Year: 2014 (page 8 of 61)

You’re sitting there.

You’re writing.

It’s going good. Or just okay. Or whatever. Your fingers are moving, your brain is barfing up ideas, and sentence by sentence, this story comes to life.

And then: this radar ping, where you unconsciously send out a signal to test your self-worth as a writer to ask the innocuous question, hey, how’s it going? and the ping returns back less like a sonic ping-pong ball and more like a fucking cannonshot clean through your authorial sails.

Boom.

Wind through the ragged hole.

And suddenly you’re going nowhere.

Your boat, frozen in panicked waters. The icy, paralyzing slush of disdain for the story you’re writing now, the story you wrote five years ago, all the stories you wrote and will ever write, ALL THE THINGS YOU THINK AND FEEL AND ARE OH GOD YOU AREN’T AN AUTHOR YOU’RE JUST A WHISKEY CHIMP WITH POOPY HANDS, YOU’RE JUST A PARAMECIUM GIVEN OVER TO A BOUT OF SELF-IMPORTANCE, YOU’RE JUST A WORTHLESS MOTE OF gaaaaaaah

Deep breath.

Okay, listen.

This happens to all of us. Well, most of us. Certainly there exists some shiny happy shit-smiling authors who just toodle on through their manuscripts like they’re robots crapping gold coins into a gold bucket and wiping with gold leaf paper and every word they write is a delightful fucking bluebird whistle. And, frankly, good for them.

But the rest of us… mm, yeah, no, we often end up hating what we’re writing.

For me, this happens at three potential points during the draft. It happens at:

a) 33%

b) 50%

c) 66%

The panic, the self-loathing, the gravely sucking sense of uncertainty — it always seems to hit right around this part. It’s not always bonafide hate. Sometimes it’s just a sinking feeling. Or a massive wallop of doubt — like, massive-massive, meaning, it feels like someone just built a mechanical donkey out of PURE DOUBT ENERGON and that mecha-doubt-donkey just kicked a crater in my chest. And that chest-crater is now leaking all my faith in myself and the book I’m writing into the ether. Plus, blood. Lots of blood.

So much blood.

The way through this is fairly clear.

Deep breath. Have some tea, or an adult beverage of your choice. Enjoy a cookie. Leave the manuscript alone. Then, come back. The bad smell may yet be hanging about — push on through that miasma of self-loathing, and write your way through it.

A lot of time, what you’re feeling is the same thing we all feel about… well, all the normal life shit. A change at work! A new project. A new dog. A toddler going through growing pains (and in a way, that’s what this is, too, with your manuscript: growing pains). Hell, when I clean up a room or clean out the fridge, there’s always this part where I think I’m doing more damage than good. Creation works that way, sometimes. I remember watching be-afroed artist Bob Ross do his groovy 70s happy clouds thing on PBS, and 90% of the way through the show I was like, “Bob. Bob. Bob. You’re fucking it up, Bob. You’re in a tailspin, plunging toward the earth. Give up now, you easygoing motherfucker. No way you can pull this out OH SHIT IT’S A BEAUTIFUL MOUNTAIN VISTA is that a little springhouse oh goddamn it’s a little springhouse — BOB ROSS YOU MAD BASTARD YOU DID IT AGAIN.”

I didn’t even trust Bob Ross.

So, it stands to follow that I don’t even trust myself, sometimes.

It makes sense, really.

Creation is hard. Itchy, uncomfortable. Sharp, jagged edges. Bones growing through your pre-existing carapace. And the vision of what you have or had in your mind will never really match what ends up on the paper because between YOUR BRAIN and THE STORY exists all this uncomfortable liminal weirdness, this airy interstitial insulation, this crass reality that feels like you’re trying to operate fine motor controls with fingers swaddled in half-melted marshmallows.

And writing a book is a long process. Far more marathon than sprint. It’s easy to run a sprint. Hard-charge over a short distance? Sure. Can do! But a marathon, man — hell, the most I’ve ever run is two miles and to be honest with you, I often hit trouble at around the same times as I do with a novel (third, half, two-thirds). Writing a novel is tantamount to wandering a dark forest. You’ll always have those times when it feels like you can’t see the stars, that the thicket has grown too deep, that the way out will never be within sight. But then you keep wandering and — okay, sure, sometimes you get eaten by a GOBLIN BEAR because they can smell your fear-pee — eventually you push through the shadow and the bramble and there’s the way forward again.

