News on the books of Matthew Rollins, plus help for aspiring authors in the form of book and movie reviews through the lens of the Hero's Journey and other thoughts on the craft of writing.
Not a writer. Not an aspiring writer. An honest-to-goodness author.
It’s interesting that funny little distinction exists. I am very much the same person today as I was yesterday: slightly older, arguably wiser, perhaps in some circles more distinguished, and certainly in the case of my dermatologist, more profitable. Yet I digress.
I published a book. Steelwing, a middle grade-tween video game fantasy. It’s super fun. Got a lot of traction with literary agents with it, but ultimately none of them “fell in love” with it, as they all like to say. For some, I think the video game setting wasn’t their cup of tea. For others, maybe my writing style didn’t jive with them. Yet for all, I think the honest answer was this: “I don’t know anyone who will buy this right now.”
And by someone, we’re talking acquisition editors at a traditional publishing house. Large or small, the agents and AEs talk. So agents know what AEs are looking for. There are myriad hurdles to get past even if you get to the point where you get an agent and an acquisition editor picks up your story. But the agent’s primary concern is to filter through their slush pile for the rare gems that happen to be at least two things: decent enough writing and something they know with reasonable confidence at least one acquisition editor already wants.
So that wasn’t Steelwing. C’est la vie.
What’s a writer with a “good enough but not wanted” story to do? Do it themselves.
I got Vellum. I learned how to format the interior pages.
I scoured the internet for a cover artist that was both awesome and within my budget.
I learned the mechanisms of setup in both Amazon KDP and Ingram Spark (where bookstores and libraries get their books).
I decided to create my own business, Building Worlds Books, and become my own publisher.
And I picked a date out of the blue. Gave myself a deadline to just say it’s ready. Without that, I’m certain this process could have dragged on and on. My eye for detail is keen, and my first-born perfectionism complex is pronounced. Amazon and Ingram will let you update files after things are launched, which I’m sure will be needed. So I’ll be okay. The hardcover’s cover file hasn’t passed Amazon’s scrutiny yet, and undoubtedly there’ll be a typo or misnomer or some other textual oddity that I won’t abide existing and will want to fix. So that’s nice. But it’s out there as of today.
Unfortunately, that’s just the beginning. Now comes the marketing. And the marketing. And the marketing. I’ve gotta get better at using social media. I need to buy some ads on Amazon and Facebook. Self-publishing is definitely a pay-to-play arena.
And now that Steelwing’s book birthday has arrived, I come to the understanding that today is not crossing the finish line, but starting the race. Everything up to this point has been training. Now comes the marathon of marketing. Ads. Book signings. Getting the word out. Rinse, repeat.
Here’s where I put on the salesman hat: If you’d like a signed copy of Steelwing, head over to Building Worlds Books and click the shop link. I’m doing the fulfilment all by myself, so it will be done with love and kindness.
If you’d like a less expensive, unsigned copy, head over to Amazon (sponsored link), where I will appreciate you just as much.
I also have a book signing coming up already on Sunday, November 12th from 1:00PM-3:00PM at the Half Price Books flagship bookstore in Dallas. 5803 E NW Hwy, Dallas, TX 75231. I will have books there for sale. Come say hi!
That’s it for now. Lots more to come on how the whole process went down, what I’ve learned, and what’s in store for the future. Stay tuned! M
There are some genre rules writers just can’t ignore. But with some creative choices, you can still create a unique story while satisfying reader expectations.
Are you a writer who wants to break free from the shackles of genre conventions? Do you want to be remembered as the one who shook up the literary world with your unabashedly unique storytelling? Well, hold your horses, because I’ve got some news for you: it’s not that simple.
As much as we love a good original story, there are some rules writers just can’t ignore. Genre fiction has certain expectations, and while adhering a formula might seem limiting, there’s a reason those expectations exist. They work. In my previous post, I detailed why writers must be good readers. One of the most important reasons is so that we can understand the formulas that make genre fiction successful.
Fear not. Following a recipe doesn’t mean you can’t be original (insert your favorite writers-are-bakers metaphor here). In fact, some of the most memorable books in recent years have managed to be both unconventional and conventional at the same time. Let’s take a look at some examples (note, these feature affiliate links to Amazon in case you’re eager to make a purchase):
Sure, we’ve seen the magical school trope before. A lot. But Novik takes it to a whole new level by creating a world where the school itself is trying to kill its students. It’s a fresh take on a familiar concept. There are still fantasy bread-and-butter tropes like rival factions, a slow-burn romance, historical references, and political themes, but within the killer school bounds she truly delivers on the key elements readers expect from a fantasy novel: magic, world-building, and a strong protagonist. Novik’s choice of first-person point of view blends internal monologues and snarky commentary with the overarching plot structure which adds a sense of closeness for the reader.
Sci-fi: Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff’s “Illuminae“
Told through a series of documents and transcripts, “Illuminae” is not your average sci-fi novel. The story’s presentation as a dossier of interviews, chat logs, pictures, diagrams, and other digital files allows for an immersive experience that makes readers feel like they’re part of the action by assuming the role of the investigator after an interstellar incident. Despite the complete lack of narrative, it still hits all the right notes: spaceships (many), explosions (lots), life-or-death decisions (every turn), a gripping plot, and plenty of action. By breaking the mold of traditional narrative structure, Kaufman and Kristoff keeps things fresh while still satisfying readers’ expectations.
