Chuck Wendig: Terribleminds

Apple-Obsessed Author Fella

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When Life Gives You Dragons, Make Dragonade: Scenes From Skyrim

It’s night.

A light snow falls.

I’m on a quest with — well, I forget his name. Farklas? Firkas? Whatever it is, we’ve just exited some skanky hoarfrost grotto after cleaning the place out of whatever assholes lurked within.

Then I hear it — thwip — the sound of an arrow narrowly missing my skull.

I see Farkleberry run off. Which means, of course, he’s running towards danger.

Next thing I know, we’re ascending some steps just as some bandits are descending and oh, it’s on, it’s on like Donkey Kong playing Ping Pong while eating Egg Foo Yong. I’m targeting shadows in the dark with my bow. Notch an arrow. Time slows. Pop. Bandit’s head snaps back with an arrow in the cheek. Eat a dick, bandit. Eat a big old arrow-shaped dick.

I’ve no idea where Tackleberry is.

But then I hear it — a shriek.

It’s familiar but I’ve little time to think about it. I’ve got some blue-glowing magic-slinging knob-gobbler all up in my grill, trying to chill my bones with his ice-doom magic.

Then: the shriek again.

The shriek is no longer distant — it is upon us.

FWOOSH.

The screen lights up with fire! What the fuck? I stagger backward out of the flame, see the wizardy knob-gobbler is being roasted right there on the spot by a whooshing plume of flame.

Flame coming from a dragon’s mouth. A dragon that landed, ohh, about ten feet away from me.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.

I backpedal. Screaming like a little girl that just got peed on by a tiger at the zoo (and yes, I’ve seen that, and it is indeed a story for another time). I let fly with arrows, many as I can sling into the dragon’s skull.

The dragon takes flight once more. My arrows find no purchase as he soars into the sky.

And suddenly all is quiet: the bandits are gone or dead. Fucklas is gone, too — I’ve no idea where he is.

But one thing I know: I’m not letting this dragon get away. Because if I kill this dragon, I can eat his soul like it’s a big bowl of dragon-flavored ice cream. And from it, I can gain power: the power to breathe fucking fire. I want that. I need that. So, I spy the dragon in the sky, and I give chase.

The dragon lands in the distance. The beast illuminated by his own fiery breath, breath that blasts against some lone warrior standing against the draconian wretch —

Oh, holy shit. It’s Scott Farkus.

I bolt toward him in time to see him fall.

The dragon spies me. Takes flight. Circles. Again evading my arrows. Thwip thwip thwip.

Then — boom.

Beast behind me. I’m burning. On fire. All parts of me, going crispy.

I run. I’m not ready for this. I’m almost out of health potions. My life dwindles. But the dragon, ohhh, he’s quite persistent, and this motherfucker is up again and soaring above my head, and here I am stumbling around in the dark, panting and out of breath, and suddenly the dragon lands directly in front of me —

And then I see two shapes. One to my right. One to my left.

Huge shambling shadows.

I’ve stumbled into the middle of two massive wooly mammoths.

As an aside, it appears mammoths care little for dragons. I don’t know why this is, precisely. Perhaps because mammoths received swirlies from said dragon in elementary school? Maybe the dragon ate all the mammoth’s candy, or stole his keys, or pooped in the mammoth’s chafing dish. Maybe it’s just because mammoths are flammable as fuck and see dragons as a natural enemy.

Whatever the reason, the two mammoths — both high-powered Snuffalupaguses each — decide to get in on the action. Much to the chagrin of the dragon. The two mammoths tear the dragon a new asshole as I sit comfortably ensconced between my two shaggy impromptu bodyguards, flinging arrows into the hell-lizard. And my final arrow pierces the dragon’s head. The beast falls. His body catches fire and his essence is vacuumed into my body.

That, to me, is the essence of Skyrim.

The game does what I like games to do in terms of storytelling: it lets me assemble the story of my own telling. I don’t mind a game that has its own story to tell, but the games to which I really respond are the ones that give me all the pieces and let me put them together according to my own style of play. It cedes some narrative authority to me.

It’s in this way that the Elder Scrolls games have a lot in common with Minecraft, actually — both say, “Hey. Here’s a giant world. The map you have is incomplete. Feel free to wander around. Do the things we suggest. Or don’t. We don’t care. This is your world — we just put it here. Build. Craft. Fight. Run. Oh, and watch out — the monsters come out at night.” Hell, both games have dragons, now. Minecraft obviously takes the Elder Scrolls freedom and amps it up, but is also removes all external narrative elements. Skyrim has a story to tell; it just doesn’t care if you participate. Minecraft is rudderless, an entirely unregulated narrative experience.