Writing is cyclical. The worm turns.

The creative process is tumultuous.

It’s normal.

It’s normal.

I’ve been writing professionally for (cough cough) almost 18 years now and been writing novels professionally for the last… jeez, it’s only been three years, but it’s been like, ten novels with like, another seven on the way) and this happens to me most of the time. Not every time, and if you write a book and don’t feel that sense of swerving drunkenly through an icy intersection, that’s okay too. But I’m just saying: the fear, the terror, the chaos, the howling void of self-hatred?

It happens. It’s okay.

It’s okay except when it’s not.

It’s not okay if it keeps going. It’s not okay if it starts from word one and follows you around like a stalking incubus. Maybe that means you’re dealing with issues of depression, maybe it just means something is really wonky with what you’re writing — it’s the wrong-size shoe hurting your little toesy-woesies. That isn’t okay, and it’s probably not normal. You might wanna take a long look at that, cut to the heart of it a little bit and see how it ticks.

But for the rest of you — the rest of us?

It’s cool.

Keep writing.

It’s not you.

Creation isn’t painless.

Doubt is illusory — a haunting specter without substance.

And remember: you can always fix it in later drafts.

Now quash your fear, fuck the doubt-ghosts, and finish what you started.

* * *

30 Days in the Word Mines: an advent calendar for NaNoWriMo or other daily writing adventure, offering up a platter of every-day tips, tricks, and thoughts to get you writing that story.

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Hey, word-nerds.

Here’s what I want you to do, if you’re comfortable with it. Some of you are presently in the midst of writing or editing stories — in particular, a great heaping helping of you ARTFUL MOTHERFUCKERS are probably knee-deep in the word slurry of NaNoWriMo now — and so I think it’s time to share a little teeny tiny sliver of the work.

Just a taste.

An amuse-bouche.

*smacks lips*

Take a sentence from the work and post it in the comments below.

I’d say to choose a favorite sentence, but I don’t want to hem you in too much — also possible you’d choose a sentence you feel that you just can’t get quite right (and if you are seeking help with said sentence, feel free to ask for exactly that).

So, go, deposit a sentence below.

If, again, you’re comfortable.

*stares*

*smacks lips some more*

*drools*

Pretty straightforward — given that we’re in the long haul of National Novel Writing Month, feels like a shorter, sharper flash fiction contest deserves to be in play. What does that mean?

It means I want you to write a single story in three sentences. The shorter those sentences are, the better. Remember: a story has a beginning, a middle, and an end.

It is not merely a vignette — not simply a snapshot in time.

You can deposit this story in the comments below.

Due in one week — by Friday, noon EST.

I’ll pick three random participants on that Friday and will toss each winner a copy of my newest writing e-book, 30 Days in the Word Mines. (A book that has been described as an advent calendar for NaNoWriMo, which is a description I quite like.)

Sound good?

Get to writing.

Three sentences.

Short as you can make them — clarity and brevity are king.

Go.

Is there anywhere in the galaxy that’s safe for a Telepath who knows too much?

Implanted with psi-tech technology, Cara Carlinni is on the run from Alphacorp, a megacorporation more powerful than any one planetary government. She knows her ex-boss can find her any time, mind-to-mind. Even though it’s driving her crazy she’s powered down and has been surviving on willpower and tranqs, tucked away on a backwater space station. So far, so good. It’s been almost a year, and her mind is still her own.

But her past is about to catch up with her, and her only choice is run or die. She gets out just in time thanks to Ben Benjamin, a psi-tech Navigator for Alphacorp’s biggest corporate rival, however it’s not over yet. Cara and Ben find themselves battling corruption of the highest magnitude. If they make a mistake an entire colony planet could pay the ultimate price.

1) Bad choices make for good stories

Let me be specific–it’s your characters’ bad choices that make your stories more interesting. No one loves a smart-arse. If your characters make the right decision every time they are faced with a dilemma, the whole thing is going to bore the pants off your readers. Have them be fallible, make the wrong decision and then have to scramble to retrieve the situation. Maybe the bad decision has happened before your story starts and your whole book is about them trying to get out of a dilemma that’s largely self-created. Maybe it happens during the course of the story. You can see them running towards Bad-Choice-Land. It’s grey and grungy and littered with stumbling blocks. You’re tempted to save them from themselves, but don’t. Let them fall in the kaka and then have to get themselves out again. Bad choices have a cost and your characters have to live with the results (or die from them).

