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.

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.

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.

Sometimes one needs a fresh start.

See also: Batman & Robin, fatally flawed first drafts, Hulk poodles.

A lot of the time, though, a reset button can hurt you and your story. When we read or watch a series, we’re invested in these characters, their growth, and the changing status quo of the world they live in. It’s why we continually pick up the next book or record the next episode. If, at the end, nothing changes–for either better or worse–it can feel hollow, unnecessary, like filler.

We want to see growth.

Which is why it can be so, so vexing when creators seem to want to avoid this at all cost. To name a few recent examples:

[SPOILERS BELOW FOR RECENT WAREHOUSE 13, THE LEGEND OF KORRA, and CATWOMAN.]

…

…

Warehouse 13. At the end of last season, the warehouse was destroyed. Blown up. Gone. I watched and went, “Cool. Gutsy move.”

At the start of this season, we picked up right where we left off: the MCs stand in the middle of the destroyed warehouse, numbly taking in the debris surrounding them. Everything they’ve worked for over millennia–gone. Worse, the destruction of certain artifacts has nasty consequences. Things are set free that really shouldn’t be.

I got excited. Here’s what I thought would happen: Now, they have to fight to contain the effects of those destroyed artifacts. They’ll have to find new artifacts without the occasionally deus ex machina-y aid of previously captured artifacts. They have to rebuild the warehouse, one piece at a time.

It would have been awesome.

Here’s what happened: Artie turned back time. The warehouse is perfectly intact. Nothing to see here, move along.

Legend of Korra. At the end of the first season, Korra has her powers taken away by Amon. She’s powerless–until her airbending kicks in (and let’s not go into how that happens) and that ends up being the only skill left to her.

As an Avatar, she is destroyed.

Here’s what I thought would happen: Korra spends the season two perfecting her airbending and finally getting in touch with her spiritual side. This is great! She’ll finally learn to be less dependent on the “hit things with fire/stone/water” approach she’s been using all season! She’ll finally shed some of that Avatar arrogance!

After a frequently disappointing first season, I was all geared up for an amazing season two. The creators were shaking up the status quo, and now they were getting down to business.

Here’s what happened: Spirit!Aang showed up, restored Korra’s bending, and offered the Avatar state as a special treat. She then restored all the bending abilities Amon took away from other benders.

… Oh.

Catwoman: This is a different case from the above two. With comics, you need a reboot on occasion. Decades-long histories get incredibly unwieldy to manage, and they’re very unfriendly for newer readers to boot.

I appreciate that, so after some hesitation, I picked up some of the rebooted Catwoman comics this week. Between seeing The Dark Knight Rises, playing Batman: Arkham City, and reading some Gotham City Sirens trades, I had a craving for some Selina Kyle, and if there’s an active solo going on, welllll…

… I read it with a feeling of dread.

This new iteration of Selina is 23. She’s a thief. She’s self-destructive to the point of being suicidal. She has few true friends.

Here’s a taste of the plotlines: Selina’s apartment gets blown up. Selina gets a friend killed. Selina gets thoroughly beaten up. Selina has an emotional breakdown. Selina almost kills a man in revenge. Selina spars with Batman. Selina steals from the wrong people and gets into trouble. Selina helps out Gotham prostitutes. Selina has trouble opening up to her friends.

We’ve seen all of this before. These areas have been very, very well-covered in Catwoman’s previous solo run–except, wait, that doesn’t exist anymore. All the growth she had as a character is gone, and we’re repeating the same things with a sense of, “Been there, done that.”

We’ve back to square one.

What upsets me just as much as the erasure of her emotional growth is the resetting of the status quo. I loved seeing Selina turn from a thief to a fully-fledged (anti-)hero. She found out Batman’s identity. They talk to each other as equals. They have a mature, established relationship–be it as allies or lovers–and not this self-loathing, self-destructive ripping off of clothes where they can’t even hold a normal conversation.

Ted? Maggie? Holly? Helena? Gone.

Moving in with Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, and the three of them grudgingly helping each other stay on the straight and narrow? Gone.

The friendly banter with Dick when he assumed the Batman mantle? Gone.

Playing on the same level as the other Bat allies? You’ve got it. Gone.

It’s hard to stick with a character for so long, root for them, and then be told, “Nope. Sorry. Classy? Mature? She’s no fun like this. We need her as a twenty-three-year-old with her bra showing in every other panel. Oh, and can we tie her to a chair and beat her up some?”

