Tag Archives: plotting

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Monday Musings: What We’re Watching These Days

Today’s post is a bit late, for which I apologize. It also offers a break from some of the more weighty topics I’ve covered in my Monday posts. I sometimes feel that I get too serious with my essays week after week, and though I know people enjoy the Musings posts, I also don’t want to be a downer.

Nancy and I have been streaming some new stuff so far this year. For a time, some of you may remember, we were new to the world of streaming (and new to the world of high-speed internet) and were just trying to catch up on the shows everyone was talking about. At this point, we have worked our way through some of the well-known stuff — Ted Lasso, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, The Crown, and others. We have enjoyed them (mostly — the most recent season of The Crown left us cold; we didn’t finish it) and are new venturing into newer shows and other titles that we’re finding interesting. I should mention here that we currently have access to Netflix, Prime, Disney+, and Apple TV. We have not yet ventured into Paramount+ or HBO Max, though we intend to eventually.

With that in mind, here are a few of our recent favorites:

The Diplomat — Netflix: Keri Russell and Rufus Sewell as a dysfunctional couple who are both high-profile diplomats. He is undisciplined and currently out of work; she is newly assigned as the ambassador to London, a position that should be low key and cushy but proves anything but. His jealousy of her success and his repeated attempts to manipulate events behind the scenes threaten to wreck their marriage, despite the electric bond between them. The dynamic between the two is fascinating and compelling, the acting is terrific, as is the supporting cast. One season is done, and the show has been renewed for another.

The Night Agent — Netflix: Gabriel Basso plays a low-level FBI agent who answers a late-night call from a young woman (played by Luciane Buchanan) being hunted by the killers who, for reasons she doesn’t understand, have just murdered her aunt and uncle. Events quickly point toward a mole in the White House and a deadly plot against the U.S. government. You don’t want to think too hard about any of what happens, because there are definitely plot holes. And the scripts are not about win any Pulitzers. But the chemistry between Basso and Buchanan is terrific, and the storyline is compelling enough to pull one along for all 10 first season episodes. One season is done; show renewed for another.

The Last Kingdom — Netflix: A historical series set in England at the time of King Alfred (before there actually was an England). Alexander Dreymon plays Uhtred of Bebbanburg, a Saxon-born man who was raised by invading Danes and finds himself caught again and again between Danish warriors and the Saxons who seek to establish a kingdom that will unite all of England. The action can be brutal, bloody, and gruesome, and there is a good deal of explicit sex. But if you’re okay with that, this is interesting, suspenseful, and really well-acted. Highly recommended. Five seasons complete and a final movie, Seven Kings Must Die, also on Netflix.

Star Wars: Andor — Disney+: This entry in the Star Wars mythos is one that I watched while Nancy was traveling, and it really surprised me. I was sort of lukewarm on The Mandalorian and expected to feel the same way about this series, which traces the early years of Cassian Andor’s (Diego Luna) initiation into the rebel cause. For those who don’t know, Andor was one of the lead characters in the Star Wars movie Rogue One. This show serves as a prequel to that, and to the original Star Wars movie. As it turns out, the show is thoughtfully done, and the performances are quite good. I offer this along with all the usual caveats about anything Star Wars-related. Rabid fans of the franchise will already know about this series, but if you’re a casual fan of the movies, you’ll probably enjoy this as well. One season, renewed for a second.

Derry Girls — Netflix: Brilliant, hilarious, and utterly bingeable. This show originally aired on Irish TV, where it was a huge hit. You can now watch it on Netflix. It follows a group of high school kids living in Northern Ireland during the 1990s as the Troubles continue to consume the land. The humor is spot on, making the occasional moments of serious drama are all the more effective. The ensemble cast is quirky and perfect. The episodes are only 30 minutes long and there are only three seasons of the show, making it easy to get through in a long weekend. You won’t be sorry. Oh, turn on close captioning when you watch; the accents are thick. Three seasons. Complete.

Lockwood and Co. — Netflix: We’re watching this one now. Based on the novels by Jonathan Stroud, Lockwood and Co. follows three teens who fight supernatural spirits in a dystopian future London. The teens are portrayed quite well by Ruby Stokes, Cameron Chapman and Ali Hadji-Heshmati, and thus far (five episodes in) the storyline is certainly fun and intriguing enough to hold our interest. There are some plot holes, but the action and dialogue move things along quickly enough to keep one from dwelling on them for too long. Unfortunately, the series was cancelled after one season (10 episodes). One season; cancelled.

And there we are.

Have a great week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Thieftaker Chronicles, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Beginnings, Middles, and Endings, part II — Narrative Structure

Last week, I began a new Professional Wednesday feature called “Beginnings, Middles, and Endings,” in which I plan to write about the various parts of story writing. In last week’s post, I focused on openings, on how to approach the beginning of a novel or short story.

This week, I take on middles, and I imagine this will be the first of a couple of essays on the subject. Because let’s be honest: By far the biggest chunk of what we write is the “middle.” Even if we take the first two or three chapters as the opening, and the last two or three as the ending, that still leaves the vast majority of our novel occupying the middle. So any discussion of how to handle that middle is going to have to touch on several topics. And today, I am beginning with a general overview — the 10,000 foot view, if you will.