2) The story is more important than the science

If you are writing a fantasy with magic the magic system must be internally consistent and your characters have to stick to the rules and live with the consequences of their actions. Ditto with science fiction. If you are writing far future speculative SF which is more about adventure and characterisation than about the extrapolation of scientific ideas, then the science system may not be unlike a magic system in a fantasy book. Space is big, really big, and if you are going to have a bunch of characters gallivanting about between star-systems then Einstein, the Theory of Relativity and time dilation are not your friends. Faster than light travel, wormholes, jump gates and folded space are going to be your stock-in-trade. So figure out how your universe works and make a bunch of notes so you can retain internal consistency. You may have gathered that the science in my science fiction comes with a small ‘s’, but I try and make it sound, if not exactly plausible, at least not completely bonkers.

3) Trust Yourself and Trust Your Editor

When I set out to write Empire of Dust I figured it would be a relatively short standalone that would act as a prequel for a couple of linked novels already written. I was aiming for around 100,000 words. It quickly became clear that it wasn’t going to be the novel I first envisaged. My characters took over. They had more problems than I ever expected. It grew and grew. And then it grew some more. At one point it expanded to 240,000 words, way too long for most publishers to take a chance on, especially for a first-time novelist. So I cut it back to 190,000 words and emailed my (then) agent who said in no uncertain terms to cut it again. “Make it 119,000 words,” she said, “and then send it to me.” At first I thought that was impossible, but then I thought I should give it a try, even if I just treated it as a writing exercise. Over the course of one very intense long weekend I did a surgical strike on the manuscript. (Luckily without getting rid of the original version.) For various reasons I parted company from that agent before she’d shopped the manuscript around and, conscious of the fact that I’d probably thrown out the baby with the bathwater, I added back a few thousand words of character motivation and ended up with a novel of 123,00 words. For the next three years it languished on the desk of an editor at a major publishing house who’d asked to see it and had said, “The first couple of chapters look interesting…” but despite occasional polite reminders I don’t think she ever read it and eventually I politely withdrew it. During that time I wrote (amongst other things) Winterwood, the novel that Sheila Gilbert acquired for DAW in 2013. When Sheila asked what else I’d got and heard about Empire of Dust she said to send it, and not only bought it, but ordered a second book in the series. We got down to editorial discussions and Sheila said she’d like more worldbuilding and character depth and, in fact, a lot of those things that I’d cut out of the original long book. I went back to the old version, still on file, and resurrected scenes that I’d been sorry to lose. Of course, some of them needed reworking, but a lot of what Sheila asked for was already there in one form or another. The end result came in at 171,000 words. Five hundred and thirty two pages.

4) Story arcs are not just for main characters

Every character, whether you explore him/her fully in the text or not, should have needs and wants. Secondary characters are not two dimensional beings existing merely to fulfil a role in your main character’s journey. They’re not just good or evil. Even the best of them may have a momentary lapse, and the worst of them probably loves his Mom or donates to a cancer charity. Give them something to make them individual. Make them pop off the page. They are all the heroes of their own story. Of course, you might have to slap them down a bit if they try and take over. Some of them get a bit cocky when you take notice of them. They start to think they have a right to push to the front, so you may need to sit them down and give them a good talking to. Tell them that if they behave themselves they might get their own book somewhere down the line. Yeah, that’s it. Promise them anything as long as they toe the line now.

5) A character shouldn’t always get what they want, but they should get what they need

There’s a big difference between wants and needs. My main character, Cara, wants to escape from a difficult and dangerous situation and put as much distance between herself and her former lover (and boss) after discovering massive corruption. She wants to start over. What she needs, however, is to confront what has happened to her so that she can learn to trust again. Ben wants to discover and bring to justice whoever orchestrated the raid on Hera-3, killing thousands of settlers and three-quarters of his own psi-tech team. What he needs is to shed the (self-imposed) responsibility for the deaths. Know what your characters want, work out what they need, and deliver, or, if you’re writing a series, set out the problem and even if you obscure the goals (for now) don’t make it totally impossible for them to find a resolution. Maybe they get there one painful step at a time, but let them get there eventually.

* * *

Jacey Bedford is an English writer who lives and works behind a desk in Pennine Yorkshire. She’s had stories published on both sides of the Atlantic and in November 2014 her first novel, Empire of Dust – A Psi-Tech Novel, is published by DAW in the USA as part of a three book deal.