If Minecraft is Skyrim’s spiritual cousin, then in a sense, Dragon Age I & II is Skyrim’s opposite — not in a bad way, mind, but in a way that’s worth noting. Where Skyrim puts before you an open world whose every physical and geographical component is a story-building element, Dragon Age (and other Bioware RPGs) offers a closed world with limited pathways whose game is in how you piece together the pre-defined story elements. In Dragon Age, the story is the game. (Which is its own kind of awesome.)

Skyrim says, “We have this big story and all these little stories and you can weave in and out of them or avoid them all day long. The map is big. Your legs work. Go find adventure.”

Dragon Age says, “We have this big story and all these little stories and you cannot escape them but what you can do is fiddle with the pieces and put them together in the order and fashion you desire. The map is small and the path is limited but the story is rich, so wade in and we’ll give you adventure.”

Both approaches are brilliant.

But right now, I’m excited by the overall openness of Skyrim. As evidenced by my account above. The above example is by no means the only random thing that occurred. Every session, a new weird adventure I stumble into. Some guy runs up to me on the road and tells me he wants to give me something for safe-keeping, but then a bandit chief descends from a steep hill and cleaves the dude in the head with an axe, killing him in one blow. Or I’m trudging toward an icy mountain temple and there on the path is a howling, pissed off ice troll and he chases me down toward one of the mountain altars and there at the altar is a pilgrim praying and suddenly she’s up and chopping into the troll with an axe that crackles with electricity. (She dies, of course. And I pillage her zap-axe.)

So grows the wonder of an open world with seemingly endless corners of things to do, monsters to slay, stories to experience, and wooly mammoth gangstas who will help you fuck up a bad-ass dragon.

Flash Fiction Challenge: “Frog Powder Seagull Tower Scissors”

And here we are again.

It is time, my little scrunchies, to conjure for the world another dab, another dollop, of some flash fiction.

Once again, you have five words to play with:

Frog

Powder

Seagull

Tower

Scissors.

You need to choose only one of those five words.

Yes, that’s right. Only one.

That one word must feature prominently in your fiction, whether directly or as a clear and forthright inspiration. You do not have 1,000 words but rather, you have 100. A hundred words, no more. That way, nobody will be taken away from NaNoWriMo if they’re participating for more than a mere handful of words.

Any genre will do.

Post your entries into the comment section below.

You’ve got till Friday, Black Friday, to turn in your entries. By noon EST.

I’m going to pick my favorite out of the bunch. That person will get both SHOTGUN GRAVY and IRREGULAR CREATURES as e-books. I’ll pick the winner sometime that following weekend.

Get to writing, fictioneers.

Matt Forbeck: The Terribleminds Interview

Matt Forbeck is one crazy dude. Crazy like a fox. Crazy like a dude with a powerful brain parasite that serves him and provides him awesome creative powers in its symbiotic grip. What hasn’t Matt written? He’s written novels, games, comics, designed toys, penned whole encyclopedias. I don’t think he’s missing much on his resume except maybe “HVAC instructions” and “Communist manifesto.” Matt’s approach is not dissimilar from my own: write everything, and feed the family doing it. He’s a writer to whom you should be listening. You can find him at Forbeck.com, or @MForbeck on the Twitters. And, should you be so inclined to support his 12-for-12 endeavor, the Kickstarter is live and looking for funds.

This is a blog about writing and storytelling. So, tell us a story. As short or long as you care to make it. As true or false as you see it.

Hemingway famously wrote a complete short story in six words to win a bet. It goes, “For sale: baby shoes, never used.”

I came up with a version of my own that features zombies. It goes:

“Brains!”

“Brains!”

“Brains!”

BLAM!

BLAM!

Click.

Why do you tell stories?

I’m a full-time professional writer, so the easy answer is “Money.” That’s not the real reason, of course. If I only cared about money, I’d take up investment banking.

I tell stories because I love seeing patterns in the world and figuring out how to make them as entertaining as I can. Stories are all about winnowing down the information life throws at you, finding the elements that mean something, and then weaving them together into a narrative. Sometimes you get to use those to make up things from whole cloth, but the process is much the same, and I get such a kick out of doing it.

I don’t know if I’d write if I had to do it for free. It’s a lot of work, and it takes me away from other things, like my wife and kids, but there’s no way you could stop me from telling stories.

Give the audience one piece of writing or storytelling advice:

Have fun with it. If you can’t enjoy writing the story, how can you expect your reader to enjoy reading it? That doesn’t mean every story has to be a rollercoaster ride of laughs, but you have to find a reason to love it. If you do, then others can too.