Thieftaker, by D.B. Jackson (Jacket art by Chris McGrath)First, though, it occurs to me that in writing about openings last week, I left out one crucial, but easy-to-describe story element: “the inciting event.” The inciting event of your narrative is, quite simply, the thing that jump-starts your story, that takes the characters you have introduced in your opening lines from a place of relative stasis to a place of flux, of change, of tension and conflict and, perhaps, danger. It is the commencement of the narrative path that will carry your characters through the rest of the story. In his description of the Hero’s Journey, Joseph Campbell referred to the inciting event as the “Call to Adventure.” If you’re looking for examples, think of the arrival of the first letter from Hogwarts in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, or the appearance of Gandalf at Bilbo Baggins’s door in The Hobbit. In pretty much all the Thieftaker books and stories, it is the arrival of whoever Ethan’s new client will be for that episode.

Your inciting event can be anything. Whatever launches your narrative, taking your lead character from a place of balance and peace to one of conflict and tension. And really, that’s it. We can make it more complicated, but it doesn’t need to be.

This description of the inciting event allows me to segue into a broader discussion of story structure, since any formula for narrative will include the inciting event. The most common storytelling model — the one that comes up most when I have conversations with fellow writers — is the three-act structure. This is a fairly simple and helpful framework by which to organize our narrative. Act One is the “Setup” and includes an introduction to our characters and setting, as well as the inciting event and an early climax. Act Two is called “Confrontation.” Here our story takes off, with ever-increasing action and tension, a series of obstacles placed in the path of our heroes, a midway-point plot-twist, and ultimately a crisis that precipitates a second story climax. Act Three, “Resolution,” features our story’s resolving climax, a diminution of action, and finally a denouement that resolves outstanding issues, eases tension, and, in most cases, leaves our characters changed, but at relative peace. You can Google “Three Act Structure” and find essays about this approach as well as visual representations of the structure. I should add as well, that there is also a five-act structure that I find less compelling and useful than this one.

Okay, confession time.

When I write, I never think in terms of “Acts” and I don’t graph out my chapters to make certain I am following the schematic one sees in the results of the aforementioned Google search. It’s not that I find fault with the three-act structure, or try to avoid it in any way. To the contrary. I expect that I use it in every project; if you were to superimpose one of those graphics onto the narrative structure of any of my novels, you would probably find that I write in three acts all the time, following the model quite closely.

What I said was, I don’t THINK in terms of “Acts.” I never have. Not even with my earliest novels. I believe by that point I had already thoroughly internalized the three-act structure, having been exposed to it in novels, movies, television shows, theater, etc. for pretty much my entire life. Writing in that form came as second nature.

Now, that is not to say that those who do organize their novels and stories using the three-act structure have somehow failed to internalize it as I did. Not in the least. The model is so prevalent that I think all of us have it ingrained to some degree, even those who don’t create stories for a living. This is why two writers, one who outlines and one who writes without any narrative plotting written down ahead of time, can both come up with tales that closely follow this structure. As with a written outline, I think of the three-act structure as a narrative tool, something some writers use to organize their thoughts ahead of time. I outline by chapter. Sometimes. I also write without an outline. Sometimes.

And without actually visualizing my story as a three-act graphic, I almost always write in three acts. So why don’t I think in those terms as I’m writing or even outlining? I suppose I am leery of imposing any predetermined structure on my story planning. Even if I wind up following the structure, I want it to happen organically, without the sort of premeditation that might convince me to plot according to pattern rather than according to the exigencies of my story, my characters, my creative vision.

Where does this leave our conversation, and what does it mean for whatever advice I might offer in this first post about story middles?

First, pay attention to the structure of movies and television shows you watch and books you read or listen to. The best learning tools at your disposal are the narratives crafted by creators you enjoy and respect.

Second, even if you don’t plot strictly according to the three-act structure, be aware of the rough pattern illustrated in those visual representations. You want to have an inciting event, a huge twist near the middle, and a deep crisis for your protagonist near the climax. You want your narrative tension to climb until your final climax. And you want there to be resolution at the end.

Third, write your story. Just write it. Get it down on paper (or phosphors). Don’t obsess over structure and whether you have every plot point in the right place. Write it. Finish it. And then, if the structure needs adjustment, handle that in revisions. Your story need not conform to anyone else’s concept of what “narrative” should look like. Write it as you imagine it. And if you decide to “fix” things later, make sure you do so in service to the story YOU want to tell, not the structure someone else says is “correct.”

Keep writing.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Tor Books, Winds of the Forelands, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Trust Yourself. No, Really.

Rules of Ascension, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Gary Ruddell)Trust your reader.

This is editor speak for “trust yourself.” It is something I say often to many of the writers I edit.

But what does it mean?

I have had my own lesson in “trust your reader” in recent days as I have begun the long, arduous task of editing for reissue the five volumes of my Winds of the Forelands epic fantasy series, originally published by Tor Books back in the early 2000s, when I was still a relative newbie. My editor at Tor used to tell me all the time to trust my readers, and so I assumed — naïvely, it would seem — that back in the day he and I had caught all the instances where I didn’t trust my reader. But no. It seems there were so many of these moments, that he had to engage in a sort of editorial triage, catching only the most egregious and leaving the rest.

Yes, I know. I still haven’t defined the phrase.

Seeds of Betrayal, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Gary Ruddell)As I say, “trust your reader” is essentially the same as “trust yourself.” And editors use it to point out all those places where we writers tell our readers stuff that they really don’t have to be told. Writers spend a lot of time setting stuff up — arranging our plot points just so in order to steer our narratives to that grand climax we have planned; building character backgrounds and arcs of character development that carry our heroes from who they are when the story begins to who we want them to be when the story ends; building histories and magic systems and other intricacies into our world so that all the storylines and character arcs fit with the setting we have crafted with such care.