She is co-organiser of the UK Milford Writers’ Conference, a peer-to-peer workshopping week for published SF writers, and she organises Northwrite SF, a critique group based in Yorkshire.

She’s been a librarian, a postmistress and member of internationally touring a cappella trio, Artisan (and still occasionally is for reunion gigs). When not writing she arranges UK gigs for folk artists from all over the world.

Jacey Bedford: Website | Blog | Twitter

Empire of Dust: Amazon | B&N | Indiebound | Powells

Everything is permitted…  and everyone has their price. 

Zander Sin is the bad boy of rock-n-roll, known for his wealth, his temper tantrums, and his love of hedonism, but to K&R expert and newly born maran vampire Jackson Pastor, Zander Sin is something else: murderer, monster, and kidnapper. After Zander’s Whore of Babylon tour comes to Los Angeles, Jackson also learns that Zander Sin has a grudge with Jackson’s family that goes way beyond money or power, and stretches all the way back to ancient Rome. 

Zander may be on everyone’s hit list, human and supernatural alike, but when Jackson learns that Zander’s keeping his younger sister Monika prisoner, he finds himself face-to-face with the most objectionable of outcomes: being forced to help Zander Sin get what he wants. 

Even if it means Jackson may have to betray everyone he loves to do it.

* * *

The Second Book In A Series Is Just As Hard As The First.

Blood Sin is my fourth book, but my first sequel. All the previous books had been in radically different genres with no connection to each other (because sticking to one genre will never be my groove.) Blood Sin, on the other hand, is the sequel to Blood Chimera, book two in an open-ended paranormal mystery series. In some ways that’s easier, since it means that there will be familiar characters and some of the world-building is already done, but everything that’s a benefit is also a constraint, because…well…the characters are familiar and the world-building is already done. I can’t just go around changing things now, or introducing concepts which should have been present in the first book. I’m locked in.

So easier in lots of ways, but also scary.

Stare Into The Abyss Of Language And The Vocabulary Stares Back.

So the monsters in my series are called ‘grendels’ — and as you might expect that translated into reading about the epic poem ‘Beowulf.’ While doing so, I discovered the word ‘aeglaeca,’ which turns out to be a bit problematic. And sexist.

Whoa now. What?

Aeglaeca is a word used to describe Grendel’s mother, and it’s usually translated as meaning ‘monstrous.’ Grendel’s mother is a monster because it says so right there. Monster. See? Print doesn’t lie. And that’s all well and good, but the same word is also often used to describe the titular hero of the story, Beowulf.

Only then the same word is typically translated as ‘heroic.’

Same word. Used the same way. The only difference between how the word is translated into modern English seems to be the gender of the subject, and that translation is one of the main pieces of evidence used to present that Grendel’s mother is a foul bitch-beast. Turns out ‘aeglaeca’ really translates as ‘epic’ or ‘fierce’ — applicable to both heroes and villains. So everything I assumed I knew about Grendel’s mother stemmed from a bunch of scholars who just couldn’t wrap their heads around the idea that a woman could try to kick the ass of the man who killed her son without also being a literal monster.

Anyway, I ended up naming a Vegas-style floor show after it, because Blood Sin’s that kind of book.

I Have To Write Faster Than My Demons.

Blood Sin was probably the most trouble-free novel I’ve written to date. I’m pretty infamous for hitting the three-fourths mark of a book and grinding to a halt so I can go back over everything I’ve done and second guess myself in crippling ways, up to and including completely radical rewrites. That didn’t happen this time. Why?

Blood Sin was also the fastest I’ve ever written a novel, and these things are not unconnected. That probably goes against someone’s rules for writing and certainly against popular conceptions of how writing should be, but I have discovered that I do my best writing when I write fast enough to trust my instincts instead of giving my brain time to second-guess my work. How fast? At least two thousand words an hour usually does the trick for me. I can’t keep that up all day — it’s exhausting — but when you’re writing that fast, you don’t need more than a few hours a day.

My Health is an Important Part of This Process.

Around six or so years ago, long before I decided to make this writing thing a permanent part of my raison d’être, I was a freelance illustrator, which fyi, is not an easy way to earn a penny. I worked myself to the ground, spent long periods of time cramming myself into poor ergonomic contortions, and ended up doing permanent damage to my health from which I’ve yet to recover. Back problems, primarily, but also weight gain from being so sedentary, which of course made the back problems worse.

I’m still paying for it.

