Watching Brandon Inge play over the weekend, along with reading a few more traditional mystery stories gave me some insights into my plotting troubles. I don't know why exactly, perhaps it was my age, or limited exposure to all of the genres tropes and stocks in trade, but when I first started writing mystery stories and until I gave them up a year or so ago, I thought every mystery story I wrote needed to be a home run, every twist amazing, every ending a huge whamo surprise ending. And while I never hit that home run, I struck out quite a bit. Just like Brandon Inge.
Inge is a guy who has had some huge hits in his career for the Tigers. Well-timed home runs or grand slams to win the game. But when he's not winning the game, he also strikes out a lot at very inopportune times and I think it's because he's always hitting for that big hit. He doesn't quite get the value of a single or double just to get on base. In my reading, I came across several stories that were more "small ball" if you will. The stories succeeded on a string of well-timed singles and doubles, and even a few triples, which made for entertaining and memorable stories. None of them blew me out of the water, but they didn't have to. So this is how I need to start plotting my stories.
I've talked in the past I've talked about how much I like stories that turn on small stakes as opposed to massive, world-altering, stakes and I think this sort of follows the same lines. When you're constantly hitting homers, eventually people become bored with them. This has happened to two of the few thriller writers I was ever able to read consistently, Harlan Coben and Jeffery Deaver. The first few books I read I was shocked and awed by the twists. But as I read more of their books, I started seeing patterns and began spotting the twists way ahead of the game. With Coben I was still able to enjoy the books because I like his characters, but with Deaver, who relies almost entirely on plotting to sustain his books, once that formula is cracked the books lose their energy.
So that's what I'm doing with my novella, trying to get a couple of good singles and maybe an RBI double and give the fans something to see. Anybody else have a way to cram an awkward baseball metaphor into a writing blog?
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Book Signings: What Should We Expect?
Tomorrow, I plan on heading over to Houston's Murder by the Book store and pick up Duane Swierczynski's latest novel, Expiration Date. I'll have it on hand when he visits Houston in June and I'll get him to sign it. That's perhaps the best part about being a reader of a particular author: the meeting, the greeting, and the attending of a talk. Swierczynski's talk on the Severence Package tour was very good and it was my first brush with a published author I really liked. What was even neater was that he had read my review of SP and he thanked me personally. That's some awesome feedback, let me tell you.
Back in January 2009, Charles Ardai visited Houston. He bought prize giveaways (I won nothing), a PowerPoint presentation, and a nice, solid prepared speech where he talked about Hard Case Crime, cover art, and the then upcoming Gabriel Hunt books. I walked out of the bookstore that night completely satisfied. I received something I could not get in any other way.
Other authors have failed to impress. They show up, no presentation created, take a few questions, sign books, and get out of the store. And I'm enough of a book geek to know many of the answers being asked of the author. Rather disappointing, all things considered.
The talk. As readers, what do we really expect from authors at book signings? What should we expect? I'll admit, I prefer the prepared speech variety. My mother recently attended an author talk with one of her favorite authors. The author (I forgot the name) spoke about the writing life, what it's like to research and write multiple series, and gave sneak peaks at upcoming works. Then she took questions and, later, signed every book. My mom had a blast!
Book signings don't need to be rock concerts. But I do think they should provide the reading audience with something special, something they can't get in any other medium. What do you think?
Back in January 2009, Charles Ardai visited Houston. He bought prize giveaways (I won nothing), a PowerPoint presentation, and a nice, solid prepared speech where he talked about Hard Case Crime, cover art, and the then upcoming Gabriel Hunt books. I walked out of the bookstore that night completely satisfied. I received something I could not get in any other way.
Other authors have failed to impress. They show up, no presentation created, take a few questions, sign books, and get out of the store. And I'm enough of a book geek to know many of the answers being asked of the author. Rather disappointing, all things considered.
The talk. As readers, what do we really expect from authors at book signings? What should we expect? I'll admit, I prefer the prepared speech variety. My mother recently attended an author talk with one of her favorite authors. The author (I forgot the name) spoke about the writing life, what it's like to research and write multiple series, and gave sneak peaks at upcoming works. Then she took questions and, later, signed every book. My mom had a blast!
Book signings don't need to be rock concerts. But I do think they should provide the reading audience with something special, something they can't get in any other medium. What do you think?