Bonds of Vengeance, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Romas Kukalis)And because we work so hard on all this stuff (and other narrative elements I haven’t even mentioned) we want to be absolutely certain that our readers get it all. We don’t want them to miss a thing, because then all our Great Work will be for naught. Because maybe, just maybe, if they don’t get it all, then our Wonderful Plot might not come across as quite so wonderful, and our Deep Characters might not come across as quite so deep, and our Spectacular Worlds might not feel quite so spectacular.

And that would be A Tragedy.

Shapers of Darkness, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Romas Kukalis)Okay, yes, I’m making light, poking fun at myself and my fellow writers. But fears such as these really do lie at the heart of most “trust your reader” moments. And so we fill our stories with unnecessary explanations, with redundancies that are intended to remind, but that wind up serving no purpose, with statements of the obvious and the already-known that serve only to clutter our prose and our storytelling.

The first few hundred pages of Rules of Ascension, the first volume of Winds of the Forelands, is filled to bursting with unnecessary passages of this sort. I explain things again and again. I remind my readers of key points in scenes that took place just a dozen or so pages back. I make absolutely certain that my readers are well versed in every crucial element (“crucial” as determined by me, of course) in my world building and character backgrounds.

Weavers of War, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Romas Kukalis)As a result, the first volume of the series was originally 220,000 words long. Yes, that’s right. Book II was about 215,000, and the later volumes were each about 160,000. They are big freakin’ books. Now, to be clear, there are other things that make them too wordy, and I’m fixing those as well. And the fact is, these are big stories and even after I have edited them, the first book will still weigh in at well over 200,000 words. My point is, they are longer than they need to be. They are cluttered with stuff my readers don’t need, and all that stuff gets in the way of the many, many good things I have done with my characters and setting and plot and prose.

I have always been proud of these books. I remain so even as I work through this process. People have read and enjoyed all five volumes as originally written despite the “trust your reader” moments. I actually think most readers pass over those redundant, unnecessary passages without really noticing them. They are not horrible or glaring (except to me); they’re just annoying. They are rookie mistakes, and so I find them embarrassing, and I want to eliminate as many as possible before reissuing the books.

But our goal as writers ought to be to produce the best stories we can write, with the clearest, most concise narratives and the cleanest, most readable prose. “Trust your reader” moments are a hindrance — one among many — to the achievement of that goal, and so we should be aware of the tendency and work to eliminate these unnecessary passages from our writing.

Mostly, we should remember the translation — “trust your reader” means “trust yourself.” Chances are we have laid our groundwork effectively, establishing our worlds, developing our characters, setting up our plot points. If we haven’t, a good editor will tell us so and will recommend places where we can clarify matters a bit.

So, remember that less is usually more, that showing is almost always better than telling, that most times when we stop to explain stuff we rob our stories of momentum.

And most of all, remember to trust yourself. You’ve earned it.

Keep writing.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Writing

Professional Wednesday: When To Fight an Edit, and When To Let it Go

I know my knee-jerk response is not always my wisest response.

All of us who have gone through the editorial process are familiar with the conundrum: We want to work with our editors. We want to cultivate reputations for being easy to work with, cooperative, flexible, etc. No one WANTS to be known as a prima donna. At least almost no one. But then we find that our editor (or our copy editor, or our proofer) has altered something we didn’t want altered, killed a darling we weren’t willing to sacrifice. What do we do? Do we dig in our heels in order to keep the original wording, carving “STET” (editorial speak for “let it stand”) into the manuscript with a bloody blade? Or do we give in, though it hurts physically to do so?

Put another way, when do we as writers fight for wording we want, and when do we acquiesce?

Over the past few years, I have been both editor and writer on a number of stories and novels. I have felt the sting of having passages I have written, passages I care about, altered by an editor, and I have also had writers reject editorial feedback I have given that I know, with every fiber of my being, would make their work better. I haven’t enjoyed either experience, yet I have come to see that both are natural, even necessary, outcomes of the literary process.

At its best, the relationship between writer and editor is collaborative, cooperative. It necessitates compromise. Some of our darlings won’t survive the process. Some of the editor’s suggestions will be rejected. Early in my career, I worked with an editor who had far, far more experience than I did, and this editor expected that I would defer in most if not all cases. Our interactions often left me feeling bullied, and there were changes the editor insisted upon that I wish I had rejected. I have also, in my editorial capacity, worked with writers who refuse all suggestions. All of them. Neither extreme is likely to produce the best possible version of the story, which, of course, ought to be the entire point.

So, as writers, how do we decide how hard to push back, when to compromise, when to insist on our wording or approach? And as editors, how insistent should we be?

Let me begin by addressing that last question, because in many respects it’s the easiest to answer. In my capacity as editor, I feel it is my responsibility to point out to my writers anything and everything I can see that I believe needs to be fixed in order to improve the story or book. I will offer possible solutions — alternate wording or potential fixes for narrative issues, but none of what I suggest is meant to be the only possible approach. My purpose is to point out a problem. The author can fix it any way they choose. Or they can decide it’s not a problem. And, generally speaking, if an author decides the problem I have identified is NOT in fact a problem, I will respect that decision. Every now and then, if I believe the issue is serious enough and the author decides initially that they don’t agree, I will mention the issue again and explain why I think it matters, and how it might be addressed without changing too much. After that, I won’t say more. It’s the writer’s story, after all. Their name is on it, not mine.

