Fiction Writing Streak #2 is Dead

Well, it had to happen, right?

My second fiction writing streak ended with a whimper on 18 July 2016. It started on 1 January 2015. That’s just a tad over a year and a half—565 days because 2016 is leap year—of writing some sort of fiction every day. That’s more than double my last streak of 255 days. And, obviously, it meant that I wrote some sort of fiction every day for all of 2015.

But it ended having been completely forgotten. On Monday night, as we were preparing for our trip—I’m writing this on Wednesday—I remembered thinking “I have to get my fiction in.” You see, as this summer has progressed, I’ve stumbled into another streak. I’ve written on my author blog every day this summer. And, in recent days, I’ve awakened at my typical 5:15am, but instead of writing on my current story, I’ve written a blog post. Now, it doesn’t take a genius to see the problem there and I freely admit to the change in priorities. But that’s where I’ve devoted my morning energies. I’ve moved the fiction to the evening.

And I missed it completely on Monday. Heck, I didn’t even realize it until I woke on Tuesday morning. I was crestfallen, to be sure, but also a little relieved.

Streak #2 had started to become an albatross, to be honest. There were some days when I pounded out 8,000 words. There were other days when I managed ten just to keep the streak alive. Another obvious issue is enthusiasm. When I’m excited about a project, I’ve got no issues writing. When the project becomes laborious, well, then, there is more than one issue a play, huh? That’s where I’ve found myself currently. I’m gearing up for my second Lillian Saxton novel that I’ll be starting on 1 August. “Gearing up” means researching The Battle of Britain and working over the plot and characters. Needless to say, “research” isn’t writing.

The way I get to split hairs is to say that my *writing* streak is still alive since I’ve written blogs on Monday and Tuesday. I’ve rarely counted blog-writing days as writing day, but I should. I *am* writing, after all.

So, there you go. Streak #2 is done. The breaking of the Streak has also given me a chance to contemplate how I move forward. It’s safe to say that once I start a project, I will write on it every day until completion. Maybe now that the Streak is broken, I can devote some of my time to marketing the books I write. By the time y’all read this, I will already be traveling. Traveling for me means when I’m not driving, I’m in the backseat, Bluetooth keyboard linked with my iPhone, writing. It’s amazing how much you can write when it’s basically the only option to pass away the miles. So, if nothing else, a new streak should have started on 21 July.

Let’s see how long this one lasts…

Your Own Style Sheet

by
Scott D. Parker

Last week at press time, I mentioned that I had met with my editor and received her markups for my current manuscript. Well, this week, I made the changes.

Whew! There were a LOT of them. But that’s okay. It’s expected, even. Any writer who thinks they can write a draft that needs no editing, well, I’d like to meet’em. I want them to tell me their secret.

When I made the changes for WADING INTO WAR, I picked up a few things I consistently did throughout the manuscript. I put them on a list and, when I’ve read other manuscripts since then, I refer to that list and identify things I can preemptively change before the editor sees it.

Now, I have even more. Boy do I. When I see a particular edit she is repeatedly marking, I’ll flip to my cover page and make a global note. Sometimes, it’s for a character name. “You said ‘Joe’ on one but you wrote ‘Joseph’ elsewhere. Be consistent.” Or “You refer to every other character by a last name except the two heroes. Why did you name this bad guy by his first name?”

See what I mean? Good stuff. Stuff I often miss since I’m deep into the story.

Then there’s the grammar. I can string words into sentences and paragraphs pretty decently but there are seem quirks I need to address. One: I don’t need to use the word ‘that’ so frequently. Over and over again, I’ve seen ‘that’ slashed by red ink. Eek. Two, and this one I do way too often. It needs an example.

Original:
“No, I didn’t,” he said, taking out his notebook. “What for?”

Revised:
“No, I didn’t.” He took out his notebook. “What for?”

You see how the revision punches up the prose. The original isn’t wrong and might be good to throw in every now and then for a change of pace. But, holy cow, was I *only* doing to original style all over the place. I’m almost to the end of the book (chapter 25 out of 27) and I’ve knocked off almost 500 words from the original word count just tightening things up.

Boy, is it great to have an editor.

Anyway, do y’all use edits and comments from editors and/or critique groups and create your own style sheet for common mistakes you make?

Playing in Different Sandboxes

By
Scott D. Parker

For the past two months or so, I’ve been in an adventurous mood, reading-wise. It started with the lead-up to the John Carter movie and the re-reading of the initial trilogy from the eleven-book series. I have since gone on to read books 4 and 5. As much fun as those books are, I wanted to maintain my enjoyment of the Barsoomian universe by giving myself a little break. Besides, it’s pretty obvious that Edgar Rice Burroughs had one go-to plot—kidnap female; have male chase kidnappers; prevent wedding—and, well, I needed a break.

Taking a cue from one of the film’s writers, I segued over to Michael Chabon’s Gentlemen of the Road. This is his homage to adventure tales and swashbuckling stories of the past. He name drops Michael Moorcock, Fritz Lieber, Alexander Dumas, and George MacDonald Fraser as inspirations. Chabon’s story follows two partners in the 10th Century Middle East and their exploits along their circuitous journey.

Chabon has gone on record as lamenting how genre stories—what, with their focus on simple things like, you know, plot and fun—often get ostracized when compared to the more staid, “important” field of literary fiction. One of the obvious differences is writing style. When you pick up a Chandler detective novel or an Asimov space opera, you know very quickly what you are reading. In the same manner, if you pick up a literary novel, the word choice alone will indicate the type of book. Nothing wrong with this, of course, but it is a distinct difference.

