Last year around this time, we were revving up our trip to Maui, so I thought I’d pop a macro shot from our trip into this post — behold, an anole, chill enough to let me get in macro-snappin’ range. The anole is wise. Listen to the anole’s wizardly wisdom. Or whatever.

A quick hose-down of what’s up:

Invasive gets a shout-out at Sword & Laser, one of the greatest SFF podcasts of all time, so give a click and go listen. Don’t make me make you.

If you’d like to hear Ahmed Best — the voice of Jar-Jar Binks — talk about his thoughts on Jar-Jar’s portrayal in Empire’s End, look no further. Bonus: he does a reading from the book!

Also, a bunch of us Star Wars author types give some thoughts in this SyFy article about how it is to write for the Star Wars universe.

(Related: I’m also told Battlefront 2 may have some Aftermath-adjacent content?)

Lessee, what else?

The collected edition of my first proper comic book work, writing alongside Adam Christopher and with art from Drew Johnson, is finally coming out — The Shield: Daughter of the Revolution awaits. It had an, erm, erratic release schedule, so maybe you didn’t read these? Go read!

Turok, Issue 4 comes out next week, too — “Captured by cultists and recruited by rebels! The mystery of Turok’s past is illuminated as he, Nettle and Marak escape into the darkness of the tunnels beneath the Storm Lands – and their rebel guide attempts to convince Turok to kill a living god – the leader of the Varanid Empire, Imperator Vex!” GO READ IT. The penultimate chapter before everything goes holy-shit-shaped.

The third Miriam Black book, The Cormorant, is $1.99 for your ELECTRONIC BOOK DEVICE, and I don’t know why, and I don’t know for how long, but it is, so go grab it if you haven’t.

The fifth Miriam book, The Raptor & The Wren, is up for pre-order now (out January 23rd!), and also I believe ready on Netgalley for ARC review? I apologize in advance for the contents of that book, ahem. (Print, e-book.)

Thanks everyone who has so far checked out Damn Fine Story (print, e-book). I’m hoping for some of you it’s providing interesting narrative fodder to help you through the CHAOS BLENDER that is NaNoWriMo.

AAAAAAAND here is the classic, old-school authorial reminder that if you liked that book, or any of my books, please go to your nearest Review Receptacle (Goodreads, Amazon, social media) and leave a review, if you so please. Unless of course you did not like the book, in which case, please staple your negative review to the nearest goat, and then force the goat into the wastelands where it may die or be consumed by hill cannibals. Please and thank you.

If I’m scarce here this week, it’s because I’m 233,000 words into a novel and need to finish this Epic Monstrosity this week if at all possible (I literally crested 1000 pages in the Word document, which, while not equivalent to 1000 pages of printed novel, is still a Whole Lotta Motherfucking Pages). So, it is now that I put on my headlamp and go into the word-mines to dig my way clear of this rich vein of narrative ore.

BE WELL, WORD NERDS.

*disappears into the dark with a canary*

*gets hungry*

*eats the canary*

*is probably a cat*

So, I love the predictive text meme, where you tell a short little story or poem or sentence based on the predictive text your phone or mobile device gives you —

Like, last week, one was to type in “I was born” and then let predictive text fill in your autobiography, and mine came up with:

“I was born a perfectionist and a monster

I had no idea what I was doing”

And I thought, goddamn, that’s fucking good.

That’s “opening line of a memorable novel” good.

So, let’s play with predictive text here today.

Start with the words, “Once upon a time,” and then let predictive text take over the story. Keep tapping the predicted words (you should get three choices, I think, at least you do on an iPhone) until you’re satisfied with the story. Note: we’re not really looking for complete stories here, just a sentence that could serve as an interesting opening line or weird little narrative. We’re doing this in part because a good number of you are, I’m guessing, neck-deep in NaNoWriMo, so this should serve as a fast and easy steam-release of storytelling fun.

You can drop your predictive tales right into the comments below.

[My example: “Once upon a time I had a great idea, and when it got to the end, the first person who wrote it out for me died.” Commas added by me, not the predictive text.]

[EDIT: Interestingly, you can also change the predictive story by adding bits to Once upon a time — such as, “Once upon a time there was,” or “Once upon a time I was” etc.etc.]