What I’ve learned from this (besides how important diet is for my overall health and well being) is that ignoring your health is something you will absolutely regret. In some ways, the attention I now pay to my diet and exercise means I’m healthier than I’ve ever been before (especially since I’ve cut sugar out of my diet) but all it takes is one really bad back flare-up to remind me how nice it would have been if I’d done all this before it became a crippling issue. Also? It’s not easy for me to write when I’m doubled over in pain.

So don’t be me, okay?

Always Be Closing.

I work full time. I’m also a fervent gamer who enjoys table-top RPGs and MMOs. I have a lot of hobbies. And I’ve written five books in the last two years (and I’m in the middle of my sixth.) Guess what I don’t do so much anymore? (Hint: I still pay my bills.) I’ve discovered that writing books (and finishing those books) is a choice. It’s not about talent, although that certainly impacts if anyone will want to read my books later. It’s about one single thing: making writing more important than all the other activities that clamor for my free time and energy.

Writing is my BAE, my first priority, the thing I do before TV shows, video games, or hanging out with friends. When that wasn’t true? I also didn’t have any finished books. Probably some kind of connection there…

I have friends who are professional artists, and they draw all the time. ALL THE TIME. When they aren’t drawing, they are watching videos of other artists drawing or they are staring at drawn pictures of Batman pointing a finger at them and saying, “Why aren’t you drawing?”

Writing is exactly the same.

Which isn’t to say I haven’t been playing a lot of video games lately, just that I’m not making any excuses for it the way I used to do.

* * *

Jenn Lyons lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband, three cats and a lot of opinions on anything from Sumerian creation myths to the correct way to make a martini. At various points in her life, she has wanted to be an archaeologist, anthropologist, architect, diamond cutter, fashion illustrator, graphic designer, or Batman. Turning from such obvious trades, she is now a video game producer by day, and spends her evenings writing science fiction and fantasy.

Jenn Lyons: Website | Tumblr | Twitter

Blood Sin: Amazon | B&N | Kobo

I went to a really great writer’s conference in the Mythical Lands of Canada (the MLC) last week, the Surrey International Writers’ Conference. And, while there, I did these so-called “blue pencil” sessions, where I read the first few pages of a writer’s manuscript and they sit across from me, watching my face and trembling as I sharpen my knives on their shoddy craftsmanship. Except, a couple of things happened: first, I had no blue pencil, so I had to instead try to mark-up their manuscript with the blood of the innocent but of course blood isn’t blue but red so that’s disappointing; second, I did not encounter any shoddy craftsmanship. The attendees of this particular conference were operating at a higher level than I had reckoned — which is great!

That said, I found one common thread — a singular critique — that I was able to apply to each and every manuscript I encountered. That common critique is about beginning your story. Given that this month is the vaunted-slash-dreaded NaNoWriMo, a post on beginning your tale thus seemed to be appropriately fortuitous.

So, here’s the truth:

You’re probably fucking up the beginning of your story.

And the beginning of your story is the most vital part. The start of a story carries an undue burden. Imagine that your story is a pack mule, except that it is the animal’s forehead — or even it’s dopey muzzle — that is expected to carry the load. All that burden is shoved to the front of the beast, and so it is with your story.

Sure, sure, Patience is a virtue. Blah blah blah.

It is also not a virtue many readers — including myself — possess anymore.

Reason? We have scads upon plethoras upon cornucopias of entertainment choices available to us. Games, movies, television, cupcakes, religion, politics, porn whatever. Even inside the realm of books (how wonderful does that sound? A WHOLE REALM OF BOOKS) it’s not like our choices are thin on the ground. One book sucks? Ten more will gladly fill its space, barfed up by the giant book-regurgitating monster known as The Publishing Industry.

I am brutal when I read the first page of a new story.

My patience is literally that long — as long as one page. This is not a bomb with a trailing fuse, folks. This fuse is about the length of a human thumb — a short fizzle and a fast detonation. That detonation sounds less like an explosion and more like me going, NOPE, then pitching the book over my shoulder into the dumpster I always keep immediately behind me. (This is awkward when I realize that yet again I have thrown my iPad away because I was reading an e-book.)

So, by this point, I have probably exhausted your own patience by putting such a long lead on this post, but hey, screw it, this blog is free. HAPPY TO REFUND YOUR MONEY, MISTER COMPLAINYPANTS. *makes it rain with Monopoly money thrown at your head*

Ahem.