And in my capacity as writer, I follow the same principle. It is my story. My name is on the byline, not the editor’s. Now, having said that, I also have to add that I accept the vast majority of my editors’ suggested fixes, and I always take seriously any problem they identify. Why? Because my editors are professionals and they know what they’re doing. Because we writers can’t possibly see every flaw in our work; we’re simply too close to it. Because I am far from perfect. And because I trust the process and I understand the editor-writer relationship is not adversarial; my editor’s goal is my goal: to make the story as good as it can be.

So how do I decide when to stick to my guns and when to give in on an issue of wording or style, plotting or character work?

1. I give the matter some time to percolate. The truth is, often when I disagree with something my editor suggests, my first impulse is to resist, to refuse, to insist on having things my way. And so, when reading through an edited manuscript, I will mark the issue as something to return to later. I essentially stick a pin in it. Because I know my knee-jerk response is not always my wisest response.

2. When I return to the issue, I try to see what it is the editor is pointing out. Remember I said earlier, in talking about editing, that editorial suggestions are just that: suggestions. They are a way of saying, “There’s a problem here.” Good editors do not add, “And you need to fix it my way.” So I try to see the issue my editor has identified, and for the moment I ignore their suggested solution. Much of the time, I can find edits that preserve the tone I want while also addressing the problem the editor has identified.

3. If, after some time and some careful consideration, I still find myself disagreeing with the edit, I ask myself how much it matters to the book. Is this issue worth an argument? Quite often, they’re not. I take pride in my writing and I craft each word, because I want my books and stories to read a certain way. But I know many of my readers don’t take the same care in reading a book that I take in writing it. That’s natural. So, are readers likely to notice if I change this in some way? If the answer is no, the issue is probably not worth fighting over. It’s just up to me to get over myself.

It’s worth noting here that, generally speaking, issues related to style and wording are important but not crucial. Questions touching on narrative issues — plotting, pacing, character — are fundamental, and so I am far, far more likely to insist on having my way in these instances. A few series back, I rejected a number of edits suggested by an editor because I knew they were wrong and I felt certain the edits they suggested would ruin the book. I got my way. And I never worked with that editor again.

4. Finally, if I have given myself time to settle down, if I have decided the issue is one I care about, if I have decided that making a change is going to impact materially my readers’ experience, I will insist on keeping the wording or narrative point as I originally wrote it. STET that sucker.

But as you can see, even with my conviction that we authors should always have the final word (It’s. Our. Book.) I do all I can to respect and take seriously the work done by my editors. It’s worth saying again: Editors and writers are allies. We work together to make a manuscript as good as it can be. Editors who push too hard, and authors who are too resistant to changing anything, undermine the editorial process. They may think they are scoring points in some ridiculous battle of ego and control. But all they are doing is hurting the manuscript, which benefits no one.

Keep writing.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, teaching, Writing

Professional Wednesday: It’s All Connected

One more post about my teaching weekend at the Hampton Roads Writers Conference . . . .

As I believe I mentioned last week, I taught four classes at the event. The topics were: point of view, character development, world building, and pacing/narrative arc. And something I noticed as I spoke at the event — something that had kind of escaped me during my preparation of the talks, probably because I worked on them over several weeks, rather than in a single compressed weekend — was the tremendous amount of overlap among the different subjects.

It makes sense that talks on character and point of view would have a lot in common. In fact, usually I combine the two, especially if I have more time or am teaching over the course of several sessions. But world building? Pacing? As it turns out, yep.

It’s all connected. Storytelling doesn’t care for siloing or creating artificial boundaries among various topics. Our writing is most effective when we accomplish several aims at once, when our character work reinforces our world building, which furthers our narratives, which strengthens our pacing, which ups the tension and sense of conflict, which helps us deepen our characters. And so the cycle goes on.

There is a theory about writing — an old editor of mine referred to it as Vernor’s Rule, because he first heard it from award-winning science fiction author Vernor Vinge (who he also edited). Vernor’s Rule says the following: As writers, what we do can be categorized broadly in three ways — we develop character, we advance our plots, and we fill in background information. Yes, those are broad headings, but he’s essentially right. And according to Vernor’s Rule, at any given moment in our novels, in any given scene, we should be doing at least two, and preferably all three of those things simultaneously. If we’re only doing one, or, God forbid, none of those things, our manuscripts have stalled, and we need to fix the scene in question.

It’s a simple rule, and it fits in with the realization I had at the writers conference. We should strive to do many things at once with our writing, in part because we can do many things at once. Character arc and narrative arc (plotting) work together to build tension in our stories, and ideally we want them to peak at the same time, with our protagonists coming into their “power” (in whatever sense we care to have this happen) at the same time our plots are reaching their zeniths. Keeping our readers apprised of relevant background information is actually quite helpful in tracing character development AND in deepening our world building, which should bear directly on our narratives.

And really, that is the extent of what I had on my mind today. Writing conferences and convention panels and the like function best when we can break down writing into its component parts. Handling the subjects that way simplifies and clarifies. There is absolutely value in concentrating on individual topics — on character and setting and point of view and the rest. The danger is that we will come to think of these things as operating independently of one another. Because they don’t. Yes, by all means, study each one in turn. Learn all there is to learn about them. But then apply all you can learn in such a way as to blend them together, allowing your various story elements to coalesce into something that is far, far greater than the sum of its parts. That’s where the magic happens. That’s where words on a page turn into living breathing people, into places that feel as real as our own world, and into stories that keep us turning the pages deep into the night.

