My current WIP–The Shiny Book Where People Die a Lot–isn’t going well. I hit a speed bump (one that’s about 20k big) and didn’t know how to fix it. Since I’m a little short on time at the moment, that made me nervous–would I still finish this draft before my self-imposed deadline? Would I have to abandon it midway through? I knew I’d run into the exact problems I did–so why on Earth did I start drafting before solving them fully in the outlining stage? NO ONE WILL LIKE THIS BOOK! I AM SUCH A HAAACK.

You know, the usual.

I told myself to chill the hell out and ended up looking at some of the ranting and wailing I did when I was drafting and editing Otherbound. The funny thing: I ran into a lot of the same problems back then, like characters not being developed enough, and relevations/turning points following each other too quickly, too early in the book. I also noticed just how early in the process I managed to pinpoint problems that would end up haunting me months later (mostly using the voices of my critique partners).

Several couple of times during Otherbound, I was on the verge of panicking. Every time, I calmed myself down; I told myself these speed bumps were normal, I went through it with every book, and I had plenty of time and help to fix it.

It really helps to look through all those frustrations of late 2011 and early 2012 now that I’m working on a new book. Because it’s true: I’ve been here before, I’ll be here again, and I end up okay every time. So does the book. Immediately, all the problems I’m running into now look much more doable. I acknowledge them, and then I move past them, knowing that if I can’t do anything about it now, there’s no point in worrying about it. At some point down the road, I’ll figure it out.

So when N.K. Jemisin linked to this article about happiness, I found myself nodding along with this bit:

[Happy people] have an optimistic thinking style. Happy people reign in their pessimistic thinking in three ways. First, they focus their time and energy on where they have control. They know when to move on if certain strategies aren’t working or if they don’t have control in a specific area. Second, they know that “this too shall pass.” Happy people “embrace the suck” and understand that while the ride might be bumpy at times, it won’t last forever. Finally, happy people are good at compartmentalizing. They don’t let an adversity in one area of their life seep over into other areas of their life.

Sounds pretty spot-on, to me!

World-building has to be coherent and logical. You have to think about how your world fits together and the consequences of A, B, and C.

And that works.

But what I personally love is when a fictional world doesn’t necessarily make sense. The tiny contradictions are what make those worlds real. Things the characters themselves never stop to think about until it’s pointed out to them, and then they can go, “Wow, that really makes no sense” and laugh about it with each other. Because that’s what our world is like, too.

Example:

Marijuana is tolerated in the Netherlands. Not legal, but tolerated, as long as you stick to certain restrictions. (No, I don’t know the difference between “It’s against the law, but we don’t enforce that law” and “It’s totally legal”, but I’m sure there is one. Let’s call that weird detail number one.)

Those restrictions are things like “only five plants per household, for personal use only” and “only coffeeshops can sell pot” and “coffeeshops are not allowed to advertise” etc. All sensible stuff.

Take note of the “only coffeeshops can sell pot” and “one can only keep plants for personal use” regulations. An obvious question arises: Where do the coffeeshops get their product from?

If we were world-building a cool secondary world, we’d decide to have state-run plantations, or heavily regulated coffeeshop-owned plantations, right? We’d imagine well-guarded plantations with all sorts of fancy rules and check-ups.

Unfortunately, the real world doesn’t make that much sense. The only way for coffeeshops to get their marijuana is for them to buy it illegally. The police actively seeks out plantations to shut them down, while they’ll pass dozens of coffeeshops daily–they’re on every street corner!–without batting an eye.

This? Is really really weird, yo.

And the Dutch will laugh about it and make jokes and comment on stupid politics, and politicians will argue to close down coffeeshops entirely to combat organized crime, or to legalize the backdoor because the current situation is ridiculous. That’s just the way life is.

So when you’re world-building, don’t be afraid to ignore logic from time to time. Take something that sounds absurd and illogical and then make it a source of wonder and debate in the novel itself. Make it seem real to the characters, and your reader will swallow it whole.

Because it’s those kinds of details that make your world come alive.