I knew a guy named Gil who faced an incredibly difficult decision: his wife and his teenage daughter were both in the hospital at the same time with failing kidneys, the wife from cancer, the daughter from the trauma of a car accident. Grim coincidence, indeed. Both required a kidney transplant, both put on the list requiring donor organs. But Gil, of course, was a perfect match for his daughter, and as it so happened, also for his wife. Trick is, Gil only had two kidneys — he wasn’t like, loaded down with extra fucking kidneys, so he could only give one away. He could give a kidney to his wife, or he could give the organ to his daughter. The one whom he refused would be consigned to wait, ideally getting a kidney from a donor, but that person could also potentially die in the interim.

This was complicated by, well, complications. His wife was older, in her 40s, so was it wiser to give the kidney to his daughter, who had so much more life to live? But the daughter also had other trauma from the accident, and a kidney would not entirely ‘fix’ her — whereas the wife’s cancer had not yet metastasized, and so his kidney would go a greater distance, so to speak, if transplanted into her. Then one wonders, what are the emotional responses? If both survive, will one resent him? Could both? If one died, what would the response be from the survivor?

Needless to say, it’s a lot to weigh.

It is a very hard choice.

Which did he choose?

Neither, because Gil isn’t fucking real. I just made him up. I don’t think anyone is even really named Gil. That’s just folklore, like Bigfoot. We’ve all told the campfire tales about CREEPY GIL THE KIDNEY DONOR, haven’t we? THE KIDNEY IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE CAR, oh no!

But really, who gives a shit? The point remains the same:

Hard choices are interesting to us. And they are interesting to us in the context of fiction, particularly. Which means they are incredibly useful to you, as an author. Hard Choices provide an excellent, versatile tool in your narrative toolbox.

(Also, I’ve gone and tattooed HARD CHOICES across the knuckles of both of my hands. Whenever I lead a writing workshop, I jump through a paper sheet of bad prose dressed in a wrestling onesie, and then I punch the air with both fists — *punch* “HARD” *punch* “CHOICES” *kicks the air* “LET’S WRITE SOME MOTHERFUCKING STORIES,” I yell. It’s really successful and you can hire me to motivate you.)

Consider, if you will —

A hard choice provides:

a) conflict, because it puts the character in conflict with herself and with whatever consequences will come

b) mystery, because we the reader do not know what the character will choose, and what calculus will lead to that choice in particular

c) drama, because it will generate scenes of discord between characters, not all of whom will be happy with the choice or the decision

d) lingering questions, because the reader will be left wondering what exactly she would have done in exactly the same situation

e) fun for you, because not only do you get to grapple with the choice on behalf of the characters, you also get to imagine how implementing this choice will make the readership squirm as if their butt is infested with pinworms

Of course, there are tricks to using hard choices in fiction, and you might find it useful to hold onto a few key guide-ropes in the process —

a) hard choices cannot exist on every page or you dull their impact, it’s not like Gil can have a LIFE OR DEATH, WIFE OR DAUGHTER, HOLY SHIT WHO GETS THE KIDNEY moment every chapter, sometimes the fiction is about building the narrative infrastructure that gets you to the hard choice

b) the choice has to be sensible in the context of the story, and the story should feel like it’s leading up to it, not that it’s dropped out of nowhere like a fucking anvil onto the reader’s head (clong)

c) it should also be tonally appropriate — if you’re writing a light-hearted comedy then suddenly switch gears to some tragic gut-ripping Sophie’s Choice, the reader will have narrative whiplash

d) the hard choice should actually be complicated — it’s all-too-easy to bunt that wiffle ball and offer the character a false hard choice, and trust me, the reader will smell your weakness like poop on a shoe; if the choice is, GIL CAN EITHER SAVE THIS BASKET OF BABIES OR HE CAN INSTEAD EAT A BURRITO, one assumes that unless Gil is a raging burrito-hound, he’ll make the right choice and skip dinner to rescue the baby-basket

e) a hard choice speaks to the character, and isn’t just external plot

f) a hard choice always, always has consequences — emotionally, yes, but also consequences that resonate outward from the world or from other characters

g) further, those consequences — the stakes (as in, what can be won, lost or incurred) — must be known at least in part before the character makes the choice

So, there you go.