Got any advice for those wanting to become professional writers?

Stick to it. The worst thing anyone can say to you is “No,” and that’s not all that bad in the end. You’ll get a lot of that at first, and it’ll slack off as you improve your craft and your understanding of what the market (i.e. readers) wants.

Lots of people will tell you not to quit your day job, and I understand that. I never started the day job in the first place, which meant the transition from starving student to struggling writer had not even a speed bump for me. If you’re going to take risks like that, I say do them when you’re young, too ignorant to know better, and have far less to lose. It gets harder later, I’m told.

What’s great about being a writer, and conversely, what sucks about it?

Besides the fact I get to do what I love for a living — which is hard to beat — I adore the flexibility it gives me. I have a lot of kids at home (five, including a 9-year-old set of quadruplets), and being able to work out of my home gives me the kind of flexibility I need to be the best father I can to them. I can’t imagine how I’d hold down a regular job and manage it.

I could tell you all sorts of things that suck about it, but that would be whining about a job I love. I don’t think I could stomach it any more than your readers. It’s a challenge in many ways, sure, but I enjoy the challenges. That’s part of what makes it worth doing.

I have to ask, then: you’ve got quads, for Crom’s sake, so if anybody’s going to have some interesting parenting advice, it’s you. So, cough it up. Don’t keep the secrets to yourself.

I could write a book on this (and maybe someday will), but I’ll hit a few highlights.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help. We had 30–35 people signing up on a schedule and coming in every week to lend a hand with feeding, diapering, cleaning. People are often thrilled to help out, especially when infants are involved. Most of our helpers were either grandmothers or women who wished they were, and we were happy to have our kids be surrogate grandkids for them all.

Don’t poke the bear. Or in this case, the kids. If they’re sleeping, let them lie if you can help it. Take advantage of it and grab a few winks for yourself. You’ll need every one of them.

Don’t forget to take care of your own basic needs first. You know how when the air masks drop down in an airplane, they tell you to take care of yourself before helping out your kids? Just like that. You’re no good to your kids if you’re passed out and they can’t wake you.

Don’t be afraid to use whatever tools you have at hand. When the quads started ripping their diapers off — something all kids learn to do — we turned to that most trusted fastener: duck tape. For the ones who were just fooling around, we just reinforced the diaper tabs with a couple strips of tape. For our more determined messers, we wrapped the roll right around their waistbands. Then we put them in a sleeper and fastened the zipper with a safety pin.

Whatever works.

Favorite word? And then, the follow up: Favorite curse word?

I could go on about “defenestrate” all day, but it’s not a word that comes up often in daily use. I like “brilliant” for its many meanings, and I probably say “cool” far too often.

For cursing, I usually stick with the classic “fuck.” Sometimes it’s “fucking hell” or “holy fuck” for emphasis. Shane Hensley once told me I use “fuck” like it’s a comma.

Favorite alcoholic beverage? (If cocktail: provide recipe. If you don’t drink alcohol, fine, fine, a non-alcoholic beverage will do.)

I mostly stick with beer — I am from Wisconsin, after all — and I love trying new microbrews. My fallback is always Guinness. When I stray from beer, I enjoy tequila and scotch in many varieties.

Recommend a book, comic book, film, or game: something with great story. Go!

Try John Layman’s Chew from Image Comics. It’s about an investigator for the FDA in a world in which the bird flu has made eating any fowl illegal, and he had to root out illegal chicken operations. To top it off, he has this odd psychic power that gives him visions of the history of anything he eats. It gets weirder and more wonderful from there.

What skills do you bring to help the humans win the inevitable zombie war?

Handling a large family has given me a strong command of supply and logistics. If we can hook a shotgunning robot up to an Xbox controller, too, I’d be happy to apply my hard-earned hours of video game skills to the slaughter.

You’ve committed crimes against humanity. They caught you. You get one last meal.

Something laced with a drug that induces a deathlike paralysis. Assuming they obey my last wishes and bury me without embalming, I’ll crawl from the grave days later to exact my revenge on the bastards who framed me.

What’s next for you as a storyteller? What does the future hold?

I just launched a Kickstarter drive for a mad scheme I call 12 for ’12, in which I plan to write a 50,000-word novel every month in 2012. The first trilogy of these is set in the same world as the Brave New World RPG I wrote back in 1999, featuring a dystopian world filled with superheroes who have been outlawed due to the collateral damage their powers create. It’s a blast, and we’ve already hit our first goal, so I get to start writing in January. There’s still time for other folks to jump in on the fun though.