Keep writing.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Winds of the Forelands, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Dealing With the Slog, part II — The 60% Stall

Jacket art for Bonds of Vengeance, book III in Winds of the Forelands, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Romas Kukalis)Many years back, while I was working on one of the middle books in my Winds of the Forelands quintet, my second series, I came downstairs after a particularly frustrating day of writing and started whining to Nancy about my manuscript. It was terrible, I told her. There was no story there, no way to complete the narrative I’d begun. The book was a disaster, and I might well have to scrap the whole thing.

To which she said, mildly, “Ah. You’re at the 60% point?”

The question brought me up short, because that’s exactly where I was. And prompted by her remark, I realized something obvious to her that I’d missed up until then: To that point in my career, every book I’d written had stalled at the 60% mark.

Last week, I began a new “Most Important Lessons” feature that focused on “Dealing With the Slog.” The first post focused on meeting our self-imposed deadlines. Today’s installment will discuss how to address the 60% Stall.

I would love to tell you that as my career has progressed, I have moved past this problem, but I’d be lying. I don’t stall at 60% with every book, but I do run into problems at that point in most manuscripts. It seems to be endemic to my process. And I’m certainly not the only writer who does. The more I talk about the problem, the more I realize it’s fairly common.

The problem as it presents itself to me can be boiled down this way: When I begin a novel, I know what the main conflicts are, and I have a clear understanding of the obstacles I intend to throw in the path of my protagonist(s). And I also have a good sense of how I want my story to end. Quite often, though, as I write my story, certain elements change. I often alter plot points as I write them. My characters assert themselves in subtle ways, developing their own personalities and wills, and forcing me to rethink their arcs.

So those obstacles as I have written them are not quite the same as what I envisioned originally. On the other hand, the ending, as I imagined it, remains largely unchanged. And thus the path between the crisis point for my protagonists and the end point I want them to reach has to change as well. And the pivot point, the moment when we shift from doing all sorts of nasty stuff to our heroes to beginning to have them fight back and turn the tide, usually starts at about the 60% mark. Yes, shit still goes wrong after that. I’m not saying the last third of the novel has to be a golden time for the protagonist. Far from it. But, for me at least, 60% is when things begin to turn.

How do we address the 60% stall?

First, let me tell you what I don’t do. I don’t panic. I don’t rant and rave. I don’t freak out. Not anymore. Not since Nancy pointed out to me that this is something I go through with most of my books. Plot holes happen. The book as we planned it — whether we outline in detail or write by the seat of our pants — doesn’t always look exactly like the book as we write it. And that’s okay. There is still a story here worth telling. There is still a path between where we are at 59% and where we wish to be on the last page. Breathe. Calm down. It’s going to be all right.

The second thing I try to do is assess the deviations between what I’ve written and what I had in mind originally. Quite often, the answer to overcoming the Stall lies in those differences. Maybe (for instance) we have introduced a new character we hadn’t planned on including, and that person’s presence has set up this narrative disconnect. Most likely, that means the character in question needs to figure into the new narrative path leading us from where we are to where we need to be. Or maybe we have added a key plot twist we hadn’t anticipated originally. Again, if that’s the case, chances are our new solution needs to address the consequences of this twist.

The third thing I consider is whether I need to A) change the ending I’d had in mind, B) add an element in the final 40% to deal with the new conditions I’ve created, or C) go back and edit out some of the changes I have allowed to creep into the first 60%. Choice C) is almost always my least favorite option. Why? Because I have written the book as I have thus far for a reason. If I have strayed from my original, pre-writing vision, it’s because new stuff came to me organically, as I wrote. And generally — not always, but most of the time — I find that my organic decisions are my best decisions.

Finally, and most important, I keep writing. I keep moving forward. Even if my (temporary) solution to navigating past the Stall is flawed, I always, ALWAYS believe it is better to keep pushing through. The alternatives are to give up entirely (unthinkable!!) or to retreat into rewrites and try to fix the problem that way, which in my opinion makes the Stall harder to overcome. Every completed manuscript will require editing, and it may well be that after completing the first draft, setting it aside for a while, and then starting the revision process, we will discover solutions to our narrative issues that weren’t obvious when we were in the middle of writing.

The important thing to remember is this: The 60% Stall is not a death knell for our story. It is a temporary setback. It is not cause for panic, but rather for reflection, for brainstorming, for creative thinking about our narrative.

Keep writing!!

Angry Robot Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Falstaff Books, Islevale Cycle, Thieftaker Chronicles, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Punctuating Our Stories (Not the Way You Think I Mean It)

“Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

We all know the line. Even people who haven’t seen Casablanca know the line. (And please, don’t get me started about not seeing Casablanca. I mean, sure, it’s dated, But it remains one of the greatest movies of all time. Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, Claude Rains, Peter Lorre, Dooley Wilson, Paul Henreid, Conrad Veidt, and so many others. It has romance, intrigue, action, and it keeps you guessing right up to the stunning ending. See? This is why you shouldn’t get me started . . .) Anyway, the line. It is one of the great bits of closing dialogue in any movie ever made.