Whether you’re doing NaNiWriMo or just writing a book because, goddamnit, you can, feel free to use HARD CHOICES to juice your narrative and give it some teeth-gritting oomph.

*punches the air*

HARD

*punches the air again*

CHOICES

*high-kick*

*falls down*

*breaks coccyx*

Let’s write some motherfucking stories?

P.S. that photo at the top of the post is not Gil the Kidney Guy, but rather, author Matt Wallace, whose fists are not named HARD and CHOICES but rather, LIPBALM and LOZENGE for reasons that remain utterly unknown to mankind; regardless, please be aware he is a very good writer, and he has the newest Sin du Jour book out today, Gluttony Bay, which for me is an instafuckingbuy and it should be for you, too, damnit.

* * *

DAMN FINE STORY: Mastering the Tools of a Powerful Narrative

What do Luke Skywalker, John McClane, and a lonely dog on Ho’okipa Beach have in common? Simply put, we care about them.

Great storytelling is making readers care about your characters, the choices they make, and what happens to them. It’s making your audience feel the tension and emotion of a situation right alongside your protagonist. And to tell a damn fine story, you need to understand why and how that caring happens.

Whether you’re writing a novel, screenplay, video game, or comic, this funny and informative guide is chock-full of examples about the art and craft of storytelling–and how to write a damn fine story of your own.

Out now!

Indiebound | Amazon | B&N

When Jim Hines says, “Can I write something for your blog?” you do not merely say yes, you give him the keys to the establishment and let him run the joint for as long as he likes. Behold, the result of that — as always, he’s funny and wise. Also go read Terminal Alliance.

* * *

To be fair, I’m pretty sure I was crazy before I started writing.*

Looking back, I see swaths of my life where Depression was in full force. As a teenager in junior high school. In my middle years of undergrad. Spending a year in Elko, Nevada… with the nearest real bookstore a two-hour drive away, in another damn state. Seriously, what the hell, Elko?

It wasn’t until about five years ago that I made it official. Drove to the doctor’s office, marched inside, and got my Certification of Depression, complete with a prescription for Zoloft and a referral to a counselor.

Writing didn’t break my brain. But it certainly hasn’t helped.

Take those early years of constant rejection. I’ve got more than five hundred rejection letters saved in a box in the basement. Other authors will tell you rejection isn’t personal, that it’s part of the learning process and we all go through it… I’ve said those same things myself. But when you’re in the pit of despair, it feels personal. That shit can wear you down, no matter how polite the form letters might be. And then you get one from an editor saying, “I liked your previous submission, but this one was so bad I can’t believe it’s by the same author.”

(I eventually sold that story to a better market. But damn…)

Psychiatrist Aaron Beck said depression can perpetuate itself through a trio of negative biases about the self, the world, and the future. His theory maps beautifully to the crap we go through as we’re struggling to break in.

The Self: I suck.

The World: It’s impossible to succeed unless you’re famous or have connections.

The Future: I’m never going to get anywhere.

Man, I’m getting depressed (small d, not Depressed) just writing this. Does that qualify as “Show, don’t tell?”

Time to change things up by talking about how I’m now a well-medicated and successful author with a brand-new book out about Space Janitors! I still get rejection letters, but they’re rare. And I’ve got 13 books in print, along with 50+ published short stories to balance things out. In a logical, rational universe, this should go a long way toward counteracting the depression.

Well, screw you, universe! I’m neither logical nor rational. I’m a mentally ill author!

Some will argue that’s redundant.

It’s true, though. Depression is an asshole. A lying brain-weasel scurrying around in your thoughts and shitting on everything. And… writing is hard. Even when you’re supposedly succeeding. The brain-weasels know how to twist things around in your head. They did a number on me with Terminal Alliance.

This was my first attempt at novel-length science fiction. I wanted humor and action and triumph and aliens that weren’t just humans with a few prostheses glued to their noses. So I started the first draft…

Brain Weasels: This is crap! And we know crap—we’re assholes!

Me: It’s a first draft. It’s supposed to be crap.

BW: Then you’re doing a superb job!