In addition to that, my next original novel from Angry Robot comes out in March. It’s called Carpathia, after the ship that picked up the survivors of the Titanic. Carpathia also happens to be the name of the mountains in which Castle Dracula sits, and this is not — in my novel, at least — any sort of coincidence.

I’m also writing the Magic: The Gathering comic book for IDW, based on the bestselling collectible card game from Wizards of the Coast. I’m a game designer too, so this is a dream project for me, and I’m having a tremendous amount of fun with it. The first issue ships in December, which is coming up fast.

Add in a few other novels and world-building and game-design gigs, and 2012 may be my busiest year yet.

Okay, you opened the can of worms, now: 12 novels in 12 months? First question is, do you have a brain parasite? Second question is, where can I get that parasite for myself? Third and final question: what’s the motive behind this kamikaze attack on your own bibliography?

I don’t think so (although perhaps my kids qualify). If I do, I’ll have to figure out a way to weaponize it. But not the kids. They’re already dangerous enough.

As for why, I have a number of reasons. First, I like the idea of the challenge. It’s bound to keep me focused on task, much in the same way as a revolver to my temple.

Second, I’ve been wanting to get back to publishing for a while. I co-founded a game publisher called Pinnacle Entertainment Group in the ’90s, and we had a string of hits, including Deadlands (a horror western RPG). I have all these publishing skills I’ve left unused for years, and it feels good to stretch them again. I plan to publish each of the 12 for ’12 novels as an ebook, although my Kickstarter backers have the option of grabbing the books early and even getting them in exclusive paperback and hardcover editions.

I want to pause and say how much I love my current publisher, Angry Robot. Marco and Lee have set up something wonderful there, and I truly enjoy working with them. When I have the right projects for them, they are the first people I turn to. As you’ve mentioned several times yourself, you don’t have to stand up and jam a flag in one camp or the other. It’s not a war. It’s an evolution.

Third, I didn’t want to just dip my toe into the ebook self-publishing waters. Just tossing up a single novel and hoping it sells seems like a recipe for failure. If people love your book, what else do you have to sell them? Some of the most successful ebook self-publishers are authors who bring a stable of out-of-print books back out.

Since most of my novels have been work-for-hire tie-ins, I don’t have a backlist like that to call on, but I didn’t want to wait the years it might take to build up a viable inventory of titles for people to enjoy. Writing 12 novels in a year gives me that wider selection in as close to instant as I can manage.

Will you put aside other work for all twelve novels?

I’m sure that I will, although I can’t say what it might be. As a freelancer, I often only book my time a few months out, and I have no idea what opportunities might come my way while I’m in the middle of the 12 for ’12 project. Honestly, it was one of the worries that gave me the most pause, but I’ll solve that problem if and when it comes up.

At the moment, I’m planning to write the Magic: The Gathering comic and help out on a massive world-building gig next year. We’ll have to see what else might come my way.

Care to give us a hint as to what the other novels will be? Will they all be Kickstarted?

At the moment, I’m planning to Kickstarter them all, but it depends on how this first drive goes. The second trilogy is set in a fantasy noir world I call Shotguns & Sorcery. I’ve already written two stories set in it, the first of which came out in Carnage & Consequences, an anthology the Gen Con Writers Symposium put together for last summer. The second story (which I wrote first) is slated for The New Hero 2, a Robin Laws-edited anthology due out in 2012.

I have many ideas for the third trilogy, but I’m going to wait a bit before I nail down what it will be. One of those ideas might become the fourth trilogy instead, but I’m also considering writing a three-pack of singletons for that, including perhaps some sequels to my earlier work.

That also begs the question: any advice for anybody looking to crowdfund on Kickstarter or IndieGoGo?

Pay attention to what other people are doing and how they go about it. Have a video that connects you personally with your audience. Concoct a reward ladder that people can understand easily. And have a plan for stretch goals if you manage to beat your initial goal right away.

Carpathia is, for the record, bonkers in the best way. I’m going to ask that most sinful of questions but I am compelled as if by vampiric hypnosis: where’d the idea come from?

Carpathia is the name of the ship that rescued the survivors of the Titanic. It’s also the name of the Transylvanian mountain range in which Castle Dracula sits. Once you make that connection, it’s not a long leap to mixing vampires and the greatest maritime disaster in history.

The novel winds up being much bigger than that simple description of course, but that’s why you sit down and write the book. If a high concept like “30 Days of Night meets Titanic” was only worth a chuckle, I’d stop there.

Did writing games help inform how you write your fiction? Or are they entirely separate disciplines?