I’m a big fan of following blogs and hanging around writers’ forums like Absolute Write. They provide delightful information, and it makes it easy to meet like-minded people in the same boat as you. Here’s yet another reason:

It’ll make you paranoid.

That sounds like a bad thing, but it’s not. Sometimes, that kind of paranoia is what we need to take proper care of our careers. Without horror stories about things like…

… bad publisher contracts
… fly-by-night publishers
… scam agents
… well-meaning but inept agents
… writer-agent conflicts
… terrible editing suggestions
… heteronormativity and racism by professionals
… disappearing royalty checks
… writer-reviewer blow-ups
… promotional failures
… rookie mistakes
… books that never sell
… or get stuck in development hell
… overburdened authors

… and a hundred other things, we won’t know what to guard ourselves against. It’s easy to be so grateful to get an agent or publisher that you might not ask questions about the contracts you’re offered or double-check with knowledgable CPs if the situation you’re in is entirely kosher.

I did plenty of research on agents before I started querying–or so I thought. But much of that research involved blogs, not discussion forums, and not talking to friends. I knew bad agents existed, because the good agents warned me about them, right? I knew better than to pay reading fees.

What I didn’t know was that those good agents weren’t always so good. A couple of years ago, I read someone’s post about terrible experiences with an agent. I don’t remember the details, but it was enough to make me wince and vow to do my best to avoid that kind of situation. At least I wouldn’t have to worry too much, right? I planned to only query agents I’d seen people rave about on their blogs, or whose blogs or Twitter account I followed, or–

Then I reached the end of the post, where the person said something along the lines of, “And this is an agent praised by tons of blogs around the Internet. People call her their dream agent all the time. She’s very popular online.”

My first reaction was, “WHO? OH MY GOD, WHO?” and my second was to run to a friend and declare I was never going to query anyone, ever again, EVER, because publishing was scary.

Obviously, I changed my mind. The post did make me far more cautious, though, and much less likely to declare anyone my dream agent before I’d spoken to their clients and found out the nitty-gritty. Just ‘they offer great advice’ and ‘they’re really funny on Twitter’ isn’t good enough.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t query agents you don’t know every last detail about; that’d make querying nigh-impossible. But we need to stay alert to protect ourselves, and not hand-wave away red flags just because an agent has a big-name client or two.

Similarly, horror stories about experiences with Big Six publishers make it really clear just what a good agent can do for you.

I’ve been in a couple of bad situations in my years in publishing. Thanks to reading other people’s experiences, I managed to recognize the warning signs and escape before the situation could damage my career. The same goes for a number of my friends. Publishing is a fantastic business, but sometimes, it’s a scary one as well.

So talk to friends. Read forums. Inform yourself. Know what to watch for.

Then go look at cat pictures after reading overly serious blog posts like this one.

Lemme get you started with a picture of my sister’s cats on a bike. KITTIES.

You should know this: Steph Sinkhorn is pretty awesome. She says very smart things about publishing and feminism, and I’m always delighted to see her name pop up in Google Reader.

Her latest post is about how she knew she was ready to query agents.

For me, the answer was pretty simple: I didn’t. I queried anyway.

I think that’s probably the route a lot of people end up taking. Querying can’t hurt; you’ll know when you’re ready when agents start knocking on your door and offering contract, right?

It’s not always so easy. If you send out queries too easily, thinking you’re ready, you might get discouraged when agents don’t bite. Or you’ll get bitter, and decide that agents clearly can’t recognize good writing anyway. On the flipside, if you’re insecure about your work, you might never send out queries, or you’ll dip your toes into the querying waters only to be scared off by the first rejections to come across your path.

External feedback can be a good indication, but it’ll also depend on who’s giving that feedback. A published CP’s opinion on that matter carries more weight than my mom’s, is all I’m saying.

That’s why I really liked the points Steph made. One that particularly stuck in my mind was the one about your reaction to writing advice. When I first started writing novels, I followed about a hundred or so writing blogs. I’ve cut down on that over the years, but probably 80% of what I know about publishing is a direct result from following those blogs.