But what about those books where the lines are blurred? Gentlemen of the Road has some action, sword fights, and other fun set pieces. Were this novel written by another person, the style and manner of telling would be quite different, natch. But Chabon is the writer and, as such, you have a man whose natural tendency towards “literary” writing is actually crafting an action tale. Does it work?

For me, yes, partially. When the characters talk, they talk in the high style typical of a Chabon work or, to be honest, like Burroughs. Not necessarily all “thees” and “thous” but speech with flourish. Chabon’s style works great for this. Some of the action scenes, however, tend not to have the immediacy of a more dedicated genre writer. Where someone like Hammett would revert to shorter sentences to punch you in the gut with the visceral action, Chabon maintains his whimsical style. The language is still pretty, but the action is a bit hazy.

All of this got me to thinking and wondering: are certain writes better at certain types of writing? The obvious answer is yes. You take any random sample of pulp authors—modern or classic—and they might be hard pressed to write a languid tale of a young person’s coming of age in the claustrophobic climate of 1950s America. You give them a dude with a pistol or a hero with a ray gun and you are going to be flat-out entertained. You take a group of literary writers and ask them to write a mystery story or a fantasy, and you might end up with a mess.

Yes, some genres call for certain writing styles, but can you mix them? Think of this: remember when you are play acting or talking with friends and you adopt a different accent to make a joke or something? You adopt the accent, say your words, and then revert back to your normal self. Can writers do the same? Can someone mimic Hammett without resorting to pastiche? Can someone mimic Chabon without a reader seeing through the veil?

More importantly, can different types of writing be applied for different types of story? If so, what are some examples? I'd like to know.

What Would Watson Do?

by
Scott D. Parker

Just last month, I read and enjoyed Anthony Horowitz's Sherlock Holmes novel, The House of Silk. As is my usual practice, I read no reviews prior to finishing the novel. When I did read the reviews, I was struck with the preponderance of a single word: pastiche. Interestingly, that word didn't enter my brain during my own reading (actually listening) of the book, but, perhaps, it should have.

In my own review of the book, I commented on how well Horowitz did in capturing the spirit, vocabulary, and feel of John Watson's writing. As I read the book, I ceased thinking it was Horowitz writing the book, but that it was Watson's (nee Doyle) pen that wrote the words.

Isn't that the definition of pastiche? That you forget the original author as you read the newer book? That the modern author has so completely assumed the style of the former that you think it's the former's own words? My next question was this: is this style of writing relegated only to Holmes stories?

This past summer, I read the newest James Bond novel by Jeffrey Deaver. I don't remember seeing reviewers commenting that it was a pastiche of Ian Fleming. Carte Blanche was a Deaver novel written about Fleming's creation, but with a modern sensibility, a complete reboot, to be honest. If you want a Bond-novel pastiche, that's more along the lines of 2008's Devil May Care by Sebastian Faulks, which was written to be a pseudo-sequel to the last Fleming novel.

While I haven't read but the first in the series, the late Robert B. Parker's main detective, Spencer, will live on in future novels written by future authors. This was the announcement by the publisher and I can't help but wonder if the authors selected will be instructed to maintain the Robert Parker style versus their own idiosyncratic stylings.

Why do we do this? Why do we pigeon-hole authors, their characters, and their writing styles to a certain, compartmentalized segment of the literary world? Is it, for example, that we prefer Holmes to live in Victorian times and sound like Victorian English because "that's just the way it's supposed to be"? When you start to think along these lines, a certain amount of imaginary pairings start to form in your heads. What would a Holmes novel sound like if Hammett was the author? How about a Spencer novel written by P. D. James? A Perry Mason book written by Michael Chabon? Heck, what if Doyle himself wrote a Continental Op tale?

In music, these kinds of pairings spark one-off, crossover experiments. Metallica integrated an orchestra with their songs and, arguably, are better for it. Brian Setzer rearranged classical standards to be performed by his big band and the results are fantastic. Just this year, the Ebene String Quartet issued "Fiction", their album of jazz and rock songs reconceived as a string quartet. If you listen to the Turtle Island String Quartet's version of John Coltrane's A Love Supreme, you will find a wonderfully new appreciation of the sax man's work. To me, these kinds of albums spark new interests in both the original version and the new.

So why are experiments like this not the norm in literature? Are we so conditioned to having Holmes and Watson always live in 189- that we don't want them to sound like the pulp heroes of the 1930s? Are we so worried that if Spencer starred in a story that "sounded like" Agatha Christie wrote it that we'd throw the book across the room?

What do you think?

Song of the Week:

Brian Setzer Orchestra's "The Nutcracker Suite" Well, since I mentioned it, here it is, in all of its jazzy glory.

Tweet of the Week:

That ABC edits Charlie Brown Christmas to make room for commercials basically proves the point of the show.

--Scott D. Parker

Yes, I'm quoting myself. Every year, I look forward to watching the Charlie Brown Christmas special. I'm old fashioned enough to prefer watching it on TV--commercials and all; remember when Dolly Madison did the ads?--to make it more of an event rather than something you can watch any time (or dozens of times) on a DVD. I know it so well that, each year, I get chagrined at the edits and cuts ABC makes in favor of (a) more commercials and (b) to account for the original 32-minute running time. That basically defeats the point of the entire message, right? It's ironic that Charlie Brown (in 1965) and the Grinch (in 1966) basically said all that needs be said about this most wonderful time of the year...over forty years ago.