A similar thing happened to Spider-Man a couple of years ago. He’d grown up to be a confident, strong man, married to a fantastic woman. They had a loving, trusting, healthy, mature, equal relationship.

“Oh,” the company went. “Our readers can’t relate to that.”

So they wiped the marriage from the characters’ minds. Petey’s back to lamenting his inability to get a date.

I got my geek on for a moment there; sorry.

My point is… shake up the status quo. Have your characters evolve. Have the world change. Embrace the consequences of your plots.

As long as you do that, you’ll have an infinite supply of story.

And you’ll also avoid my bitching about you in my blog. (But seriously. Guys. Guys. What are you doing. Stop. Stoooop iiiiit.)

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.

I’ve been quiet on chat/Twitter/this here blog lately, for two significant reasons: one, I’m lazy; two, the lovely Helen Corcoran decided to grace me with her presence. After spending several days getting up early, feeding her silly, and dragging her all across town, I’m back to sitting around in my PJs and trying desperately to catch up on chores and missed sleep.

I love playing tour guide, but sometimes the line blurs between tourist and tour guide. When I took Helen to see places I’d never visited before, speaking another language, I knew anyone overseeing me would assume I were a tourist. I felt  like a tourist, too: obsessively planning my day, constantly checking the map, thinking of where to eat and which bus to take. One moment, I’d be standing in line for the Anne Frank House and be offered an English flyer; the next, I’d be dragging Helen past the house where I grew up so she could see the old, overgrown graveyard where I used to play as a kid.

Being so immersed in American culture–American friends; American books; American television–has given me a very foreign perspective of the city I grew up in. I see everything in a new light. I appreciate the history, the context. Buildings I passed every day suddenly represent so much more. Food I snacked on as a kid is suddenly unique. Little details–the lights fixed around the bridges, the bike-only tickets for trains–stand out in a way they never did before.

It means I can point out fascinating details to visiting friends, because I know it’ll be special to them, but it also means it’s not as much a part of everyday life as it used to be. The normalcy is gone. It may be a good thing: It makes me appreciate my city more. At the same time, I’m not American, I’m not foreign, I am–or should be–Dutch through and through. There’s a fine line between appreciation and feeling like a tourist in your home town.

When I bike to the supermarket, I’ll catch myself thinking about how smooth and flat the bike paths are, I’ll marvel at how natural biking comes to me, I’ll smile at a mother balancing heavy groceries on the handlebars and two kids perched on the rack. Five years ago, I’d just be cursing myself for not checking if I needed to get milk.

It’s an odd feeling to have, and I’m not sure I like it.

Is it just a part of growing older and looking at things differently? Have you ever felt similarly?

Generally, I consider my procrastination to be less “procrastinating” and more “downtime”, which is necessary sometimes.

I mean, a lot of the time.

Anyway, I’ve noticed a pattern in that I procrastinate a lot more when it comes to editing than drafting. I love drafting. For one, I only draft when I’m excited about a story, so it’s much easier to dig into it and keep going. For another–and I think this is a much bigger reason for my lack of procrastination–you can measure your progress in drafting so much easier.

When you draft, it’s all about the words. A thousand a day? Two thousand? Four thousand? Since I’m not the type to go back and edit (unless I get really stuck), this is easy to measure.

When you edit–that’s tougher. In advance, you can’t know how much time and effort a certain edit will take (though the more you edit, the more accurately you can predict this). So how do you measure progress? Number of problems fixed? Number of scenes added? Number of words removed? Number of pages edited? Number of hours put in? It’s much less clear-cut. For someone as addicted to productivity and progress as I am, it makes editing a real chore.

I think another big reason might be the pressure. When you draft, there’s nothing to screw up. You can go all out. You can finally bring your characters to life. It doesn’t have to be good, it just has to be there, and you know that when you start writing you’ll come up with all sorts of fantastic new things. It’s exciting. It’s adventure. It’s discovery. If you screw up, no big deal–that’s what edits are for!

And then the edits actually need to happen and you realize–gulp. Now it does need to be good. There’s no more discovery, there’s no more freedom. You have a plan, there’s no room for deviation, and there’s actually a real, tangible book there that you might screw up with these fixes.

So when I’m getting ready to edit something… I tend to drag it out. Oh, I need to do more brainstorming first. Oh, maybe I need to do another readthrough. Oh, I’ll just fix this tiny thing here first. Maybe I should get another beta reader’s opinion before I dig in? And wait, I may need to abruptly switch projects soon, so then it’s really senseless to start on editing now, and oh look, something shiny!