Romance novels often follow a predictable formula: girl meets boy, they fall in love, they hit a bump in the road, but eventually they end up together. “Well, That Was Unexpected” manages to surprise with twists at every turn. Its rom-com staples include characters who are flawed and relatable, cringe-inducing YA awkwardness, and a storyline that’s both hilarious and heartwarming. But those staples are all set against a rich cultural immersion in Indonesia, both in place and family. It also features awesome side characters that are, at times, even more engrossing than the protagonists. Additionally, Sutanto’s use of multiple narrators, including one who isn’t involved in the central romance, adds depth and complexity to the story, making it far more than just a typical rom-com.
A good thriller needs to keep readers on the edge of their seat, and “The Silent Patient” does just that. But Michaelides also manages to subvert expectations by flipping the narrative on its head. Instead of following the detective trying to solve the case, we’re following the patient who’s at the center of it all. It’s a clever twist that keeps readers guessing until the very end. Michaelides’ use of a non-linear narrative structure, jumping between present-day events and flashbacks to the past, adds layers of intrigue to the story, further enhancing the thriller experience.
Let’s try an exercise. I made the above photo on the AI diffusion art site Midjourney. Based on that picture alone, I will, on the fly right now, come up with an unconventional approach to the story that is represented by the thriller/supernatural/fantasy/whatever that picture is. I’ll give myself two minutes to brainstorm. Grab a pen and paper (or type it out) and come up with a query blurb with me. Here goes:
Carter Bullford’s life was completely on track. High profile corporate law gig with a prime NYC office. Aston Martin. Private island off the Keys. Gorgeous Val and stunning Katy both after his attention. But most importantly of all, the sins of his past had been completely forgotten.
A legal malpractice suit brings that all to a halt. Piece by piece, everything that he built crashes down and his life comes to ruin. Then the storm comes. Black as night clouds belch red lightning. One by one, every person in Carter’s life disappears into the storm. The city grinds to a halt with scant few left to run it. Desperate for an end, Carter finds the storm won’t claim him. When he comes across Dalia, a former colleague he screwed when he left her firm, the tatters of his world are obliterated.
Turns out, he’s not in his world, he’s in ours. For reasons forgotten, Carter had stopped trying to find a way home. Now, home has found him, his sins have reemerged, and he’s in for the trial of his life. Conviction means going home. Exoneration means exile on Earth. He’s not sure which one’s worse.
Okay, pencils down. So, that could be a hot mess, but it could be really fun. At the very least, it sounds different. What (correctly submitted to) genre agent wouldn’t at least take a peek at the first few pages? Aimed toward the sci-fi alien politics crowd, it plays like a legal procedural. Or maybe it’s for the legal procedural fans who get an emotional tale of interplanetary intrigue amidst the court battle. Don’t expect me to flesh this one out into 100k words; it’s going to the bottom of my book ideas pile. But, hopefully you get the point.
The point is, genre conventions exist for a reason. They’re the building blocks of a successful story. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be original within those constraints. In fact, by taking a well-worn trope and giving it a unique spin, you just might create something truly memorable. So fully embrace the tried and true boundaries that your genre readers love and expect, then go ahead and break them – with a scalpel.
Writers must read? More often than not, the first piece of advice given to an aspiring author is they need to be good readers. On the surface, it seems like good advice, but the reasons why it is so important don’t always follow up the advice.
Hello 2023! Bit of a long pause to the blog with the holidays, couple bouts of bronchitis, ski vacation, sick fam, yada yada. But I’m back for more writing fun, and some news on two of my books (next post).
But first, a thought on reading, as a writer. There are many facets to the sage wisdom, so let’s take a deeper dive into a few.
Writers must read in their genre The reasons for this are pretty obvious. You need to know what’s popular. What has come before you. Where the market is saturated, and where there are opportunities to carve a niche. What’s hot (imagine anything fantasy school-related after Harry Potter, or vampires and werewolves after Twilight)? What’s overdone (those things a few years later)? If your goal is just to write a specific story, without any kind of publishing-related goals other than to just ‘put it out there’, then write the story your heart wants to write. If you aim to be a financially successful author, then you need read your genre’s tea leaves, and if not be an expert, be at least aware.
Writers must read outside their genre Maybe a little less obvious here. Most fiction stories contain elements from multiple genres. Your historical romance might have a bit of mystery to it. Your swashbuckling space opera has a heist subplot. Your epic fantasy turns into a costumed police procedural. You need to appreciate the elements (tropes, structure, character types, etc.) that make stories in those genres successful, if you are to be successful in applying horror to your bake-sale comedy.
Writers must read recent releases This is good advice, but especially applies to anyone hoping to be traditionally published. You need to know what agents (and publishing houses) are looking for, what’s selling, and where the market is headed. In addition to reading recent books, you have to follow up by absorbing any metadata you can find about them via sites like Publisher’s Marketplace.
Writers must read debut authors Right next to #3 is this, and also important to those who want to find a literary agent. You need to understand (and incorporate) trends from modern publishing. Read a dozen debut novels and identify trends – how do the opening pages look? Lots of dialogue? Lots of action? How much backstory? How purple is the prose? Is the story told chronologically or out of order? If your 150k-word moose-on-skis spy thriller doesn’t conform to what publishers want right this moment from a debut author, you’re guaranteed to not get an agent’s attention.