At first, I went, “Ohhh, ahhh, I’m learning shiny new things. I’m going to rock this publishing thing.”

Then, I went, “OK, so THIS is how it works. BRB, writing terrible query that’ll net me a million requests!”

(One day, I’ll show you my first attempt at a query. It was amazingly awful. It must’ve listed like half a dozen genres.)

Next, I went, “I think I might’ve made a boo-boo there. This one person might’ve said Y, but all these other people are saying X. They probably have a point.”

I slowly went through all those steps and finally end up at the point where I am now–where I a) don’t need a lot of the advice anymore; b) can offer others advice without being insecure about it, and c) will often wince seeing incorrect advice tossed about.

Two years ago, c) would’ve just confused me.

Like Steph says, everybody has different indicators. There is no one way of saying, “THIS is how you know you’re ready.” It’s easy to fool yourself one way or the other. But her point about the publishing/writing advice (as are the others–this is just what I latched onto!) is spot-on. You just have to make sure to read enough advice from different sources to get to that point.

TL;DR: Read Steph’s blog, for it is shiny.

Normally I kind of shrug at all the motivational advice I see out there. It’s great if it works for others, but me? Nah. I’d like to say I’m too Dutch for that. We’re known as a very practical, level-headed, sober kind of people. Rather than indulge in those kinds of national stereotypes though, I’d probably just say I’m cynical.

Which is why one of Elana Johnson’s recent posts took me by surprise. I saw it was going to be one of those kind of motivational posts, got ready to skim it, and found myself actually appreciating the advice.

Craig [...] said that when he was coaching girl’s tennis at BYU, and the match wasn’t going well, he’d go out on the court and instead of focusing on all the things the player had done wrong (which they were already obsessing over!), he told them to tell him three things they were doing well.

I can totally see this working when I get in a writing funk. It’s easy to beat yourself up–to say that this scene isn’t salvagable, or that you’d be better off doing something else, or that you’ve surpassed previously imagined levels of suck.

Maybe it’s true. But even if it is, by focusing on what you are doing right, you’ll know what to try to reproduce if you tackle the scene from a different angle. It gives you something to hold onto. To strive towards. And it’s always better to strive for the good than to focus on the bad.

We’ve got a word for this in Dutch: doodstaren. The literal translation is deadstaring. It means staring at something–bad results, an unattainable goal–for a long time without changing your approach or goal.

As you can imagine, it’s not a productive habit.

“Sure, you can deadstare yourself at Jean,” people will say, “but she’s married. Get over her, Logan.”

That’s right, Germans.* You’re not the only ones with cool words. (And yes, we do have Dutch versions of Schadenfreude and Sitzfleisch–leedvermaak and zitvlees get no love, I tell you.)

* Speaking of engaging in national stereotypes: bagging on ze Germans is another one. Sorry, Germans. I’m still moping over this summer’s soccer results is all.

Lately, I’ve been deadstaring myself at the ending of my current WIP–a superhero novella. When I open the file tomorrow, I think I’ll take a look at the things I am doing right.

Let’s see where that gets me, instead.

The always-insightful Sarah Fine recently wrote a blog series on writer’s block–talking about her perspective of it and identifying the various causes and how to approach them. The last post in this series went live yesterday: Conquering Writer’s Block V: THE CYCLE OF DOOM. (This also links to previous posts. Well worth a read, as is the rest of her blog!)

She talks about three root causes of writer’s block, and I read along with interest, up until I reached the post above. At that point I went, “Crap.”

‘Cause it looks like I’m officially dealing with all three of those causes. Between moving, struggling with various plot and other concerns in current projects, and both those things resulting in the dreaded avoidance cycle, I am pretty well and truly screwed in the productivity department.

I’m trying not to beat myself up over it. For one, I did finally start editing something this weekend; for another, moving is a big deal, and once that’s over with, I’ll have more mindspace left to sort out the rest. Sarah’s advice will come in truly handy there.