I ended up missing my deadline by a few months as I rewrote and rewrote again, trying to make this thing as good as I could.

BW: You missed your deadline. Ha! Loser.

Me: Lots of authors miss deadlines. It’s only a few extra months. I’d rather be late with a good book than on time with a mediocre one.

BW: You think this book is gonna be good? That’s cute.

And so on and so forth. Every messed-up scene, every stumbling block, every day of not meeting my goal…

Brain weasels, man. I hate those guys. But I’ve gotten better at hearing their conniving whispers as they scheme against me, rubbing their tiny clawed fingers together and twirling their whiskers.

I’ve talked to other writers about this stuff. I know how much the brain weasels love us. If, like me, you’re already dealing with the delightful neurochemical imbalance of Depression, your brain is especially fertile ground for the little bastards. But even for you so-called “healthy” authors, writing offers a vast field of insecurities and rejection for the weasels to burrow in.

I’ve learned a few things about dealing with them.

Toughing it out: not the best approach. Imagine these are literal weasels chewing on your face. You can either acknowledge the problem and try to do something about it, or you can grit your teeth and say, “I’m strong enough to get through this. Chew away, you pernicious predators, you!”

All that does is get you a chewed-up face. Potentially great for Halloween. Not so great for the other 364 days of the year.

Talk to someone. Ask for help. That could mean talking to a doctor, or it could mean Skyping an author friend to vent.

Savor the good stuff. You finished a first draft? It’s ice cream time. Sure, the first draft might be crap, but who gives a shit? You finished the damn thing, and that deserves a reward! A fan emails to tell you how much your story about a superhero with a talking tumor meant to them? That email goes into the SAVED FOR USE AGAINST BRAIN WEASELS folder to be brought out and used to pummel the brain weasels with extreme and graphic cartoon violence.

Balance is important. My therapist talked a lot about balance in my life. She asked how often I got to just visit with friends and hang out and socialize. I laughed. It was a hysteria-tinged laugh, with too many teeth showing. I probably looked like a bald, bearded Joker. “I don’t have time for balance!”

I still suck at this one, but I’ve gotten better. And damn if it doesn’t help. Sure, time away from the computer is time I’m not writing…but time spent enjoying myself helps me recharge, which means I’m more productive when I sit down again to write.

Who could have possibly predicted such a thing? My therapist is a freaking GENIUS!

Remember: brain weasels lie. Mine told me Terminal Alliance was a flop, and I should have stuck with goblins and flaming spiders. Library Journal, on the other hand, gave the book a starred review. Suck on that, weasels!

::Stops to re-read the post so far::

Huh. This was originally pitched as a promotional-type piece for Terminal Alliance. I’ve now written 1000+ words about depression and brain weasel maintenance. Interesting promotional tactic, Hines.

So in conclusion, I’ve got a book about space janitors and sex-crazed aliens that are basically giant tardigrades and translator mix-ups and evil butterfly people and the end of the world, and what happens when the rest of the crew gets taken out and the janitorial team has to fly the ship and fight the battles and save the galaxy.

Ann Leckie said it was really fun, and we all like and trust Ann, right? You can read an excerpt through my website.

Thanks for reading. Take care of yourselves. And yeah, if you get the chance, check out the new book. I think you’ll enjoy it. Despite what my brain weasels say.

—

* I recognize that some people dislike “crazy” as an ableist slur, and it’s not a word I’d use to describe anyone else. But I use it for my own mental illness as a way to laugh, and to take away a little of that illness’ power over me.

* * *

Jim C. Hines: Website | Twitter

Terminal Alliance: Indiebound | Amazon | B&N

HEY, TEAM

IT’S ME, YOUR OLD PAL, CHNURK MANDOG

and it’s time to —

*jumps up in the air, a trail of stardust and rainbows firing from my feet and/or butt parts, freeze-frame, kapow*

— do some NaNoWriMo!

*winks*

*bing*

*doves fly*

Ahem.