Writers must readclassics This one, to me, is probably the least important, because we only have so much time in our day to dedicate to reading. I think an aspiring writer will get more mileage out of reading modern works simply because today’s publishers aren’t looking for Tolkien, they’re looking for VE Schwab. Read classics if it’s important to you. Do it so you’re versed in your genre’s history, but do it with the understanding that all the classics have serious flaws when looked at with a modern publisher’s lens.
Writers must read for ideas This one is my favorite, and a great example of it struck me this week (and what kicked me in the butt to get back onto my blog). I am at present listening to the audiobook of a fantasy titled Unraveller. About a quarter of the way in, the protagonists are deep in a murky forest when one protagonist remarks (I’m paraphrasing) that she is natively able to discern the noises and nuances of the marsh far better than her companion and his ‘highland ears’. Immediately when I heard that, I thought “Wow, that is a great piece of worldbuilding.” In a single sentence, we’re educated on the protagonists’ regions of upbringing, differences in their observational abilities, and the makeup of their environment. Now, I am not advocating that you go out and copy another author’s hard work. But there is absolutely nothing wrong with saying your grizzled space pirate can isolate the mating calls of the Nimbus VII glow-monkeys ten clicks sooner than his alien co-pilot can.
So there you go, writers. Some great reasons to be a great reader. If anyone in your writing sphere (writing group, classes, critique partners, etc.) says they don’t think reading is important for writers, you have my emphatic endorsement to completely ignore anything they have to say.
Hello everyone, welcome back! The end of summer is approaching, and the insane heat here in Texas has let up (a touch). Took some time off for an epic, 7-week European adventure in ten cities across five countries. Didn’t get much of any writing done, but did have plenty of time for thinking about my completed manuscripts and works-in-progress.
About a quarter into the trip, I got rejection emails on back-to-back days from the final two full manuscript request queries I had unresolved for a middle grade video game fantasy manuscript. Which sucked, of course. This story has been queried a ton. Dozens of cold queries, plus at least twenty pitch sessions across several writing conferences, all of which but one resulted in requests for pages. Half of all of these queries received no reply at all, which is (I assume) a typical response rate for modern day literary agents. Most of the rejections were canned form letters with nothing meaningful to say (typical). A few rejections said they liked what I had submitted, but it just didn’t grab the agent enough to request more.
It wasn’t all bad though. I had a total of seven full requests on this story, six from conference pitches and one from a slush pile cold query. But a pattern had developed over time with the limited feedback I had received from agents: they liked the writing and voice, they liked the characters, but I wasn’t getting to the heart of the adventure soon enough.
So, armed with time to think while riding across Europe on planes, trains, and automobiles, I came up with a plan of action for another revision to my story.
Actually, I already knew what I had to do. Kill the darlings.
We authors, especially those of us in the worldbuilding-heavy fantasy/sci-fi genres, love to add details. Lots of details. Character details. Setting details. Historical details. Details of detailed details. All the details. And a lot of times, readers eat them up.
However, what the prevailing wisdom for an author seeking first-time representation tells us is that we should keep our manuscripts lean and mean. What does that mean for all of those detailed details? Only keep what’s necessary.
So, as I was working through the first revision of this middle grade story, about two chapters’ worth stuck out to me as entirely extraneous. The story is set in my old college town. At the end of every summer the town has a huge outdoor festival, and I wrote a little scene where the heroine has to face some anxieties while going through the crowd. Super fun, well-written, relevant to the character, and enjoyable to all those who had beta read the story, and -bonus- a personal connection for me the author. The true definition of a darling.
BUT
When you start getting a pattern of feedback from agents telling you the story isn’t moving along quick enough, it’s time for those things to go. Why? Because the pace suffers. An agent’s professional success depends on an ability to identify a commercially viable story out of a pile of thousands. So, if their slow-plot alarm bells are ringing, you’d better pay attention.
Back to my story. The heroine, while indeed facing anxieties (conflict) in her trip through the festival crowd, didn’t particularly grow any from the experience. She went on to face more anxieties in other scenes not long after. And while it was relevant to her internal journey, it wasn’t particularly connected to the external plot at all. The festival has nothing to do with the adventure of the plot. So, it had to go. Along with every other reference to the festival. Plus another handful of similar occurrences, where the progress of the plot was bogged down for a fun, but unnecessary detour.
And oh, the pain. Making deep revision cuts can be heartbreaking. I carved out nearly 10% of my story, dropping from 56k words to 51k. All darlings. All gone to the bin. Actually, they’re saved in a separate file that I can go back to in one of two scenarios. 1) After a publisher has fallen in love with my lean and mean manuscript and asks for some more words to make the book a little longer. 2) After this story is published and a sequel calls for the heroine to work her way through a crowd. Grab that text, edit it up, and paste it in. In this digital age, nothing is truly lost, so I say be a little more generous with that scalpel.
Great examples of this lean and mean strategy are the early entries in the Harry Potter series. The first two books are very light on extraneous worldbuilding details, and only later on in books three and onward does JK Rowling add the little interesting flourishes that may not see actual payoff of relevance until a later volume, if at all. The evidence is right there on the shelf.
So, as you’re revising and asking yourself, “Won’t anyone think of those poor, innocent darlings?”
Thinking about attending a writing conference? Here’s what you can expect!
Well I’m mostly recovered from my respiratory infection, so it’s time to talk Writing Conferences! The above photo is from the Hurst Conference Center, which is the site of the DFW Writer’s Conference (aka, DFWCon). After missing 2020 and being online-only last year, DFWCon is going in-person again October 8-9, 2022. Check it out here if you’re in the area and interested. I plan to be there! Favor the online thing? Check out Writing Day Workshops‘ online events, they do one every month (though they will resume in-person at some point in the future).