Friday, April 16, 2010
The Fear
By Russel D McLean
The book is gone.
Out of my hands.
It’s a strange feeling. I start to pace the flat. Thinking about when I wrote, “The End,” how I had doubts and anxieties I couldn’t put into words.
I try and watch some TV.
I can’t.
I try to read.
The book in my hands makes me think about all the flaws in what I have just sent out. I know the premise, but did I do it justice? What about all those continuity errors? What about the voice? Is that voice strong enough? Are the characters properly rounded or just two dimensional morons who are more likely to depress the reader than intrigue them?
Have I lost it?
That is the question that haunts every time something goes out. It’s a precarious thing, this writing gig, especially if you want to make a living. What happens if you find that you just lose all the connection with your readers?
What happens then?
What happens if you can’t claw that back?
Lightning in a bottle. Can you capture a cliché like that twice?
I have to wonder.
Over the next few weeks I bury myself in another project. I think, this is better, and worry that I’m right, that what I’ve sent in is the wrong project.
Any use worrying?
Just bury into the new project. Hope for the best.
Days turn into weeks. I attend the day job. Lose myself in other dramas. Keep hammering at the new project. Watch my email and listen for my phone.
My heart hammers when I think about it. I imagine all the worst case scenarios. The most scathing criticisms. I appreciate honesty and yet fear it, too. Especially from someone whose opinion I respect.
These are the worst moments.
Not waiting to hear what the readers think. By then everything is out of your hands. But waiting to hear from editors and agents, all you can think of is: What should I have done to make this better? Are they going to finally see me for the fraud I am?
When the email comes, it says, “Give me a shout and we’ll talk about the project.”
I panic.
Remember all the worst case scenarios.
But it has to be done.
Because the fear and the doubt are part of this gig. Because sometimes, you are going to get it wrong, but its better if someone can tell you that you’re going to. And then there’s that hope – that tiny, tiny little voice of optimisim – that says, you’ve done it before. You might have to some work, but you can do it again.
It’s the quietest voice that always wins out.
The quietest voice that reminds me why I do this. And why, in spite of The Fear, there is nothing else in this world I’d rather be doing.
The book is gone.
Out of my hands.
It’s a strange feeling. I start to pace the flat. Thinking about when I wrote, “The End,” how I had doubts and anxieties I couldn’t put into words.
I try and watch some TV.
I can’t.
I try to read.
The book in my hands makes me think about all the flaws in what I have just sent out. I know the premise, but did I do it justice? What about all those continuity errors? What about the voice? Is that voice strong enough? Are the characters properly rounded or just two dimensional morons who are more likely to depress the reader than intrigue them?
Have I lost it?
That is the question that haunts every time something goes out. It’s a precarious thing, this writing gig, especially if you want to make a living. What happens if you find that you just lose all the connection with your readers?
What happens then?
What happens if you can’t claw that back?
Lightning in a bottle. Can you capture a cliché like that twice?
I have to wonder.
Over the next few weeks I bury myself in another project. I think, this is better, and worry that I’m right, that what I’ve sent in is the wrong project.
Any use worrying?
Just bury into the new project. Hope for the best.
Days turn into weeks. I attend the day job. Lose myself in other dramas. Keep hammering at the new project. Watch my email and listen for my phone.
My heart hammers when I think about it. I imagine all the worst case scenarios. The most scathing criticisms. I appreciate honesty and yet fear it, too. Especially from someone whose opinion I respect.
These are the worst moments.
Not waiting to hear what the readers think. By then everything is out of your hands. But waiting to hear from editors and agents, all you can think of is: What should I have done to make this better? Are they going to finally see me for the fraud I am?
When the email comes, it says, “Give me a shout and we’ll talk about the project.”
I panic.
Remember all the worst case scenarios.
But it has to be done.
Because the fear and the doubt are part of this gig. Because sometimes, you are going to get it wrong, but its better if someone can tell you that you’re going to. And then there’s that hope – that tiny, tiny little voice of optimisim – that says, you’ve done it before. You might have to some work, but you can do it again.
It’s the quietest voice that always wins out.
The quietest voice that reminds me why I do this. And why, in spite of The Fear, there is nothing else in this world I’d rather be doing.
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