They are separate but related disciplines, like half-brothers who live in the same house over summers and holidays. Games — especially roleplaying games — require you to create settings and characters rife with possibilities for all sorts of action and intrigue. You need to come up with every sort of element to allow and even encourage the players to concoct brilliant stories of their own, but when you’re done showing how to set up the dominoes, you walk away.

With fiction, you get to make your own set of dominoes, line them all up, and then tip them into motion and hope they all fall the way you think they will. Instead of coming up with a world of possible stories, though, you have to winnow all of those away until you come up with the one best story that resonates with you in the strongest way. It’s a whole different kind of challenge, but just as rewarding, maybe more so.

Finally: what’s the toughest thing about writing for the comic book page?

Writing a comic is the most technically challenging kind of writing around because you have to consider the page and format as a rigid framework. For most monthly comics, you have a set 22 pages in which to tell your story, which leaves you with zero wiggle room. In stories, novels, games — even film and TV — you can fudge things around a bit, but comics don’t have the same give.

On top of that, you have to think not only visually but in terms of two-page spreads. You build tension starting at the top left of the spread and work your way up to a climax in the bottom right. Then the reader turns the page for the reveal, and you start it all over again. Compressing everything you want to say and show into those pages can be a real challenge, but watching it all come to life in the hands of a talented art team is a true thrill.

25 Reasons Readers Will Keep Reading Your Story

I want to be clear: what this should really be titled is, “What Keeps Chuck Reading.” Your mileage may vary, and as such, you should drop down into the comments and tell us: what is it about a book that keeps you reading? I wanna know. All writers everywhere want to know. We hang on your every word. Like spider monkeys from a banana tree.

1. Bait, Set Hook, Reel In The Reader-Fish

Every story’s got a hook. Maybe that hook is an idea or a conceit. Maybe it’s a character. Might be a driving question or a fundamental piece of the plot. Might be all of those things swaddled together and tucked away in a delicious narrative burrito. Whatever it is, it is a thing that grabs the reader by the nipple rings and refuses to let go. The hook alone is never enough to keep a reader reading, but it’s what often puts them on the path — a great hook lives in the first couple pages. Fail to hook ’em and you’ve already given them the excuse to stop reading. And I assure you, every reader unconsciously seeks a reason to ditch your story and move onto the next one. (But that’s a list for next week, innit?)

2. Why Who What Where Wuzza Wooza?

A good story should always be raising questions — not asking them directly, but instead forcing the reader to ask them. “Wait, what’s that weird symbol they keep seeing on the walls? What was that sound? Something’s up with that top hat-wearing fox that keeps following them, too. Where the crap are they going?” This is why too much exposition is a story-squasher: exposition provides answers and answers rob the reader. Answers must come, yes, but only at the right time — and, if the answers come before the end, it helps to raise further questions to replace those we lost. It’s a cruel game the storyteller players, like teasing a kitty-cat with a laser pointer. “Go here! Now here! Now back over here! Ha ha ha ha stupid cat you’re so adorable the way you chase an insubstantial red dot on the floor like it means something. Silly jerk.”

3. The Deeper Ever-Deepening Depths Of Mystery

Building on that last one, you can have small questions peppered throughout a story (and, quite seriously, they do best when they lurk on every page), but you can also keep the attention of readers by introducing a single large mystery — in this way every story is an equation with some numerals replaced with variables, and the audience hungers to fill in the variables and complete the equation. Your best example of this are the questions put forth by murder mysteries: “Ye Gods! Who killed Professor Jingleberry?” Further, the mystery there is rarely as simple as one assumes: the mystery evades answer and as it does so mutates and swells and swallows whole new questions. The mystery must evolve, you see, sure as a beast in the wild must adapt to stay alive. Memetics over genetics. An evolving persistent mystery is another way to set your hooks in the mindflesh of the reader.

4. Characters About Whom We Give Not One, But Many Shits

Give me a great character and I am like Yoda on Luke Skywalker’s back — I will cling to that character even as he does flips over fallen Dagobah logs and Jefi-kicks over R2D2 and quietly relieves his bowels in a murky well of swamp mud. That was in the deleted scenes, by the way. Shut up. What I’m saying is, a great character is one reason (and for me perhaps the best reason) I will keep reading.