The 3 Sides to Every Writing Conference
Listed in order of importance (my opinion): Pitching, Classes, Networking
PITCHING
One of the two big reasons to go to a writing conference is the opportunity to pitch to agents. As I have discussed previously in my Lessons from Querying posts (1, 2, 3), getting representation from a literary agent is difficult. Like hitting a 100-mph fastball difficult. So finding any avenue to help you through that process will greatly increase your chances, and there is no better way to do that than in-person pitch sessions with an agent.
Why? Well in that 8 to 10-minute window, you’re given the opportunity to cross several agent hurdles at once:
Did you write something that is of interest to the agent?
Are you passionate about writing and what you’ve written in particular?
Did you throw your story together, or put some real effort into the crafting of it?
Are you a one-and-done author, or do you have a long-term writing career goal?
Are you rude, insensitive, bigoted, or possess other personality flaws that might prevent you from crossing the finish line with a publisher?
Do you seem like someone that would be fun/easy to work with?
The wrong answer to any of those is an easy reject for the agent, so it also helps them skip to the ultimate end in the event you pass the first hurdle that would have gotten you past the slush pile into deeper review.
I’ve had way more success in getting agent interest in at least reading my material from pitches than I have through cold querying. I imagine practically anyone would have the same experience, unless they’re failing one of the sanity checks in the list above.
So here’s the downside to pitches: they’re expensive. Some conferences give you a pitch as part of your conference fee, others don’t. They’ll all let you buy more, which can range from $10-$30 per session. Want to talk to ten agents? $300. That’s more than many conference fees. And you’re going to want to go to several conferences. The cost will add up fast. Why talk to that many? Because you’re still up against the odds of numbers that even if you talk to the single-most-likely agent to want to represent your work, if the timing isn’t right (list is full, they rep a similar manuscript already, they don’t have a publisher resource that would want it), you won’t have success in getting representation. A wide net is required.
And I’m gonna reveal the elephant in the room: not all agents you talk to at a conference are there to take on another author. Some of them are there simply for the additional paycheck. It’s an unfortunate side-effect of the machine of the publishing world. Agents don’t get paid for all the up-front effort they go through in scouring the planet for works to represent. They get paid for the fraction of those works that actually get published. And they’ve got to pay the bills like anyone else, so they’ll come to these conferences, go through a bunch of pitch sessions, not actually request materials from anyone, and just collect a check in the end.
Now to be fair, most agents are there to find new authors to rep. I’ve only come across a couple of these bad-faith agents in the dozens of pitch sessions I’ve done, but they’re easy to identify. They don’t ask questions about you or your work, but instead go straight into a planned spiel about the effectiveness of your pitch and ways to improve it. Sometimes they won’t even say that they aren’t interested. I just smile and take whatever feedback they deign to provide and move on.
What to Expect During a Pitch Session
Depending on your conference, pitch sessions last 8 to 10 minutes. You’re going to know who you’re pitching to ahead of time (because you’ve requested/paid to pitch to that particular agent), so you’ve already done your research. You requested that particular agent because they said they rep the kind of thing you wrote. You know their manuscript wishlist, which is typically listed on the conference website, but can also be found elsewhere on the Internet (#MSWL on Twitter, manuscriptwishlist.com, Publisher’s Marketplace, or the agent’s agency website).
When the pitch begins, spend 30-60 seconds talking to the agent as if they’re a human being. Ask how they’re doing, mention a shared hobby or pets or their Twitter feed, or a book they liked on their MWSL that you’ve also read. Be sociable. This helps check boxes from the list above. They’ll probably invite you in short order to talk about your manuscript. I won’t go into the what’s and how’s to pitch your manuscript here, but spend 4-5 minutes talking about your story, then leave the rest of the time for the agent to ask questions.
If they like you and what you’ve discussed, they’ll request pages. Some will have you send it through regular query channels. Most will have a dedicated means for you to skip ahead of the slush pile line (these are the agents that are taking the pitch sessions most seriously), usually a special Query Manager link or separate email.
If they pass, and some will because you will inevitably find yourself barking up the wrong tree on occasion, graciously accept any feedback they provide and then get yourself ready for your next pitch. Because you’re not going to pitch to just one agent, are you?
CLASSES
Anyone who has yet to become a represented and published author still probably has a thing or two to learn about writing stories and/or the publishing industry. The second big draw of a writing conference is all the various breakout room classes you can attend to drink from the proverbial author firehose. Here’s a sampling of various sessions you can expect:
Query letters
Query dos and don’ts
Hooking readers with your opening pages
Compelling dialogue
Crafting believable characters
Avoiding the “mushy middle”
World building
Author platforms and social media
The life of a literary agent
Self-publishing vs. traditional
Non-fiction book proposals
Workshops where you read your first chapter or query letter and receive feedback
Agent Q&A panels
Agent “First Page Gong Show” panels
Large conferences like DFWCon will typically also have a keynote speaker (usually a known published author) in a big audience space like the picture above. The rest of the classes will be in small, 20-30 person breakout rooms.
Most conferences will have some variation of the above. Depending on the size they’ll have some, all, or even more than the above to choose from (like genre-specific workshops for say thrillers or romance). Once you’ve gone to a few conferences, you’ll find the vast majority of the advice inside any one of the sessions is the same, so the return you’ll get from these classes will diminish over time because you will presumably have already been taking the lessons to heart and applying what you’ve learned to your craft and your queries.