Optimistically, I’m seeing it as practice. I may not have deadlines yet (aside from short stories/novellas), but it’s always best to tackle writing as if you do have deadlines. I work better with a little pressure, anyway, and it’s good preparation for that nebulous future as a professional author.

In the same way, I’m poking and prodding at my workspace-to-be. I don’t have a lot of room in the new apartment–my kingdom for an office!–which means that so far the plans for that workspace are pretty much ‘table in my living room,’ but I’m intent on making it the best damn ‘table in my living room’ possible.

A ‘dress for the career you’d like to have’ kind of thing.

And with that, I definitely need to get changed into my Batgirl & River Tam PJ combo. Adieu!

This is the second definition for fanwanking in the Urban Dictionary:

To fill in plot holes or explain away lapses in continuity in fictional works by coming up with (often convoluted) explanations of how it could have happened.

“But David used Sarah’s real name even though he never knew her before she changed her identity.”

“He could have read her file. He had access to it in episode seventeen and there were a few minutes when he could have flicked through it.”

As someone who spent much of her adolescence in fandom, I’ve spent a whole lot of time fanwanking. I still do it. Take the Avengers movie for example: You know when Banner Hulks out and chases Black Widow, clearly without any control? Can’t distinguish friend from enemy? And you know how he’s totally chill at the end of the movie?

Yeeeaahh. My excuse was, “Maybe he can control it when he consciously chooses to Hulk out?”

That’s all fine and dandy, but here’s the thing: I don’t think audiences should have to flail around for missing information or pain-stakingly plug plot holes. As a writer, I think that’s my job. My mantra: Put it on the page.

I don’t mean subtext or reading between the lines. I mean obvious things. When my CPs lovingly shred my work, I can’t say, “The climax wasn’t anti-climactic at all. The secondary characters were off having dramatic show-downs of their own. Off-page. It was very exciting.”

Or: “What do you mean, ‘convenient’ breakthrough? Lucy actually Googled that info between chapters seven and eight. Yes, those chapters lead directly into each other. She… took a quick Internet break…?”

All this seems obvious, but it’s astounding how much we have in our heads that never makes it onto the page.

Sometimes, that’s intentional; I may want to save explanations for a sequel. I can still hint at the missing parts, though. Make my character wonder what’s up. Mention the dangling plot point or odd mood swing.

I’ll simply have to make it clear, in whatever way I choose, that I’m consciously omitting X or Y. It’s not an oversight. I’m just being a puppet master.

Cackling goes [here.]

This goes for details, too: How did the character get back home when her car broke down last chapter? Is she exhausted from walking for hours? Did she call a taxi? Is her car in the shop?

Nobody wants to know every aspect of a character’s life, but if I make a big deal out of something, I try to follow through. An off-hand mention may keep the reader from wondering about unimportant consequences. Instead, I want them invested in my sparkling plot.

So let’s extend this “put it in writing!” mantra to problems beyond plot holes.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen people criticize authors or directors for writing about entirely straight/white worlds, only to hear, “Jeez, of course they exist, it just wasn’t relevant to the story! My world isn’t all-white at all!”

In one memorable case, the reaction was, “What are you talking about? My show has three queer characters. YOU’RE the homophobe for assuming everyone is straight.”

I don’t think it’s fair to whip out information that’s only in the author’s head and claim it’s just as canon as what’s in the books/show. It seems like a cop-out: “I’m not sure how to write a convincing gay character/it might cut down on my audience. I’ll just not mention it in the book and appease those who complain in online interviews. Win-win!”

It’s rarely intended that way, but the effect is the same: no visible representation.

Besides, what about people who never read creator interviews? Would they have an incomplete understanding of the material? For example, I’m convinced that people who watched the original The Amazing Spider-Man trailers and read interviews and articles have a different view of the story than those who only saw the movie.

“It exists in my head!” doesn’t–shouldn’t–work as a defense against criticism, be it regarding plot holes or minority representation.

The book is all most readers have. And if it’s not on those pages, it doesn’t exist.

