost your luck. She tapped into a trend, particularly among women, for raunchier women’s fiction. If you catch a trend at its peak like she did, you may coast to literary stardom. Keeping your eye on new releases in your bookshop and reading trade magazines like The Bookseller can help you keep your finger on the pulse. Dark thrillers are pretty hot right now, for example. As one of the speakers at the Winchester Writers’ Conference said, a fortnight ago, readers want to be traumatised by their books. The other big trend at the moment, believe it or not, is colouring books for adults.
  • I’m not suggesting that you should write the book the market wants. Of course not. We should all write the books we want to write. But, if it makes sense to give your work a tweak towards what’s trending, it may help.
  • Work hard at getting your friends and readers to review and promote your book (assuming you already have a published book). Most of the 184,000 books published in the UK each year appear without any promotion and vanish without trace. Don’t let yours be one of them.

A word of caution. I’m just passing on advice I’ve received and that I’m following. In post 10, I told you how slowly this is going for me. Since that post, my number of Goodreads friends has increased to 7, and on Wattpad, I’ve had 76 reads and have attracted one new follower to add to the four I already had. To be fair, I haven’t posted anything new on Wattpad for months, so this isn’t too surprising. I just posted a new story there, so I’ll let you know how that works out.

The moral is, remember the odds are stacked against you, work at it, and don’t expect instant miracles.
actor, or musician, or any author.

16. Playing fast and loose with the facts – more on historical “mash-up”

Since the feedback I got at Winchester last week, I’ve been thinking about the historical fantasy genre. It’s prompted me to consider what you can and can’t do with historical facts. I contributed to a discussion thread on Goodreads about this. Does a writer of historical fiction have artistic licence to change the facts? The writer’s answer is, yes, of course. Historical fiction is fiction, not academic research. The writer can do anything that he or she wishes. But, the reader’s answer is different. Readers have conventions, just as writers do. The reader of historical fiction expects that the story should stick closely to the known facts, just as in science fiction the expectation is that the story should be consistent with known science.

The reader also has a right to expect something else – namely that the story will be a cracking good tale, observing the rules of story-writing, which lead the main characters in an arc, through jeopardy, to a resolution. That poses a dilemma in, at the same time, being faithful to the truth. The question is, what does truth mean?

Stories have a lot to tell us about what we really mean by truth. They are probably the oldest form in which humans have preserved and transmitted wisdom. Stories are devices that tell us what facts go with each other, what is important and what is less relevant, who deserves praise and who blame. It is quite possible to connect the same facts in different ways, by means of different stories. In this anniversary of the battle of Waterloo, different stories are emerging. Was Napoleon a megalomaniac dictator and warmonger? Or was he, instead, the saviour of France against aggression from the old monarchies of Europe? This debate is both about professional history, and also about stories.

Napoleon

Truth and facts are not necessarily the same thing. That argument would, of course, allow a writer of historical fiction to argue that, by manipulating the facts, they were uncovering a deeper truth, an artistic truth. I feel a little uncomfortable with that argument. I suppose that’s why I’ve opted for an approach in which the readers are left in no doubt that they are reading fiction. Indeed, they never need to know that a lot of research went into the writing of the book, and simply enjoy it (I hope) as a story. Though by the time they get to my Joan of Arc character, Marta, most will probably think “hmmm, I know this story”. They may then wonder whether there is any “truth” in the way in which the Dauphin character, Aurthur, decides to manipulate and then betray her. Some readers may also recognize the strong parallels between the fictional battle of Aldkhor and the real battle of Agincourt, but it doesn’t matter to me if they don’t.

I have now started work on the sequel to A Prize of Sovereigns. It starts about a year in fictional time after the end of the first book. In historical time, it has jumped around 100 years. Clearly, I couldn’t do that, and maintain the same cast of characters, if I was writing historical fiction according to the canons of the genre. But the forces that drive both books responds to a view of history that wouldn’t be necessary if I was writing fantasy. In fantasy you can do anything you like, and of course dragons and enchanted blades are de rigueur. There are no dragons, or elves, or enchanted blades in my books. So, I don’t really believe I’m writing fantasy. Historical fantasy is a convenient genre label. But perhaps, one day, there will be a recognized genre called “historical mash-up”, and then I will with, a sigh of relief, re-shelve my work there.