The “Gong Show” panels are where a handful of agents will sit and listen as a moderator reads an anonymously submitted first page from a conference attendee (submit yours if you’re brave!). Each agent raises their hand at the point when they would have stopped reading and rejected the query, and if enough agents raise their hand, the moderator will stop reading and then discussion will ensue. These panels are the most useful conference session to me (having attended many conferences in the past few years), as they provide insight from a handful of agents as to what the publishing world is looking for right at that very second. It also reveals the sheer subjectivity of the matter when an agent starts reading a prospective manuscript. Very easy to identify flaws in your own approach to the first page when the agents are all raising their hands at the point when they would have stopped reading. Usually in an hour, the panel will get through 10-12 submissions, and typically only one or two make it through the full page read without most or all of the agents raising their hand and the moderator stopping early.
NETWORKING
Here’s where the online and in-person conferences diverge, as there is limited-to-no networking taking place during online conferences. If you’re like me and find it hard to walk up to random strangers and start making small talk, you won’t find this a huge loss. Online conferences usually lean on social media as the forum for attendees to talk to each other (with limited to middling results).
Big conferences like DFWCon have networking time in the evenings where authors, agents, and others can meet and mingle. Adult beverages will be on offer. The prospect of having time to talk to agents outside of a short pitch session is attractive, but in my experience the opportunities for this are few. Most agents don’t attend the networking hours, and those that do are mobbed. There are hundreds to thousands of writers at these conferences and maybe a couple dozen agents tops. The numbers are not in your favor to get quality alone time with an agent, much less the one that you really want to talk to that reps what you wrote. If you have a positive pitch session with an agent and can arrange to meet with them at the networking event ahead of time, then great. But don’t count on it.
What can you expect to get out of the networking time? You’ll find a few freelance editors and cover art designers milling about, handing out business cards and looking for prospective clients. If you’re in the market for such services, avail yourself. But the vast majority of people there are writers, just like you. If you don’t have a solid group of writers you work with for feedback and accountability, then this could be a good chance for you to find some new peeps.
Attend, rinse, repeat.
There you have it. Now all you gotta do is find a writing conference to attend and get your butt in the chair. Hope to see you there! M
Actors work hard to remain in character for their films. Some, such as Daniel Day Lewis (above, in Gangs of New York) go so far as to stay in character even while not shooting, to maximize their approach to authenticity. As writers, we have to make sure the characters we are putting to the page remain just as true to who and what they are.
I’m in the car quite a lot and have developed a pretty voracious audiobook habit whilst driving. To improve my own writing, I go through 1-3 books a week at 1.5-2x speed to analyze every story I can cram into my ears. If you’re an audiobookphile and haven’t checked out the Libby app, I highly recommend it. Because it’s free. All you gotta do is connect it to your local library account, and you’ll potentially have access to thousands upon thousands of audiobooks, courtesy of your (already paid for via taxes) library. I can’t imagine my Amazon bill if I was paying Audible for all the audiobooks I go through in a year. Sheesh.
Anyhoo, I digress. I started a new audiobook today (from a bona fide publisher) and a couple hours in got smacked into the face with one of my worldbuilding pet peeves, a failure to keep a character in character. It’s something that many, many writers do without thinking, and (apparently) many professional editors miss during editing.
A character said something they shouldn’t have said.
I don’t mean the character misspoke, or accidentally revealed a secret, or anything like that. In this story, a YA sci-fi tale, the protagonist heard and felt an unfamiliar rumbling and compared it to thunder.
What’s the problem with that? Well, our hero lives in space, on space stations, and has her entire life. In this book’s fictional universe, the people do not have a terrestrial existence. I imagine it’s possible she would have learned of thunder through school or film or whatever. But would it be so ingrained into her speech patterns that she’d use it in a metaphor to describe that rumbling? Noooooooooooo.
Her life is spaceships and space stations. She lived among all manner of noisy, mechanical things. The rumbling could have sounded like an off-balance pressure regulator. Or a T34 Interlocking Phase Inhibitor. Or the ore tumblers at the refinery on Thrackas VII. We’re in space. She’s in space. Stay in space!
Am I being picky? Sure. I imagine plenty of readers would blow right past that and get on with the story. But not everyone. At 60+ audiobooks a year, I’m not exactly the most discriminating of consumers. But in almost every story I’ll hear a detail or two that just makes my inner worldbuilder sad. And this detail pulled me out of the story enough to want to write a blog post about it, so I imagine there are plenty of others out there whose Spidey-senses tingle every time they come across a mistake like this.
I’ll give you a couple more examples.
I did a deep-dive developmental edit for an epic other-world fantasy story for a writer in New Zealand a while back. Ten percent of the way through the entertaining tale, we’re well into the worldbuilding of a chaste anti-magic brotherhood in pursuit of an unknown magic-user among them. Low tech. A castles, swords, carts, and horses affair. A brother hands the hero a plate of food to be delivered to the head of their order. In the first person narrative, the hero describes the plate as mostly vegetables, with the only protein being a wedge of cheese.
The problem there? The word ‘protein’ is something that didn’t come around until the mid 1800s. Over a millennium after the scientific development period of the story. Yes, the story was set in a world other than Earth, but there was absolutely nothing in the writing to indicate that science had developed any farther there than it had here for the level of technology at the time.