Here’s the thing about the ol’ National Novel Writing Month: it both didn’t work for me when I tried it, and also, at the same time, kinda works for me in my actual career. What I mean is, when I tried to do NaNoWriMo way back when in the Happy Days of egg cream sodas and hitting jukeboxes to make them play music, it didn’t click for me. It was too rushed, I was too unfocused, the pressure crushed me like a human baby dragged to the deepest undersea canyon. At the same time, I am now a full-time AUTHOR OF BOOK-SHAPED THINGS, and that means I quantum entangle my ass to the office chair every day, and I write like I’m dying and each page is my last chance to be heard in the abyss preceding my demise. I tend to write 40-60k words per month, as a result. That doesn’t often complete an individual novel, though sometimes it does: I’ve written several books in a month’s time (first draft only, to be clear).

So, I tried to think, what is it that gets me there?

What gets me to write that fast and iterate so quickly?

And what can be taken from what I do and potentially foisted off on my unsuspecting audience as “useful tips” that would “get them to buy my book.”

(I kid.)

(Mostly.)

So, I’ve decided to write this as a recipe! Because everyone needs a gimmick, am I right? What better than the super-twee format of pretending that I’m writing a recipe, like for food, except for your novel? Ha ha ha it’ll be great shut up and follow the instructions.

Zesty NaNoWriMo Roulades with Havarti Pumpkin Chunks

Ingredients:

1 to 5 free-range characters with problems to solve

1 sheet of shattered, status quo (candied)

dash of constant conflict (set to boil)

8 oz of pure mystery syrup

3 TBsp a reason to give a shit

1 daily syringe of discipline, but substitution of cocaine coffee is acceptable

zero fucks in your fuck basket

50,000 words, some duplicates okay

one labyrinth

a metric shitload of blank pages, analog or digital

also 300 lbs of havarti pumpkin chunks

Instructions: 

First, you’re going to need to butcher your characters. I know, gross, right? But we need to crack them open, we need to split them down the middle, see that they have everything they need. The key thing here is that the characters must possess problems to solve — meaning, they have a problem right out of the gate. The moment the characters step onto one of those blank pages, they need to instantly be introduced to their problem. That problem is, for them, something far greater and far less soft-and-wifty than “motivation.” Motivation can be vague, like, oh, I want true love, but a problem is concrete, like, I am constantly being attacked by bats, or, my father has been taken prisoner by a cabal of goat-people. A problem is some shit you can act on in a story — and, Moving At The Speed Of NaNoWriMo means you need to activate the narrative quickly and be able to get this slurry a-bubblin’.

You will season to taste.

One character may not be enough. For more complex flavors, add more characters with problems. Preferably with problems whose solutions compete with one another.

Next, you’re going to need to take a sheet of shattered status quo.

An unbroken status quo will not do, because it will not fit in the pot.

A story must begin for a reason, when something has changed. Normalcy is broken. Things are no longer as they were. Hence: broken status quo.

Then, add in your spices: first, stir in the constant conflict, which can be in the form of really anything you want, including but not limited to: heartbreak, bees, lightning, wolves, assassination attempts, kobolds, ninjas, debts, deceptions, pirates, weaponized cole slaw, lack of coffee, addiction, serial killers, ancient freemason conspiracies, l33t hackers, wayward lumberjacks, sentient dildos, and also bees.

Next comes the pure mystery syrup, which must not be added all at once. Mystery is added at various stages throughout — questions drizzled in at the ends of chapters or even at the conclusion of vital scenes. The goal here is to create enticing odors and also to activate various tantalizing glands, ensuring not only that the readers will be excited to consume your Narrative Goop, but also that you’ll be excited to hover over the pot for 30 fucking days as this thing cooks down to a rich protein pudding matrix.

Dump in the three tablespoons of reasons to give a shit, which is to say, you need to know why the fuck you’re writing this damn thing — I mean, “cooking this soup or whatever.” You caring about the characters and the problems and the story is the most meaningful ingredient you bring to the broth. If you don’t care, if the story doesn’t speak to you, eventually you’ll wander away from the pot to do something else. And you won’t come back, because you don’t give a rat’s right foot. Be advised, that’s not an ingredient —

DO NOT ADD RAT PARTS TO THE BREW.

Then, time to use that syringe of unfiltered discipline. This is liquid work ethic, and is earned, over many months and years, by being a hardworking human being. Plunge it into your bloodstream and enjoy the cool saline rush of pulling yourself up by your bootstraps! If you don’t have a syringe of this, like me, then you can just drink a lot of coffee or inject Red Bull into various areas of your body.