Like most authors, before I start on a big-picture edit, I make a list of what it is exactly that needs fixing. What often leads to one breakthrough after another is when I start to look for ways to combine those problems.

If my main character needs to show more reaction to traumatic event X…
If a supporting character disappears halfway through the book…
If an important location pops up out of nowhere in the climax…

… I’ll see if I can add a scene between my main character and that supporting character, set in that important location, discussing the traumatic event. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t.

If the pacing is too fast in one part…
If I need to do more world-building…
If a later plot point appears very, very convenient…

Can I add a scene to break up that fast pacing and sneak in some world-building and a mention of that plot point?

Sometimes, to fix these problems, you need to weave it in subtly here and there. Sometimes, you need to rewrite half–or all–of the book.

But when simply adding an extra scene to tackle several problems at once does work, it’s pretty damn nifty.

Of course, the number one reason I’m writing about this tactic is because it won’t work for the book I’m editing now. Oh, how I long for the days of rough drafting.

Voice is often said to be one of the most important skills you need to master as a writer. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen agents and editors say, “A strong voice is vital. Plot, pacing, character–we can work on those. But a voice is harder to fix.”

That said, voice is easy to overdo, and that’s something I don’t see advice on as often. I love, love, love a strong voice in a book, but I’ve read several novels I would’ve probably enjoyed more had the voice been toned down.

This seems to be most common in YA, where some authors try so hard to get the teen voice right that it ends up coming across as fake. It gets very tiring, very quickly when every other paragraph goes along the lines of, “Ugh, I totally hate this grade-A jackass, and what in the name of all that’s holy is up with his clothes? Seriously.”

Sometimes, less is more.

It happens in other ways as well, though. Sometimes if you want to achieve a certain rhythm or tone of ‘pretty prose,’ you end up repeating yourself. Sometimes if you want to try to be funny, you end up trying way too hard, or your sentences get so tangled that it’s hard to figure out what’s going on. (Cough, cough. That would be me.)

What it comes down to is this: Voice needs to inform the character and the tone. Voice needs to intrigue the reader. What voice should never do is detract from the story. If at any point voice gets in the way of clarity, emotion, or character development, you’ll snap the reader right out of that spell you’ve worked so hard to cast.

When editing low-budget indie flick Avengers, Joss Whedon purposefully went through and cut out a lot of his voice. He has a very distinct style as a writer, and didn’t think it would serve him well for this movie. Opinions on this seem to vary–I’ve seen complaints that him cutting out his voice made the movie dull and mainstream, while others lauded it as a good decision. He kept his voice, just streamlined it.

I have problems with some of Joss Whedon’s work, but I’m a nineties child: I grew up with Buffy, and grew to love Angel and Firefly as well. Still, I’m in the camp that says Whedon made the right choice to tone down his voice. These weren’t his characters. They have a history–both as comic characters, where they’ve existed for years, and as movie characters, where they were written by other writers. It’d be very jarring to suddenly have them talking in Whedon dialogue.

A similar thing can apply to your work. Often, it’s good to go all-out. Pour as much of you in the book as possible. Other times, your voice as an author may not serve the story you’re trying to tell, and you’ll want to reel yourself in a little. I think both skills are essential to developing as an author.

Once you learn to strike the right balance, the story wins.

When printing my MS in order to line edit, I’ll usually print double-sided. It’s not standard MS format, but hey, it’s just for me, and it saves paper.

When a scene is draggy, though, it helps to print it out single-sided. That allows you to spread the pages out next to each other and see a lot of things in one glance instead of endlessly scrolling in Word/Scrivener/insert program of your choice.

What I like to do is marking similar ‘types’ of narration in the sidelines. If you have a lot of exposition, you can see if you’re repeating yourself. If you have a lot of dialogue, see if you can condense it. If you have a lot of description, see if you need to lump it together more, or vice versa.

This kind of overview is nigh impossible to achieve on the computer, and makes it a lot easier to see what needs fixing, and how.

Bonus: it’ll give you no choice but to clean up your desk/table to make room for all those pages.