The levels of science and technology matter in your writing, even if you’re doing something with medieval knights and castles. Because your characters have to remain in character, in both deed and word. Your knight in shining armor can’t name his speedy horse ‘Turbo’ any more than he can drive a Corvette to save the princess or use a rocket launcher to defeat the dragon. Likewise, he also can’t consider cheese as a part of a group of protein-rich foods because he can’t know about such things. The science to understand what a protein is has yet to be invented.
Later on, still a young man, the hero says he “slept like a baby”. Perfectly normal phrase, one I’m sure we’ve all used at some time or another. Except given the existence the reader is presented with, the orphan hero would have had exactly zero interactions with a baby or parent-of-a-current-baby figure his entire life. He would not be comparing anything, even sleep, to that of a baby, because babies are just not on his mind. Sure, he knows what a baby is, but there are many better ways to skin this cat. I mean, skin a razor-clawed gnurffle.
Colloquial phrases like these are opportunities to instead add depth to the world building. He slept like Old Man Shaw’s toothless guard dog Fezz. He slept like he had eaten three helpings of Father Dooba’s delicious autumn pheasant stew. He slept like he had bathed in the vat of Healer Burdock’s numbing balm she keeps locked in her secret pantry. Pick something in-world, to keep your reader in-world.
In short, we’re building entire worlds here, people. Don’t lean too much on ours, intentionally or otherwise, lest your characters briefly leap out of their boots into a different time or place!
Whilst preparing a marinade for tonight’s grilled chicken, I cut my finger. What does this have to do with writing fiction? Consequences!
Because I was in a bit of a rush, I elected to cut the soon-to-be-juiced lemon in my hand, rather than take the safe approach and use a cutting board. Thusly, when the nice and sharp knife deftly cleaved the lemon in twain, it went into one of the fingers that was holding said lemon. I appreciate your concern, but the cut wasn’t too bad.
Right when I did it, my immediate thought (as the finger bloomed red and the scent of lemon wafted into my nose) was, “Well that’s gonna sting.” But it didn’t. Told ya the cut wasn’t that bad. Wash hands, apply a bandage, and finish cooking, right?
So that’s what I did. Flattened and scored the chicken, tossed it in marinade, and into the fridge it went.
And that’s when the pain started. It wasn’t immediate, as expected. Just a five-minute Alexa timer late. But when it hit, I found all the colorful metaphors I could muster. And, more importantly, the stealth lemon juice forced me to acknowledge the error of my ways.
Choices have consequences.
As a character on the journey of making dinner, I made a choice to cut corners. Who doesn’t want to save a little time in the kitchen where they can? The consequence of that choice was excruciating — albeit brief — pain in my finger. And I didn’t save any time in the end either. Did I learn my lesson? Definitely. Next time I go heroically up against the nefarious evil of the dinner menu, I will bring my cutting board.
Part of the point of the Trials, Allies, and Enemies phase of the Hero’s Journey (or the first half of Act 2 of the three-act structure) is to teach our protagonists lessons. Cross the Death Star chasm with a Stormtrooper’s utility belt and a kiss from the princess for luck. Knock out the troll in the bathroom to save Hermione. Solve the riddle to get the first key to the easter egg that saves the OASIS. These challenges help our protags grow into the heroines and heroes we need them to be to triumph over lemons (or evil, your choice).
Naturally, as we humans go through the course of our lives, we learn from our mistakes. But I think better character growth in stories happens when a hero has to deal with the unintended, and (hopefully) delayed consequences of their actions. Here are a couple condensed examples from my own stories.
In Dangers to Society, the four protagonists each have quirky superhuman abilities. One of them (Steve) can distinguish truth from lies. Another (Ben) can manipulate minds to believe any manner of things. So, I had Ben subtly use his ability on Steve (and others) for something frivolous, just out of convenience. Chapters on, I had a side character casually say something in front of Steve that was in direct contradiction to what Ben had done. This triggered Steve’s ability and caused a cognitive dissonance between the lie Ben placed and the truth Steve heard. It wracked Steve’s brain and risked his health. Ben had to deal with that. He also learned something about using his ability from this encounter. Steve learned something for his arc as well (about Ben), though he wasn’t aware of what it was at the time. The results of the consequences collide later on in the Ordeal phase.
In The Pentathax Contingency, my current work in progress, one protagonist is escaping a planetary conflict in the opening chapter. In my head he’s a bit of a young space scoundrel type, and to create conflict for him as he was escaping, I destroyed his ship (naturally). So he needs another one. He finds an available ship with a testy pilot getting ready to depart. In a bit of a Han Solo vs. Greedo I-live-or-you-live standoff, he shoots the guy simply to escape from the planet. Wasn’t personal. Motivated by survival, and a choice I can see a lot of us making, were we the young space scoundrel type fleeing a planetary conflict. Later on (when I get around to writing it), he’s going to have to cope with the fact that the pilot he killed was a close family friend of our other protagonist (and potential love interest). Oh my, the consequences of that.
An airlock will be involved.
These are the kinds of darlings we get to keep. If the tests you put your protagonists through don’t matter in the end, they’re not worthy of your story.
Hello again! Thanks for dropping by to read my ramblings.
Today I thought I’d ramble upon my writing process. I am (as of 4/16/22) in the early throes of the first draft of my fourth manuscript, tentatively titled The Pentathax Contingency (henceforth referred to here as TPC). It’s a YA sci-fi story.