Now, check your fuck basket. Is it empty? If not, take the fucks present, and discard them. Throw them fucks the fuck away. Into the garbage disposal they go, or feed them to your dog, I don’t care. You can’t have any fucks left in there. You’re going to have to care literally not at all how this Narrative Casserole looks as you make it and bake it. You’re going to put a helmet on your head and run careening through this recipe for thirty days, and even a single untoward fuck in your fuck basket will cause you to stumble. Later, you will heartily refill this basket when it comes time to edit this casserole into something vaguely edible.

Oh, wow, time to add the 50,000 words. Here’s the trick with this, and this is a persnickety step — you’re going to need to add these words in sensible order. Like, you can’t just add them willy-nilly, or you’ll end up with a lot of “niagara monkey dump certification” and “whistle jumper sassafras cheese” nonsense. This shit has to make at least a little sense, like, “Dave went to the store and fought a freemason ninja.”

Dump all of this into a giant labyrinth. The labyrinth is the perfect baking vessel for this unholy stew — as your characters are attempting to make a beeline to solve their problems, you’re going to stick them in this labyrinth instead and watch them run around that thing, and every mystery and every bit of conflict is going to force them to take another circuitous bend in the maze — this will delay your Roasted Narrative from cooking too fast.

To finish, slather all of it on a series of blank pages.

Digital or analog is fine, we’re not uppity, here.

And that’s it! Enjoy the heinous but delightful mess called a “first draft.” Sure, it probably tastes like shame and rat parts, but that’s okay — because the great thing is, you’re still not done, and get to keep cooking it down, reducing it further, adding new spices and mysterious meats until it actually tastes good. This may take a second draft, or maybe three-hundred-and-thirty-first draft, but you’ll get there, chef.

You’ll get there.

Okay, What I’m Trying To Say Is

Writing a story fast and frenzied is tough stuff. But it’s doable, and one of the ways that I find it to be doable is to — assuming a lack of any meaningful outline — be able to put compelling, active characters with agency onto the page and let them run in the maze in order to solve their problems. Give yourself the advantage of letting them create the plot for you. Fuck structure. Fuck an elegant architecture. Seriously, just create some interesting characters who have problems to solve, and let them work at solving them. Get excited. Find a reason to care. Make characters you want to watch get into various shenanigans for 30 days and 50,000 words — don’t worry about your audience. Worry about your reasons to get through this thing.

Okay, What I’m Really, Really Trying to Say Is

BUY MY BOOK

NO REALLY IT’S CALLED DAMN FINE STORY AND IT TALKS A LOT ABOUT THIS STUFF AND YOU NEED IT OR YOU’LL DIE

IT’S LIKE, YOU’LL BE READING THIS THING AND SAYING WHOA AND DANG AND YOUR MIND WILL BE BLOWN WITH ALL THE SHIT IN THERE ABOUT CHARACTERS AND PLOT AND THEME AND BEACH DOGS AND ELK-WHACK AND JOHN MCCLANE AND PRINCESS LEIA AND

IF YOU DON’T BUY MY BOOK YOU CAN’T BE A REAL AUTHOR

I’M PRETTY SURE THAT’S TRUE*

YOU CAN GET IT IN PRINT IF YOU LIKE HAVING AN OBJECT YOU CAN READ BUT ALSO THROW AT PASSERSBY

OR YOU CAN GET IT IN ELECTRONIC FORMAT WHICH ACTUALLY USES DIGITAL INK MADE FROM THE GHOSTS OF OLD FORGOTTEN BOOKS, SO THAT’S PRETTY COOL, HUH

ANYWAY GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR NATIONAL NOVEL WRITING MONTH**

* totally not true

** also don’t forget to read Fonda Lee’s Anti-NaNoWrimo Case Study post

* * *

DAMN FINE STORY: Mastering the Tools of a Powerful Narrative

What do Luke Skywalker, John McClane, and a lonely dog on Ho’okipa Beach have in common? Simply put, we care about them.