5. Damaged Goods And Broken Toys

We stop and lolly-gag at train wrecks, car crashes, and any episode of Jerry Springer where spurned Baby Daddies are chucking chairs into the audience. We love damaged people. We are fascinated by them. Don Draper? Tony Soprano? The Golden Girls? (Okay, never mind that last one.) We are like the one half of a relationship that wants to fix our damaged other half: it’ll never happen, but oh do we persist…

6. Unpredictability!

Let’s say you see a guy over by the salad bar. He’s wearing a trenchcoat and sunglasses inside. Hands in pockets. He keeps shifting nervously from foot to foot. He eyes up the door, the employees, the security camera. You’re not going to take your eyes off that guy. Because you don’t know what he’s going to do. Is he going to cram a mouthful of lettuce in his mouth and run for the door? Is he going to pour Thousand Island dressing down his pants? Is he going to scream, “THE BEES, THE BEES” and then fling Baco-Bits in some old lady’s eyes before stabbing her with an olive fork? You can’t take your eyes off the guy because he’s unpredictable. So too with a storyteller and his story: the less a reader trusts the story, the more the reader is inclined to keep his gaze unswerving.

7. And Also, Predictability!

And yet, some measure of predictability will keep us hooked, too. We sometimes read to experience expected outcomes — in the romance genre, the audience remains with the story to see how the couple finally hooks up. The mechanics of the romance remain unpredictable (in theory — the romance genre is often quite rigid), but the aspect of the romantic culmination is entirely known. In certain horror films, we want to see how the victims are going to die, but that they die is not a fact we question. Unpredictability leads into predictability, walking a weird tightrope between the two. And over alligators. Because fuck yeah, alligators. Am I right? I’m totally right.

8. The Shifty-Eyed Serpent-Tongued Narrator

The unreliable narrator is a combination of the aspects of mystery and unpredictability I’m talking about — if I can’t be quite sure what he’s telling me is “true” in the context of the larger narrative, I’m compelled to follow along and try to suss out the truth, to sniff out the lie like it’s a great big game of Balderdash.

9. Of Pebbles And Boots

Psychologically, we humans crave safety and stability — really, we don’t like conflict. Sweeping blanket statement, I know, but I think most folks want to make it through their day without the shit hitting the fan. That’s something you can capitalize on as a storyteller because, of course, good storytellers are dicks. Engineering constant conflict in the story keeps the readers chugging along because they want to get to that point of safety and sanity — they want to make it through the bad stuff and discover an oasis of good (palm fronds, mojitos, Tastykakes). It’s like they’ll do anything to get that pebble out of their boot. Use that! Be a dick! Put a pebble in the reader’s boot and watch how he’ll dance to shake it out.

10. A Larger (And Also Unresolved) Struggle

Just as your book may contain many small questions and one large one, so too can it contain many small conflicts and — say it with me — one large one. Big, sweeping conflict — whether it’s a family falling apart or a galactic struggle between the forces of order and chaos — has a way of pulling us all into it the way a tornado eats barns and cows.

11. Prose Like The Hum Of Angel Wings

If you write in your own voice and the prose sings — meaning, it goes beyond utilitarian language (and I’ve nothing against utilitarian language) — then that is one way you’ll keep me entrenched in your fiction.

12. Hey, Doctor Jones, No Time For Love!

I like a story that moves. A story that has ice skates and a rocket up its poopchute and it has no interest in looking back to see if I’m playing catch-up. A story that moves swiftly doesn’t have to promise to me that things are going to happen because, ta-da, things are already happening. A book like The Hunger Games doesn’t waste much time before getting us into the action — yes, it takes time to get us to the actual games, but the interim is chock-a-block with event and movement and strong motivation. Time is at a premium for most adult human beings. A story that wastes our time is a story that gets wasted.

13. The Snap Crackle Pop Of Strong Dialogue

I also like dialogue that doesn’t waste time: I don’t mean to suggest that dialogue should be quippy and filled with constant “wit,” but it also shouldn’t take up massive real estate on the page. Dialogue that’s sharp and zips along like a coke-addled jackalope is the kind of dialogue that’s so easy to digest you find yourself sliding along the prose fast as a fat guy shooting down a zip-line.

14. The Big Bad

A great antagonist — a true villain, a genuine malefactor — is “conflict” but given a face and a name. If you need proof that a great antagonist will keep people reading, I need only mention: Hannibal Lecter.

15. The Hang-In-There Kitty

Aww. Poor widdle kitty cat dangling from the twee bwanch! Will he fall? Will he manifest the magical gyroscope cats reportedly possess and land on his feet? Will a hawk swoop in and carry him up into the clouds? Tune in next week to find out! Behold, the power of the cliffhanger: one of the great motivations for a reader to tell his loved ones, “Yes, yes, just five more pages. I need to see what happens! No, I know, I know, it’s Grandpa’s funeral, but Jiminy Christmas it’s not like he’s got anywhere to be. LET ME KEEP READING OR IMMA BLUDGEON YOU WITH THIS BOOK.”