I’m working on the fifth chapter, about 10k words into the story as a whole (out of 75k or so I’d guess), and have been around that number for a couple weeks now. When I’m at my most productive, I can do 3-5k a day. So as I sat there one night, not doing much with the story other than rereading and tweaking the already done chapters, I asked myself why.
I didn’t immediately know. I love writing, and I like my plan for this story, but I’m not in love with TPC. Not the way that I love the first three manuscripts I’ve finished. And I couldn’t quite put my finger on the reason.
When I thought back to those first three manuscripts, I found a commonality: I had hovered around at the exact same spot in the story for all three. I got inciting incidents locked in. Refined the voice. Little bit of worldbuilding and backstory, and then… paused. Tweaked. Edited. Revised. But then I worked my way through that blockage and powered through 106k, 128k, and 56k words to cross those finish lines. Why?
Like our heroes, I had crossed the threshold. Accepted the call to adventure. Understood the stakes and the payoff. And I’m not quite there yet with TPC. So why is that?
Well, I’m a pantser. I write as I go, without much of an outline or plan written down. Perhaps I’m a little bit of a mental plantser (planner+pantser), if I want to be perfectly accurate. I think about my stories a ton. Like all the time. Probably to the detriment of remembering things I should probably remember. Rarely does a shower go by where I don’t have a eureka moment for my current work in progress. As a result, I (generally) know where my stories are going, both in the coming chapter and overall. And I do know where TPC is headed. Protagonists and side characters are established. Antagonistic force is known and introduced. Climax setup is there. Have some ready subplots to add depth and complexity as needed.
But I’ve not crossed the threshold yet. I’m not ready to write TPC.
For one, I’m not quite certain I have the voice yet. It’s told in first person from two different points of view, and so far, each protagonist has had two chapters to establish their way of telling their side of the story. They’re different enough, and I think it’s young enough for YA, but they’re in space and commanding spaceships with the fate of the planet at stake, so a certain maturity is required as well. Things just don’t feel quite right yet. So I tweak. In addition to the voice, I think the way my brain thinks it likes to have little details in the narrative already lined up for use later on. Be that characters or names or technology or conflict or whatever. With all that stuff as ready as it can be, I don’t have to go back and find the right spot later when I have that idea. I wait to have the idea, put in the clue or character or whatever in the opening scenes as needed, then it’s ready when I need it. So I tweak.
What reasons might the little alien driving my subconscious have for writing this way? First and foremost, I think I’m inclined towards first time quality. The idea of writing THE END and parking a story in the drawer for a month, only to come back to it and tear it completely apart to fix stuff isn’t appealing to me. So I edit as I go. I make micro revisions in situ. By the time I finish a first draft, I’ve been over the story dozens of times and it’s already 95% ready to query. I like that.
Of course, the manuscript goes to an editor. Things need clarifying, grammatical foibles are found, inconsistencies in world building get identified, and — my specialty — overly long and complicated sentences are highlighted. We fix those. And we revise again. And again, until those issues are no longer present. Takes a few times, but those are easy fixes. The story comes out of the gate developmentally sound and needs no surgery. That’s what the little alien driving my brain is telling the rest of me to do. So far, I’m pleased with the results.
Now during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), this approach probably doesn’t fly if I’m to hit the 50k word goal. But outside of that event, I find I don’t mind the nights where the daily word count doesn’t rise by thousands. Still feels like being productive as I’m honing the early chapters into fine-edged steel.
I think it helps us as writers to analyze our writing processes, because, like our stories, they are unique. Every approach to creativity is different. But every new story is an adventure for the writer. Because like our heroines and heroes, every time we commit to finishing a story, we are crossing the threshold. Apparently, part of my writing process is making absolutely certain I am fully prepared for the journey before I step over that line.
Don’t get me wrong on TPC, I’m close. Very close. I’ll get there any day, and then the words will start flying. I expect the first draft to be done by the end of May. But for now, I don’t want to jump into the Millennium Falcon and fly off until I’ve given the droids their oil baths, I understand the structure and history of the Galactic Empire, the vaporators have been turned off, and I’ve had one last glass of blue milk.
Attend any writing conference where an agent is speaking, and invariably they will let slip how many new queries they get per week. The number you’ll usually hear is “hundreds”, and I’ve heard “thousands” more than once as well. That’s a lot of email to filter through.
An agent I follow on Twitter recently just reopened to queries and was tweeting about her slush pile (that’s the collection of unread queries waiting for their attention). In just a few hours after reopening to queries, she had 150 fresh queries waiting. After she had gotten through those 150 queries, she had requested materials from two. That’s not a great rate of return (and I think 1 out of 75 is kind of high actually). By the second day she had over 450 new queries waiting. Now she probably had a queue of people waiting to send her a query, but still. That’s a lot of work waiting for someone who’s not going to get paid for nearly any of the time they spend on it.
Most veteran agents spend 90-95% of their effort on existing clients. That doesn’t leave a lot of time during the day for queries. Let’s say the agent above gives thirty minutes a day to her slush pile. That’s 150 minutes. Enough for a minute per query, for just the first day’s haul. But for the entire week’s intake, she has less than a minute per query. A lot less. If she’s getting 1000 queries per week, and holds fast to the 30 minutes per day, that’s just 9 seconds per query.
Certainly, stories that look promising will take more time than that. What is the agent to do? Look for anything that makes for a quick rejection. So, today’s lesson is…
Follow submission guidelines to the letter.