But it’s more than just clever. It is the perfect punctuation point for the film’s narrative. From that line, and those that come directly before it in the last minute or so of the film, we know everything we need to about what is next for our hero, Richard Blaine. We know that he’ll survive letting Ilsa go (yeah, I know: spoiler. Get over it. The movie was made, like, three centuries ago. If you haven’t seen it yet, that’s on you, not me). He’ll go on to join the French Resistance and fight the Nazis with Louis Renault by his side. And, very likely, he and Louis will be heroes in that effort.

What’s my point?

Simply this: Every story — certainly every novel — needs its own version of “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

I’m doing a lot of editing these days, and I have seen several manuscripts that reach endings of a sort, but that fail to tie things up in a satisfying way. To be clear, I am not saying that every book needs a pat conclusion. We can leave some questions unanswered. We can hint at futures to come. My favorite fantasy novel of all time, Guy Gavriel Kay’s Tigana, ends with a prophesy that suggests fates for three men, but we are left to wonder which future is tied to which character. It works.

I am also not talking about the climax of your novel. That is something different — also important, obviously, but different.

What I am suggesting here, rather, is that we need to have some closure for our lead characters, AFTER the final battle/confrontation/major plot point. We need to see those characters in the aftermath of all to which we have subjected them, and we need to see them moving on (or not), healing (or not), finding peace or contentment or new purpose (or not). Yes, the details are vague. I would never think to tell any writer how content-wise to end their book. We each have a vision of what awaits our characters and that is intensely private.

The Loyalist Witch, by D.B. Jackson (Jacket art by Chris McGrath)But at the very least, we need to see our main heroes grappling with what they have endured and setting their sights on what is next for them. We don’t need this for every character but we need it for the key ones. Ask yourself, “whose book is this?” For me, this is sometimes quite clear. With the Thieftaker books, every story is Ethan’s. And so I let my readers see Ethan settling back into life with Kannice and making a new, fragile peace with Sephira, or something like that. With other projects, though, “Whose book is this?” can be more complicated. In the Islevale books — my time travel/epic fantasy trilogy — I needed to tie off the loose ends of several plot threads: Tobias and Mara, Droë, and a few others. Each had their “Louis” moment at the end of the last book, and also some sense of closure at the ends of the first two volumes.

TIME'S DEMON, by D.B. Jackson (Art by Jan Weßbecher)Why do I do this? Why am I suggesting you do it, too? Because while we are telling stories, our books are about more than plot, more than action and intrigue and suspense. Our books are about people. Not humans, necessarily, but people certainly. If we do our jobs as writers, our readers will be absorbed by our narratives, but more importantly, they will become attached to our characters. And they will want to see more than just the big moment when those characters prevail (or not). They will want to see a bit of what comes after.

So, I am suggesting that you decide which characters matter most to your story and therefore to your readers, and then give those characters (and your readers!!) a satisfying conclusion to their narrative and personal arcs. Let us see them post-conflict, post-finale. Give us a glimpse of what life has in store for them next. They have been our friends and companions for hundreds of pages. Maybe thousands. And while we can reread the story you’re finishing, the fact is we’re saying goodbye to them. We may never encounter them again. Or maybe we will, in which case you can hint at that. But we need . . . something.

J.R.R. Tolkien did not end The Lord of the Rings with the battle in front of the gates of Mordor. He didn’t end it with the scouring of the Shire, or even with Frodo and Bilbo sailing to the Grey Havens. He ended it with Sam returning home after bidding farewell to Frodo and saying, “Well, I’m back.” Because that is the point of the story: Our heroes may be leaving these shores, Aragorn may be king far, far away and Legolas and Gimli may be back with their people, but the Shire and Middle Earth endure and go on. And Sam is the best character to make that point.

Mastering the use of that sort of story punctuation is a key element of effective storytelling. I recommend you work on it.

Keep writing!

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, LonTobyn Chronicle, Tor Books, Winds of the Forelands, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Most Important Lessons — Trust Yourself, Trust Your Reader

Today, I’m introducing a new feature for my Professional Wednesday posts: “Most Important Lessons.”

We are coming up on the 28th anniversary of the start of my career (which I trace to the offer I received from Tor Books on Children of Amarid, my first novel). To mark the occasion, I thought about doing a “lessons I’ve learned” post. I quickly realized, though, that I could write 20,000 words on that and still not exhaust the topic. Better then, to begin this series of essays, which I will return to periodically, as I think of key lessons that I’ve learned about the business and craft of writing.

I’ve chosen to start with today’s lesson — “Trust Yourself, Trust Your Reader” — because it’s one I’ve found myself repeating to writers a lot as I edit short stories for the Noir anthology and novel length projects that come to me through my freelance editing business.

Jacket art for Bonds of Vengeance, book III in Winds of the Forelands, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Romas Kukalis)Honestly, I think “trust yourself” is good advice for life in general, but for me, with respect to writing, it has a specific implication. It’s something I heard a lot from my first editor when I was working on my earliest series — the LonTobyn Chronicle and Winds of the Forelands.

Writers, and in particular less experienced writers, have a tendency to tell readers too much. Sometimes this manifests in data dumps, where we give way more information about our worlds or our characters than is necessary. And yes, that can be a problem. I have no doubt that in future “Most Important Lessons” posts, I will cover world building, character, and ways to avoid data dumps.

For today’s purposes, though, I refer to a different sort of writing problem that can be solved simply by trusting our readers and trusting ourselves. As I said, writers often tell readers too much. We explain things — plot points, narrative situations, personality traits. And then we tell them again. And again. And as we build to our key narrative moments, we give that information yet again, wanting to make certain that our readers are set up for the resolutions we’re about to provide.