Editing. I fail at it.

All of this is a very long-winded way of saying that one of my delightful CPs OKed my editing ideas for BLINK last night, which means I have no more excuse not to dig into edits. As in, now. Today.

Maybe this post will stop me from procrastinating?

What about you? Any major difference in how you approach drafting vs. editing?

I’m knee-deep in messy, messy edits right now, but I figure y’all don’t want to hear about that.

Instead, I was curious to hear what you guys thought about the plot device of side characters withholding information from the narrator. I’ve been on a reading binge this past month, and that situation came up more than once, and it bothered me a lot more than I expected.

Not always, of course. When done right, there’s a lot of narrative tension in a situation like this. People around your character have information they’re trying to find out — heck, that happens in almost

No, when it bothers me is when I can't figure out why those people are being so secretive. I need to know and understand their motives. Otherwise this just seems like a cheap plot device. Sometimes it’s easy: They’re the villain! Other times, it’s never explained in the book and no reason I can come up with fits.

Another common trope is when the character is ostensibly on the main character’s side, but they’re being weirdly cryptic — and sometimes the MC won’t even press further! If the person sitting across from you has information that could save people’s lives, it’s really not the time for politeness. And again, explain why the character is so cryptic.

Basically, your character needs to be asking the same questions the reader is. And if they’re not getting answers? There had better be a good reason for it. Otherwise, the tension feels fake.

Am I the only one bothered by this plot device? Do share!

In preparation for my next book, I’ve been plotting, which lead me to thinking about how I plot. This will be my sixth book, though the seventh one I’ve plotted, and I’ve had mainly the same process throughout.

Though I’m big on outlining, I don’t outline by chapter or scene, but by major event/turning point. “They discover X problem; they try to solve it using ABC method; this backfires, complicating the problem and forcing them to do Y. This leads to Z, which propels them towards the climax, where the following happens…”

Usually, the climax is plotted out in more detail than the rest. I need to know I can resolve something in a satisfactory way before I start writing. I’m okay with semi-pantsing parts of the middle, but only as long as I know where everything will lead. That also helps me set things up properly, establish bits of world-building that turn out to be essential, etc.

I do try to avoid pantsing too much–at least beforehand. When I have those events, I try to think of how I can fill them in. A big part of this process is asking myself questions: Where would this event take place? Who would be present? Exactly *how* do they discover this bit of information? Does someone tell them or can they put the pieces together themselves? The latter is preferable; which pieces would they need and how could they go about getting it, given their current situation? Roughly how would this unfold if I think of it in scenes?

What I rarely do, though, is plot out the character development in that same way. I’ll have a rough idea of how my characters develop, how they feel about each other and how that changes (kissing! It changes into kissing!), and what their main internal conflicts are, but I don’t figure out how that translates into scenes. I try to keep it in mind when I plot out stuff, making sure they wouldn’t do anything that’s painfully out of character, but that’s it. The rest of the characterization only gets sorted out properly as I write.

In my outline, major turning point A may lead into dramatic show-down B, but while writing turning point A I might realize that my character needs to respond to this in some way. They need to have a breakdown or confront their rival or take a drastic action I hadn’t anticipated. I don’t plot by scene or chapter because I want to allow myself that freedom. So while I follow the outline, I pants in-between those planned bits.

A lot of other pantsing comes in as I write, too. I’ll realize that I need to introduce another character to make a certain scene work, but that character would interfere with future scenes. Or my characters know more than they should, so I need to change the outline to reflect that. I’ll realize I need to set up a certain event better, which requires a whole new scene or plotline. Or that the character who shows up early in the book and then disappears for the rest of it needs a pay-off of some sort.

That, or I’ll discover giant plot-holes, or rework my ending, or realize I should delete a character, or…

Whenever something like that comes up, I’ll take a step away from the manuscript, grab my outline, and hash it out until it works. This may take an hour, this may take a week. It also takes many panicky Tweets, but the exact number varies. Then something clicks, I figure it out, and return to the writing part of the program.

It’s sort of comfortable to have this process hashed out. I know what to expect. That doesn’t make it all puppies and rainbows–I have a million breakdowns while actually writing–but I know to expect that, too.

In a way I’m looking forward to it: it means I’m making progress.