Submit your query to the wrong place? Reject.
Get the agent’s name/pronouns wrong? Reject.
Submit when the agent is closed to queries? Reject.
Attach a Word doc when the agent wants copy/pasted text in the body of the email? Reject.
Submit more than the requested sample pages (AKA sending your whole manuscript when the agent wants one chapter)? Reject.
Have weird/bad manners? Reject.
Submit something that the agent doesn’t represent (this is always mentioned somewhere: their MSWL, Publisher’s Marketplace, or the agents/about us page on their agency’s website)? Reject.
Open by saying your manuscript is the best thing ever put to paper and you’re going to make them a trillionaire? Reject.
Get out on the wrong side of bed in the morning? Reject.
Why do agents cull with such abandon? Simple statistics. The odds of them finding something they’re going to love so much they want to represent it are already astoundingly low (see my Lessons from Querying #1 post). The odds that story they fall in love with will have been submitted by someone who breaks submission guidelines? Even lower. Because personalities matter, as well as the writing. A writer who can’t be bothered to follow submission guidelines is more than likely going to be harder to work with, and less likely to get past the traditional publishing finish line. And agents are already busy enough to have to deal with someone like that.
By clearing out all the flotsam and spending next to no time doing it, a literary agent preserves precious seconds per query that are better spent on something that has a higher likelihood, no matter how small that increase, of being something they want to represent.
Don’t make it harder for an agent to fall in love with you. Your story won’t get even a first glance if an agent ends up chucking your query out the window because you couldn’t follow the submission guidelines.
Hello again. Gonna attempt to make this blog a twice-a-week habit. Should be easy enough with the lessons from querying series. There are plenty to share.
Today, we shall discuss the very first thing I learned from the very first literary agent I ever pitched, which was at the DFW Writer’s Convention (aka DFWCon) in 2018, before the world went nuts. Since that point, I’ve heard this same advice from agents a zillion times, so you can take this one as written in stone (with a few exceptions mentioned toward the end).
When pitching/querying a novel, especially a debut novel, you must have a standalone story. It must have a beginning, middle, and end. The goals of the protagonist and threats of the antagonist must be resolved. In short:
You shouldn’t pitch/query the first book of a planned trilogy, or first volume of an open-ended series.
Here’s why:
Publishers are far less likely to be interested in an open-ended work of an unproven author. It’s simple risk/reward math to them. They don’t know if your story will sell. And if you don’t have an established track record of productivity, they don’t know they can count on you to produce sequels in the timeframe they want. Subsequently, agents are far less likely to be interested in representing said work.
“But Matt, I’ve already written the whole trilogy. Won’t that save them a lot of time?” Time, perhaps. But publishers think with their checkbooks first. They don’t want to buy three books when they don’t know if the first book will sell or not.
In addition, as a traditional publishing hopeful wanting to be productive with your writing time, you don’t to spend time writing sequels to books that don’t go anywhere with a publisher or agent. Write three entirely different stories and query them all. Yes, querying sucks at your soul, but your odds are better (very, very low x3 > practically nil x1).
If you plan to self-publish said series if you don’t get anywhere with an agent, then the advice is generally reversed. You want to have a series of books queued up for planned release at Amazon or wherever, as that tends to boost your sales. Lining up multiple books takes advantage of the “You may like…” and “Other readers purchased…” marketing algorithms online booksellers employ. And you want to take advantage of those, because they are time-limited. My focus (at the moment) remains with traditional publishing, so we’ll leave the advice on self-publishing at that for now.
Back to writing standalone stories vs. a series. It is entirely fine and, in some genres encouraged, to leave elements in your worldbuilding and subplots that can turn a standalone novel into the first of a larger story. If you do happen to have a successful debut novel, your publisher will most definitely be interested in your follow-on stories with a now-established audience.
Exceptions? Of course. If you have a million followers somewhere. If you’re a celebrity or known politician. If you write like Amanda Gorman. If you check all the boxes of a publisher’s flavor-of-the-month acquisitions binge. If you happen to query the exactly right agent at the right time that happens to have a great relationship with exactly the right editor and that editor’s publishing house’s cards all line up for you at exactly the right time. Long odds to line up all of those ducks in a row.
Success in traditional publishing has long odds already. As writers we must do what we can to improve our chances. Don’t make it easy for an agent to say no to you in the slushpile phase.
“So Matt, what happened with that first pitch session?” It was a polite decline. She gave no further reason than I had admittedly written the first book of a trilogy. The quality of the plot or characters or worldbuilding didn’t matter. I didn’t pass that first hurdle. I learned that lesson quickly and altered my pitch to the other three agents I met at the conference that weekend. All three requested materials. When I got home, I spent a furious week fixing the story before submitting my queries to those agents. I adjusted the ending, tweaked the goals, the antagonist, and trimmed the various subplots that were intended to further the story into books 2 and 3. I never got any further with an agent than the initial requests for materials from those pitches, or from unsolicited queries (which usually provide zero actionable feedback), so it’s entirely possible I didn’t de-trilogy it enough.
That manuscript is now on the shelf, biding its time. I still love the story. It’s the one that got me into the passion of writing in the first place. It’ll get attention again some day. Now that I’ve completed two more manuscripts (both entirely different stories), I suspect the quality of the writing wasn’t where it needed to be to catch an agent’s eye. We’ll talk more about that in an upcoming post.