There are several problems with doing this. First, it tends to make our writing repetitive, wordy, and slow. Nobody wants to read the same information over and over. It’s boring; worse, it’s annoying. Second, it forces us to hit the brakes at those moments when we should be most eager to keep things moving. If we’re explaining stuff as we approach the climactic scenes in our stories, we are undermining our pacing, weakening our storytelling, robbing our stories of tension and suspense. And third, we are denying our readers the pleasure of making connections on their own. We are, in a way, being like that guy in the movie theater revealing key moments in the film right before they happen on screen. And everyone hates that guy.

We have to trust that our readers have retained the things we’ve told them. We have to trust that they are following along as we fill in backstory, set up our key plot points, and build our character arcs and narrative arcs. We have to trust that they are right there with us as we move through our plots.

In other words, we have to trust that we have done our jobs as writers.

Trusting our readers means trusting ourselves. Readers are smart. They pay attention. They read our stories and books because they want to. Sure, sometimes they miss things. Sometimes they skim when they ought to be paying attention. As a reader myself, I know that I am not always as attentive as I ought to be. But I also know that when I sense I’ve missed something important, I go back and reread the sections in question. Your readers will do the same.

Trust that you have engaged them with your plot lines and characters. Trust that you have given them the information they need to follow along, and have built your stories the way you ought to. Trust that they are following the path you’ve blazed for them.

“But,” you say, “what if I haven’t done those things? Isn’t it better to be certain, to tell them more than they need to know, so that I can be absolutely sure they get it?”

It would seem that way, wouldn’t it? But that’s where trust comes in. Sure, there is a balance to be found. We don’t want to give our readers too much, but we don’t want them to have too little, either. And the vast majority of us fear the latter far more than the former. We shouldn’t. Again, readers are pretty smart. If the information is in the book, they’ll make use of it. Better, then, to trust, to say, “It’s in there. I’ve done what I could, what I had to. I am going to trust that I did enough.”

Yes, the first time or two, we might need to revise and give another hint here or there. But generally speaking, when we trust our readers — when we trust ourselves — we avoid far more problems than we create.

Trust me.

Keep writing.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Placing Your Inciting Moment In the Right Spot

Generally speaking, writers — from beginners to professionals — know what it means to have an inciting moment for our stories. The inciting moment is the occurrence that sets in motion all the events that constitute our narrative — Luke Skywalker’s purchase of two droids from the junk hauler on Tatooine; the unannounced arrival of dwarves at Bilbo Baggins’ otherwise peaceful and respectable home in the Shire; the chance meeting at a masquerade of Romeo and Juliet, star-crossed lovers from feuding families.

The inciting moment is not necessarily the beginning of conflict. Rebels have been battling the Galactic Empire for ages before Luke takes R2D2 to his uncle’s farm. Others have tried and failed to steal Smaug’s treasure before Gandalf employs Bilbo as a thief. And the Capulets and Montagues have hated each other for generations. Incitement is more than a beginning. It is the moment when a grander story meets our protagonist(s).

There is nothing revelatory in what I’m saying here. You’ve heard versions of it before. I have chosen to focus this week’s post on it, though, because while most of us understand inciting events, and can even identify them in the works of others, we often have trouble choosing exactly where to place them in our own work. And yes, I speak from personal experience.

I am in the process of plotting the second book in my new supernatural thriller series. I know what needs to happen, and I even know what the inciting moment looks like. I’m struggling, though, to get there, to figure out where to begin the story so that we arrive at that event both quickly enough and slowly enough. Weird, right? But here’s the thing: I want my inciting moment to hook the reader, but I also want it to happen naturally enough that the reader understands the stakes and already cares about my protagonist.

With the first book in the series, the inciting moment presented itself clearly and with perfect timing. Other moments in the narrative gave me some trouble, but not this one. The idea for the series and that first book came to me with the incitement fully formed. This second novel focuses on different characters and has a more complex plot. Hence some of the trouble I’m having.

But the truth is, lots of writers struggle to begin their stories — short fiction or novel-length — at precisely the correct moment. In editing anthologies, I have noticed again and again that writers of every experience level can miss the mark now and then. The most common error is to begin too early, giving readers far more lead-in than they need to acclimate themselves to the story background, characters, and setting. And that’s all right. Part of an editor’s job is to say, “You know, you could begin this story here, on page 3 [for example] and cut or greatly condense everything that has come before.”

Less frequently, authors will begin their stories too late in the narrative arc’s development. I actually believe this is a professional’s mistake. There is a golf truism, that professional golfers miss putts long, and novices miss them short. Novices are afraid to be aggressive and so leave their putts shy of the hole, while pros understand that a firm putt has a much better chance of going in; usually when they miss the ball winds up past the hole. In the same way, beginning writers are sometimes afraid of giving their readers too little information, and so they often start their stories way earlier than they need to. Professionals aren’t afraid to withhold a bit of information early on, understanding that keeping readers in a constant state of discovery is a great way to keep them engaged. As I say, though, occasionally this leads pros to start things a little too late in the arc.

This, then, is the dilemma I’m grappling with now. I know better than to give my readers too much information early on, but I don’t want to give them too little by rushing my inciting moment. I have no doubt that I’ll figure this out — even now, I feel like I’m circling in on the right solution. But with this new novel on my mind, and recent edits of stories that faced both problems fresh in my memory, I thought I would address the issue here.