I guess what, in my own mind, distinguishes what I’m trying to do from fantasy is that I’m interested in exploring the question about history “why did that happen?” and that is the unbending logic that my story has to be true to. I do think that there are forces which drive history, but they’re often hard to see through the accidents of who happened to gain power at a particular time, and the vagaries of their personalities. By creating my own little world, I can strip away those accidents and vagaries, and pursue the underlying story. It’s my own little model historical system in a narrative Petri dish. Are the “facts” correct? Many are, though they may be out of sequence and attached to different characters than those of real history. So, it isn’t a factually correct history. But is it “true”? I’d like to think it has a kind of truth.

15. Winchester – a worship of writers

Who knew that the collective noun for a group of writers was a worship? I just looked it up. I might have hoped the noun to be “an eloquence of writers”, but that is reserved for lawyers, and lions have already bagged “a pride”.

So there we were on Saturday, a worship of writers at the Winchester Writers’ Festival. Under an overcast sky, the campus of Winchester University was thronged with writers, eager, hopeful, or stoic, each according to their own experience and temperament. Interestingly, there was a preponderance of women, including one striking blonde Amazon with rippling biceps. I’ll come back to an interesting gender issue later on. Old friends met up with cries of “who are you with now”, making me acutely aware I hadn’t yet been signed by anybody. Perhaps my two one-to-one meetings with an agent and a publisher would rectify that.

We streamed from building to building and from room to room, assessing each other with cautious insouciance, wary of encountering a “shrivel of critics”. Three of us from my writing group had a chance encounter, before the event even started, with one of the “shrivel”. She was a volunteer with the event, who, uninvited, joined our table in the coffee room and demanded to hear our elevator pitches and quizzed us about whether we were truly writing from our own experience. She showed no interest at all in what we’d actually written, in her desire to impress us with her own wisdom. “It’s just my opinion”, she wailed as we extricated ourselves. ‘”I’m just an amateur.” Indeed. Her ruthless and undeviating advocacy of the rules of writing spoke eloquently to this point.

Undaunted, my first stop was a dash to the noticeboard in the main conference centre, to see if either of my two entries to the short story competition had been short-listed. They hadn’t, though in act of nominative determinism, I was ticked to note that one D S Writer had made it through.

During the day I went to four workshops. I’ll just give you one take-away point from each of them. An agent said that she took on only two or three new clients a year. A publisher said that, though they won’t admit it, agents and publishers are looking for a reason to instantly bin the submissions they receive, because they can’t possibly read all of them. A novelist said that to find your own “voice”, you have to unlearn the rules of written English you learned at school (I don’t agree with this one). A maker of historical docudramas said that you can get away with imposing a story structure on the known facts, by exploring the drama of well-chosen characters.

I also had one-to-one meetings with an agent and publisher. The good news for me was that they both liked my writing. The publisher really liked it. And that was validating. From my slough of despond about A Prize of Sovereigns at the beginning of the year, I really believe in my book again. But neither of them offered to sign me, though both made really useful suggestions about other agents I should approach. The really interesting thing, though, was the gender issue I referred to at the beginning.

The agent was a man, the second male agent I’ve talked to about the book. And both of them said the same thing. They said it was neither history, because it’s not a true historical record, nor fantasy because there are no fantasy elements. I pitch the book as historical fantasy, because, though It draws on a lot of historical research, I’ve made what George R R Martin calls a “historical mash-up”. I’ve shortened time scales, and, in some cases, put events into a different order or into different places. Many of the major characters are real as well, though I’ve picked and mixed elements of different historical figures to create my characters. History for me, is a rich toolbox of fascinating events, great stories and strong characters. But I do this in the service of fiction, and use what I find in the box to drive the story. Because of this, I’ve set the book in a fictional location, though readers of history quickly recognize it as England and France during the Hundred Years War. I’m not so much interested in writing about the Hundred Years War as I am in exploring why rulers make the decisions they do, and what effect those decisions have on those they rule. So both guys have said this choice is a commercial problem and have urged me to make it straighter history or straighter fantasy.

The publisher was a woman, and had no such problem. For her, it would sell across both the historical fiction and the fantasy genres. Three female agents and a female literary consultant have also been of the same opinion.

Now, you can’t draw any meaningful conclusions about gender differences from a sample of two men and five women, but it’s intriguing nonetheless. My wife says it’s because men can’t multi-task.

Take a look at the book by clicking the link to it on this page (the first seven chapters are published now) and tell me what you think?

14. Rejection

The publisher who liked the first chapters of A Prize of Sovereigns and asked to see the whole book has turned it down. It’s another rejection, but at least it made it to the second stage. My thoughts are focussed now on the Winchester Writers’ Festival this weekend, where I have meetings with an agent and a publisher.