16. Tap-Shuffle-Pivot-Shift

A story that becomes something other than it seems — that pivots hard and shows you a whole new face — is a powerful thing, and compelling enough to drag me into its turbulent waters. Fight Club is a great example of this: you think it’s about one thing (the titular club for fighting which nobody talks about) but it keeps zig-zagging and not only exceeding its premise but leaving it behind entirely.

17. Unanswered Arguments

I’ve said in the past that every story is an argument, and that’s useful in terms of gluing a reader’s eyeballs to your story. By putting your argument — really, your theme — on the chopping block, you’re telling me you’re going to prove to me in the narrative that This Thing Is True. You’re saying, “Love is doomed,” or “All people are shit” or “Chickens and cats are assholes,” and then with that thesis in mind you’re going to go about the tale and answer the charge you’ve made. But, like with all aspects of the fiction — mystery, conflict, theme — you don’t want to give away the ghost too soon. Storytellers string the reader along, and so it is with theme: you want them to be sure that somewhere along the way you’re going to botch it.

18. Open Promises

Similar, but different: a writer makes promises and then we keep reading to see if you’re going to fulfill those promises. Remember Bob Ross, the PBS painter? Big Afro? Happy trees, happy clouds? At the fore of the episode he’d tell you, “I’m going to paint a beautiful little meadow here,” and then for 25 of the 30 minutes in the episode, it looks like he’s painting with dog shit. You don’t see one happy fucking tree or cloud in sight. And you think, “He’s going to dick this up. Finally, I’m watching the episode where Bob Ross crashes and burns and cries into his own Afro and whips out a Tec-9 Skorpion and shoots up the studio.” But then in the last five minutes he whips that painting into shape and suddenly: the prophecy is proven true, nary a happy shrub or stone out of place. Stories can promise things — think about heist stories, for example — that the audience will hunger to see fulfilled.

19. The Push-And-Pull Of Tension And Release

Rising tension and releasing it over and over again is like fishing — you let the fish swim with the bait, then you yank on the rod (okay, no, not that kind of rod-yanking, settle down), and then you let the fish go again, and steadily you amp up the tension until you reel in whatever it is you’ve caught. If you’re like me, it’s probably a boot. Filled with electric eels. Stupid fishing. Point is, that ebb-and-flow of suspense is a prime mover to keep readers a-readin’.

20. Fun, Fun, Fun Till Daddy Takes The Typewriter Away

I like a little fun in my reading. Doesn’t need to be a laugh-a-minute cackle-riot, and fun doesn’t even need to be outright humorous. But a little bit of fun here and there keeps reader-peepers open.

21. That Sweet Sense Of Urgency

I want to feel like the very act of me reading the story matters — like, if I don’t read further, I’m somehow holding the whole thing up. I like a story with urgency, with a ticking clock and a chain of consequence and causality. I like a story that forces me to do the pee-pee dance as I can’t put the book down for 30 seconds to go and relieve myself on the houseplants. I want that feeling that the story is the boulder and I’m Indiana Jones. This kind of urgency lives in plot and character: a television show like 24 certainly has that kind of urgency (and the aforementioned cliffhangers) down pat.

22. Confidence

A confident author with clear vision and purposeful language will keep me reading. It’s the author’s way of grabbing me by the throat and dragging me up the stairs with her. Put the “author” in “authority.”

23. The Author On The Page

I’m fascinated by auteur theory, where the author lives on the pages of all his work: I like to catch glimpses of James Joyce or even Stephen King, and that’s one reason I’ll keep reading. When I know that the author is writing from a place of honesty and personal purpose, I’m compelled to keep digging deeper into the creator’s psyche. Like a trail of clues into the cave that is the writer’s mind.

24. Readers See Their Story In Your Story

The reverse is true, too — all readers are looking for a piece of themselves in the work. They want the work to be a mirror wherein they catch glimpses of their own stories. This may seem solipsistic or Narcissistic but look at it this way: the author writes to explain his world and the reader reads for the same purpose. We don’t want to see our stories reflected back because we’re like preening peacocks: we want answers. We want truth that relates to us, that speaks directly to who we are and what we want and all the things that block us from our path.