So how do we time our inciting moments for maximum effect? That is a good question with, I am afraid, no easy, formulaic answer. The best response I can offer is this:

It should come early — chapter 1 if at all possible — but it doesn’t need to be on the first page or even the first five. We do not need to explain everything to our readers before the inciting event occurs. I cannot stress that enough. Go back to the examples I offered up front — Star Wars, The Hobbit, Romeo and Juliet. We as readers/audience still had plenty to learn after the inciting events. We knew the bare outlines of the underlying conflicts (far less than that, actually, in The Hobbit), but we didn’t have the all the details we would need to understand the rest of the story. And that’s as it should be. On the other hand, by the time the inciting event occurs, we want our readers to care — about our world and the people in it. We want them to have formed some attachment to our lead character. We want them to have some small stake in the events we’re setting in motion.

Yeah, I know: That’s pretty vague. The truth is, locating the inciting events in our stories takes practice and experience. Sometimes it takes some guesswork. But the good thing is, Beta readers and editors can help us fine-tune the timing.

And now, I am going to get back to the opening of my new novel. I’ll keep you informed as I make progress, and I am sure I will encounter other challenges that inspire additional posts.

Until then, keep writing!

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Islevale Cycle, Thieftaker Chronicles, Time's Assassin, Time's Children, Time's Demon, Writing

Writing-Tip Wednesday: Plotting Or Not — Doing Away With a Dumb Debate

This is my forty-second Writing-Tip Wednesday post of the year, and somehow I have gotten through forty-one posts without addressing that age-old writing question, “Do I or do I not outline?” Or put another way, “Plotter or pantser?”

First, a word on nomenclature. “Pantsing” and “being a pantser,” as in “writing by the seat of one’s pants,” have come to be seen by some as demeaning and denigrating terms. As if those who plot, who outline their books and stories ahead of time, are creating “the right way,” as opposed to those who “write organically,” who are just sort of winging it. Frankly, I hate ALL of these terms, because I think all of them make assumptions about process that are unfair and unsupported. This, to be honest, is why I have avoided this particular topic for most of the year.

Having used the term “pantsing,” I am going to avoid it for the rest of this post. Because I do agree that it sounds demeaning. I am also going to avoid the word “organic” when describing how people write, because I don’t think it applies to one side of the debate any more than to the other. Even those books I have outlined extensively have come to me “organically.” Neither side owns the term.

Two hundred words into the post, and already I’m exhausted. The Outline vs. Don’t Outline debate is one that inspires a good deal of passion on both sides. I have seen discussions of the topic break down into ugly arguments. And I believe this is because many of us, myself included, have in the past been far too prescriptive in articulating our positions. Too often, we have said, “This is how I do it, because this is the way it’s supposed to be done.” Again, I have been guilty of this myself. For a long, long time, I have self-identified as someone who outlines, as a plotter. Thinking about that now, I’m reasonably sure that I have never actually been that writer.

You’ve heard me say this before, but it seems especially important to repeat it now: There is no single right way to do any of this.

Full stop. Period.

I have friends who outline in great detail. Their outlines are pages and pages long. I know of writers who outline to such a degree that writing the book basically consists of filling in description and dialogue in order to turn their outlines into finished novels.

And I also have friends who don’t outline at all. Not a bit. They have an idea, they sit themselves in front of a keyboard, and they start to compose.

The Thieftaker Chronicles, by D.B. JacksonThen there are people like me. Some books, I outline in a good deal of detail. The Thieftaker novels demand preparation of this sort because I am tying together fictional and historical timelines, trying to make my story meld with established events. The Islevale books — time-travel epic fantasies — should have demanded similar planning. But for reasons I still have not fully grasped, all three books defied my efforts to outline. I simply couldn’t plot the books ahead of time. I tried for months (literally) to outline the first book, Time’s Children, and finally my wife said, “Maybe you just need to write it.” Islevale compositeThat’s what I did, and the result was a first draft that needed extensive reworking. When I began book II, Time’s Demon, I ran into the same problem. I didn’t even try to outline Time’s Assassin, the third and final volume. I knew it would be a waste of time. All three books needed extensive editing, more than I usually need to do. But they wound up being far and away the finest books I’ve written.

Yet, I wouldn’t want to write future books that way. The process for all three was tortuous and frustrating, and I know I don’t HAVE to suffer through that in order to write successful stories.

The truth is, like so many writers, I work on an ever-moving continuum between the extremes of creating hyper-detailed outlines and not outlining at all. With some projects, I lean one way, with other projects I lean the other way. Neither approach is right or better. As with so much else in this craft, we have to understand that the exigencies of each project will shape our process. Let’s go back a moment to the writer friends I spoke of earlier. Even the most detail-oriented outliners I know admit that their outlines change as they move through a novel, because almost invariably something happens in the book that surprises them and takes them away from their original vision. And even the most outline-adverse writers begin with ideas of where they intend to do with their characters, their setting, their narrative. They might not write it down and color-code it, but they have a sense of what path their story will follow.

This debate has, for too long, shed far more heat than light. I have yet to meet a pure outliner OR a pure non-outliner. And I know precious few writers who would say they write all their novels exactly the same way. We reinvent ourselves and our process each time we begin a new project.

So, my advice to you is to not worry about whether or not you consider yourself a plotter, or how others define your approach. Write your book. Plan it to the extent you wish to. Dive into it when you feel you’re ready. You can always pause to outline if you need to. And you can always crumple up or burn or shred the outline you’ve already done. It’s your book. It’s your process.

Keep writing.