13. Scenes, Sequels, and MRUs

In the last post I looked at some techniques for plotting out a novel. In this post, I’ll look at one technique for improving the writing of the scenes that make up the plot. I’ve been looking through Randy Ingermanson’s advice on writing the perfect scene. I mentioned his Snowflake method in the last post.

You can find his advice on writing the perfect scene here: http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/articles/writing-the-perfect-scene/

I’m not going to go through the whole technique. You can look it up if you’re interested in the detail. Basically he talks about the large-scale structure of scenes and their small-scale structure. This is tried and tested stuff, he says. All scenes are either SCENES or SEQUELS. A SCENE is structured, he says, into Goal, Conflict and Disaster.  A SEQUEL is structured into Reaction, Dilemma, and Decision.  Sequels follow scenes and give rise to new scenes.

He writes “You may think these patterns are too simple. You may think this is reducing writing to Paint-by-Numbers. Well, no. This is reducing fiction to the two patterns that have been proven by thousands of novelists to actually work. There are plenty of other patterns people use. They typically work less well.”

I thought it would be interesting to try out his technique on my novel A Prize of Sovereigns. I analysed Chapter 1, and it seemed to fit his idea of a SCENE.

He then goes on to say it’s not enough to create a structure of SCENES and SEQUELS. You have to actually write them, which is where the small-scale structure comes in. The small-scale structure, he says, is a chain of MRUs. MRUs are units (the U) of objective Motivations (the M), followed by subjective Reactions (the R). A scene is just a string of MRUs. He gives the following as an example of a motivation, objective and external: “The tiger dropped out of the tree and sprang toward Jack”; and this as an example of a reaction, internal and subjective: “A bolt of raw adrenaline shot through Jack’s veins. He jerked his rifle to his shoulder, sighted on the tiger’s heart, and squeezed the trigger. ‘Die, you bastard!'”. Anything which isn’t a Motivation or a Reaction should be ruthlessly purged, he argues.

So I analysed my chapter into MRUs. You can see the beginning of it below. I’ve colour coded the motivations in blue, the reactions in red, and other stuff in purple. After the analysis, I rewrote the chapter according to his stipulations.

Original

MRU 1
What a fragile thing a man’s head was. So easily stove in with a hammer. Or lopped from the neck with a swing of a broadsword.

Byrom’s thoughts were oddly detached as he watched. He yielded only the hint of a shiver as Nye Stokys’ severed head bounced on the wooden planking of the bridge.

BACKSTORY
Byrom, of the House of Simmister, had claimed his share of heads in battle. He liked war,
MRU 2
but as he watched the rebel’s headless body crumple and then slowly fall, he knew this was different. This was the first time he had taken a head under a flag of parley. From here, there was no going back. There was no honour in this. But the meaning of that word depended on who you were. The honour of Kings lay in safeguarding the realm.

Revised version
MRU 1
Nye Stokys’ severed head bounced on the wooden planking of the bridge.

Byrom’s thoughts were oddly detached as he watched, yielding only the hint of a shiver What a fragile thing a man’s head was. So easily stove in with a hammer. Or lopped from the neck with a swing of a broadsword.

BACKSTORY

Byrom, of the House of Simmister, had claimed his share of heads in battle. He liked war,

MRU 2
But this was the first time he had taken a head under a flag of parley. From here, there was no going back.

As he watched the rebel’s headless body crumple and then slowly fall, he knew this was different. There was no honour in this. But the meaning of that word depended on who you were. The honour of Kings lay in safeguarding the realm.

The results were interesting. Mostly the Chapter fell out into MRUs and backstory. The MRUs were often inverted, with the reaction coming before the motivation, which was something I hadn’t noticed before. Also, a no-no in Ingermanson’s method, some paragraphs mixed motivations and reactions,as you can see. So in the rewrite, I put motivations before reactions, and separated them into distinct paragraphs. It’s the reaction that puts you into the character’s head, so it’s important to give it prominence. I also checked that the reactions followed a logical sequence – from feeling, to reflex response, to rational action and speech. I eliminated everything that wasn’t an MRU.

Did it make the chapter better? It makes sense, but I’m still not sure. I certainly wasn’t happy about losing the backstory or other elements, such as the description of the main character. I don’t see how you can do away with dropping in backstory. As for the strict sequence of motivation followed by reaction, I don’t know whether readers will find it harder to identify with an MRU if the reaction comes before the motivation. Do we always need to see the zombie before we hear the scream, or is the scream primal enough sometimes?

I’d be really interested to hear from anyone else who’s tried the technique.