Great storytelling is making readers care about your characters, the choices they make, and what happens to them. It’s making your audience feel the tension and emotion of a situation right alongside your protagonist. And to tell a damn fine story, you need to understand why and how that caring happens.

Whether you’re writing a novel, screenplay, video game, or comic, this funny and informative guide is chock-full of examples about the art and craft of storytelling–and how to write a damn fine story of your own.

Out now!

Indiebound | Amazon | B&N

Behold: I got to meet Fonda Lee, author of the fantastic Zeroboxer, a few weeks back, and she said she had a post for me, and it was tied into how she wrote the book and how it tied into (or did not tie into, as it were) National Novel Writing Month. So, here is that epic post, and check out Jade City when it comes out:

* * *

It’s November, which means that quite a few of you have just a few minutes to read this guest post before cracking your knuckles, shutting down your browser, and getting back to pounding out the 1,667 words you need to squeeze from your gray matter today if you hope to stay on track to hit the lauded “Look Ma, I Wrote a Novel!” goal of 50,000 words this month.

I’m not participating in NaNoWriMo this year. That’s because my novel, Jade City, releases next week and I’m kind of insanely busy with that. Also, I flat out suck at NaNoWriMo. I’m currently writing what will be my fifth published book in five years, and I have never once successfully “won” the damned challenge. In fact, I was on this very blog at the beginning of the year talking about how my second novel, Exo, started out as a failed NaNoWriMo project.

I’m in no way unhappy about this; six years ago, I might’ve taken it as a depressing sign that I couldn’t be a Real Author, but by now I know I’m capable of sticking to a writing schedule and finishing novels, and I don’t need the valuable kick in the pants that NaNoWriMo offers to thousands of writers every November. (My editor’s deadlines do that for me just fine.) I would never begrudge anyone the camaraderie, energy, and motivation that NaNoWriMo can inspire.

That said, it’s important to recognize that NaNoWriMo promotes one particular strategy—fast first drafting—that does not work for everyone. It doesn’t work for me. And if it doesn’t work for you, that’s fine. Take it from me, it’s possible to be a Real, Published – even, I dare say, Reasonably Prolific – Author without adhering to a lot of the advice you’ll hear this month.

Jade City took me two and half years to write. It’s an epic gangster fantasy saga, the first in a trilogy to be released by Orbit, that’s been described as “The Godfather with magic and kung fu.” When it went out on submission, it sold in less than three weeks. Here’s how I wrote it.

WAITED UNTIL I WAS GOOD ENOUGH

The first notes I have in my Scrivener files for Jade City date to mid-2014, roughly a year before my first novel, Zeroboxer, was published, and the ideas behind the story had been percolating in my brain well before that. I did not, as some might’ve suggested, dive with squealing gusto into my exciting, shiny new idea. That’s because I knew the story was in a league above my abilities at the time. I could write novels—novels that sold and even won awards—but Jade City would require me to level up in terms of storytelling, worldbuilding, character, plot, everything. So I began slowly—researching, outlining, writing—and wrote two other books in the meantime.

Fortunately, writing my young adult science fiction novels and going through the editorial and publishing process with them taught me how to write tightly-paced, single POV narratives—something that absolutely helped me to stay focused when wrangling a multi-POV epic fantasy. It’s tempting to jump at your most ambitious idea—but ask yourself if you can do it justice. Yet.

IGNORED (SOME) BETA READERS

I normally don’t show anything to beta readers until I have a draft of a complete manuscript, but I broke that rule this time and showed the first six chapters to a few readers. The reaction was mixed. A few were unreservedly enthusiastic and exhorted me to continue. A few thought it had promise but wanted me to change the beginning. One reader, however, hated it. Hated my characters, my story, hated it all. That reader basically told me, in a nutshell, to burn the fucker.

Thank heavens I didn’t listen. Oh, by the way, I changed the beginning. Agonized over it too, writing and rewriting. My agent said, “What in the hell did you do that for?! Change it back to the way it was.” I changed it back. It sold that way, with my original beginning. Last month, Max Gladstone told me that he used my book in a class he taught on effective beginnings.