What I mean is, you’re probably asking:

So, how exactly am I fucking up the beginning of my story?

I will not count the ways.

But rather, I will offer you a metaphor that hopefully will clarify the work that the beginning of your book must do, and further will hopefully obviate the sins you have committed. You monster.

It’s like this:

You, the writer, are leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.

You are walking backward from the reader, trying to get the reader to creep toward you.

You never quite want them to catch you.

Instead, you want them to follow you through the dark forest — this tangled labyrinth — that is your novel, your story, the architecture of the tale you’re trying to tell.

If you leave too many breadcrumbs — meaning, you just dump a cup of them on the ground — the reader will stop right there. They’ll hover over the spot like a starving duck and they’ll just peck at the ground. Which sounds fine (hey, the reader is fed and fat and happy, quack quack), but it means the reader isn’t progressing. A fat belly means a bored duck.

If you leave too few breadcrumbs — meaning, you space them out too far apart, you’re too spare with these little crusty boulders of secret delight — then the reader will follow along but suddenly get lost. In the dark forest they will not be able to see the next breadcrumb. They will then spin around in the shadows, looking for a way forward, and they will not find one. Confused and lonely, they will most likely be eaten by a grue.

In both instances, the reader will put down the book.

(Always assume that the reader is looking for a reason to go do something else. They want to put down your book and go read another one. Or go eat some Cheezits or play a video game or go fuck a houseplant — whatever leisure time activity one prefers when nobody else is watching.)

It is your job to entice the reader forward. To tease and tantalize — story is, in this way, a kind of seduction. (And here I note that breadcrumbs are about the least tantalizing thing in the world, and if someone were to try to seduce me with breadcrumbs I’d probably grumpily urinate on the ground like an offended bear and go trundling off in the other direction. So perhaps this metaphor is better if we imagine Elliott trying to urge E.T. forward with a trail of Reese’s Pieces. Me, I’d probably follow a trail of little bourbon bottles, but I’d get too drunk by the middle of the forest and would probably end up sleeping in the woods, soiled in my own tears and whiskey-sweat. This digression has gone on long enough, I suspect, so we’ll just stick with “breadcrumbs.”)

You’re trying to ensure that the reader is interested in taking the next step, but never precisely satisfied when she gets there. You want the reader to want more. To need more. To continue following you into the maze, driven by the hunger you have stoked.

Now, later on in the book, you can start changing your pace. You can move more quickly, or more slowly, expecting the reader to keep up. You can leave more breadcrumbs here, and fewer there — because by then, the reader is already in the maze. They’re invested in the untangling of the narrative. With a good, balanced opening, you are literally buying story credit that you can spend later on riskier, bolder maneuvers inside the tale. (Though even there, you can overspend — but that is a conversation for another day.)

So, practically speaking, what are these breadcrumbs?

What are their narrative equivalent?

Assume that they’re shaped like little question marks and exclamation points.

Question marks are, as noted, questions — who is this person? What is wrong? Is this a conspiracy? Who are those strange creatures? What is that robot doing to that chicken? As I am wont to say: the question mark is shaped like a hook for a reason. Set the hook right and it embeds in the cheek of the reader and pulls her along.

But a story — particularly the opening — can’t just be questions. It’s not a fucking interview or an essay test. You also have to balance it out with answers, because answers lend us context. Except here, the answers cannot be wishy-washy. The context given cannot be soft-hearted. Answers must be bold, compelling, interesting. This is why they are exclamation points rather than question marks — you’re excitedly declaring things! This is sturm and drang — truth and consequence. Someone dies! An explosion! Doom! Event! Not mere happenstance or coincidence but holy shitcookies, look at this thing and this other thing and that robot and that chicken!

Exposition is too talky. It gives away too much. It’s why we cannot begin a story with backstory, or with explanation — it’s all answers, and it’s all milquetoast.

But we also cannot begin with a void of context, either, because then we’re lost.

Too many breadcrumbs.

Or too few.

We entice with mystery, conflict, drama. Every compelling character is a breadcrumb. So are the actions of those characters. Great writing is a breadcrumb all its own (though not nearly enough of one). On page one I should be seeing the willingness to have things happen and to ask questions. Set the hook with mystery. Reel it in with great event driven by strong characters.

What’s your seduction? How will you compel readers forward? What will seduce them on page one to read to page ten, and then to 20, and then to 50, 100, and all the way to the end?

How will you get readers lost in the maze of your fiction?