Critique groups really are invaluable. Except when they’re not. Readers, like reviewers, are going to give you mixed feedback, but there’s a chicken-and-egg conundrum going on here of, “I need critiques to learn to write well, but I need to know how to write well to be able to effectively judge my critiques.” Early on, everyone tells you to get a critique group, and it’s true you need feedback—but you need the right feedback, from the right readers, always balanced with your own artistic judgment, experience, and vision. It takes time to gain all of that.

WROTE SLOWLY

I have what feels like a dirty secret: I write slowly. You know how some writers do word sprints where they shoot for a thousand words an hour, or aim for twenty thousand words in a weekend? I’m not that person. On a normal writing day, I write one to two thousand words. It takes me between three and eight hours. For quite a while, I imagined there was something wrong with my process, that if only I outlined more, or “shut off my inner editor,” or used an Alphasmart Neo, or reread 2K to 10K once more that the words would begin to flow from my fingers in a torrent.

I’ve since given up on that ambition. Not because I don’t want to be more efficient; I do—namely by finding a way to shut off distractions like social media and being in the right positive mindset when I sit down to work—but I discovered that, paradoxically, as I became a more experienced writer, I wrote slower. My standards kept getting higher, and I have a much lower tolerance for going off in random directions and spending precious weeks wandering in my own word swamps when I’m on deadline. My friends who swear by fast first drafting can finish a draft in six weeks—and then spend months or years on multiple rewrites. By my second or third draft, my manuscript is damned clean. We all pay the piper in some way; you choose how. I wrote Jade City like a blind mountain climber scaling Everest: slowly and methodically searching for each handhold, stopping to rest, unable to see the summit but always going up.

TOOK A LOT OF LONG BREAKS

I set Jade City aside at least three times. There was a reason for this: I had deadlines on other books. But also, there were times I simply could not see how to make the words on the page match the glorious vision in my mind. In June of 2016, I hit a roadblock. I’d revised and revised and even though the thing seemed complete and it all hung together, it was still not quite what I wanted it to be. It needed 5% more of something—I didn’t know what.

I gave up for the time being. In fact, I spent the next five months writing another book. When I returned to Jade City with fresh eyes, it was miraculous: all the changes I needed to make popped like neon flags. There is truly no substitute for not rushing. So, if you’re planning to submit your NaNoWriMo project to agents or editors in January? Yeah, rethink that idea.

BROKE A LOT OF RULES

Omniscient voice? Passages of exposition? In-scene flashbacks? Mixing past and present tense? Blurring genre boundaries? Yup, yup, yup, yup, and golly yes. All done very deliberately and after careful consideration to create the narrative tone and effects I wanted to achieve.

Would I have tried any of that on my first novel? Hell no.

WROTE SOMETHING I THOUGHT MIGHT BE UNSALEABLE

I’ve come to the personal conclusion that if I’m one hundred percent certain that what I’m writing is saleable and marketable, I’m probably not pushing myself enough. At the time that I was writing Jade City, I could not think of any comp titles to “modern era Asian mafia epic fantasy magic martial arts family saga.” Not a one. I decided there was a chance that the market for this book consisted of one individual—me—but dammit, it was exactly what I wanted to read. I told myself many times that even if it never sold, I would still be awfully proud of it.

I’m not advocating that you go off and write the weirdest, most potentially unsaleable idea that you have, but rather: don’t be held back from writing the book that burns brightest inside you. Take your time if you need to. It might not get you that agent or book deal—this whole writing business is unpredictable—but the odds are honestly pretty good that there are people out there who share your sense of awesome, and your passion for the story will come through on the page.

So there you have it: an antidote to the relentless urgings to write with abandon, spew words onto the page, hit word count every day, just get that first draft done as fast as you can! You can take your time, build your skills, and write toward your singular vision slowly and in stages. If NaNoWriMo works for you, fabulous. If it doesn’t, fabulous. Like me, you can stink at it year after year and still end up with a bunch of books to your name. Don’t confuse speed for progress, but also don’t make excuses to let yourself off the hook from getting shit done. Often, we writers are like competitors on the Great British Bake Off comparing kitchen gadgets and recipes and proving technique when the only relevant question is, “Is the cake done and does it taste good?”

Mine is out of the oven and I hope you like it.

Jade City will be available next week (11/7) from Orbit.

Fonda Lee: Website | Twitter

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