25. That Magical Blend That Adds Up To, “It’s Just A Damn Good Story, Thanks”

Sometimes, I don’t know what keeps me reading. I just don’t. It’s some magical combination, some bizarre narrative alchemy, all of which persists beyond the known scope of human thought. It’s got all the things that the reader thinks equates to a good story: great characters, sensible plot, a story with depth, cracking dialogue, spaceships, dragon-boats, steampunk llamas, puppies, kittens, scenes of bondage and discipline, vampire mummies, botanical tips, hummus recipes, cheerleaders, and whatever else it is that adds up to a compelling read. Because that’s the goal, of course: to compel readers. To hypnotize them into staying with the book. You’ve got to pay them back for the time they’re giving you, and the way you do that is — well, by giving good story, that’s how. The best story you can write. Because at the end of the day, that’s what keeps them reading: you giving the story (and by proxy, the reader) all you’ve got to give.

* * *

Want another booze-soaked, profanity-laden shotgun blast of dubious writing advice?

Try: CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY

$4.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or its sequel: REVENGE OF THE PENMONKEY

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

And: 250 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WRITING

$0.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or the newest: 500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER

$2.99 at Amazon (US)Amazon (UK)B&NPDF

Do What Thou Wilt Shall Be The Whole Of The Law

Kill the pig!

Cut his throat!

Kill the pig!

Bash him in!

As writers, we grow easily seduced by tribalism. I get it. I know why this is.

It’s because writing offers no guarantees. It’s a creative pursuit and a financial shot in the dark. Success in this industry is wildly subjective and personal, and that means it’s unpredictable.

Ah, but we don’t like unpredictability, do we? We don’t like dark corridors and flickering light bulbs. We are not a fan of shadowy corners — while a shadowy corner might secretly contain a bag of money with a comical dollar sign stitched to the side, it could just as easily contain, I dunno, a cyborg-bear who needs human blood to fuel his mecha-parts. We want bright lights. Well-lit hallways. An easy path with a dotted line on the floor and a map in our hands.

So, we seek answers. Not possibilities or options in potentia, but rather, conclusive results. As if one’s writing career is the inevitable summation of a well-known equation (which it most certainly is not).

Then, sometimes we find success as writers. We discover our equation and are pleased with the sum we achieve and — well, let’s just say our hearts are in the right place. We figure, we want to help. We want to draw you a map! We want to fire up the tiki torches and light the way! And when we see you start to drift toward the darkness, listing like a ship in a rumbly-tumbly ocean, we’re like, “Hey! No! That way lurks the cyborg-bears! Come this way! Come toward the light, Carol-Anne!”

It’s a not unreasonable inclination. And not entirely unhealthy — certainly what works for some will work for others. Lighting the path is fine. Handing over the map is a good thing.

Where it starts to become problematic is when we assume that our equation must surely be yours as well. That the anecdote of our existence is tantamount to universal data. We become less concerned with offering help and more concerned with being right — soon we start to see others who do differently not as fellow travelers on this weird wild journey but barbarians at the gate  who want to storm in and take their big angry hammers and smash our One True Way to bits.

Thus we establish our tribes. And we invite those who agree with us into our echo chambers where we can all tickle each other’s pink parts and hurrah and high-five and sloppily bang each other until we’re all a bunch of ideologically in-bred meme-mutants who are slaves to the notions we once owned and controlled.

Any who don’t do as we do are viewed as somehow lesser. And if they claim success by way of their aberrant methodology, well, pfft, pbtt, fnuh, surely that must be an attack on how we do things. Right?

Let’s get shut of that.

Let’s hike down our Wonder Woman underoos (well, what undies do you wear?), pop a squat over false dichotomies and One True Wayism, and then spray our foul musk upon them.

Let’s burn down the camps. Let’s scatter the tribes. Let’s all intermingle sexually.

Wait, maybe not so much that last part.

Let’s look at the warring tribes —

Are you a pantser or a plotter?

Do you favor print publishing or digital?

Kindle versus Nook?

Genre versus literary?

Sci-fi versus fantasy?

Word versus Scrivener (or the deeper more froth-inducing argument, Mac v. PC)?

Present tense versus past?

Don’t edit as you go versus edit every day’s work?

First person versus third person versus — gasp — second person?

Getting an agent versus going without?

Scotch versus Bourbon?

Coffee versus tea?

Self-pub versus indie-pub versus small press versus non-traditional versus traditional versus Kickstarter versus IndieGoGo versus Createspace versus Lulu versus me yelling my books at passing trucks?

When does it end?

If I do something my way and achieve success and you do something your way and achieve success, what’s the problem? Why do we need to shank each other in the kidneys? Are we competing?

It’s time to recognize that “success” has no metric. Success can be emotional, financial, spiritual, whatever. It can speak to your wallet. It can speak to your pride. We’re all trying to find success but what that means to each of us, individually as writers, represents a many-faced creature. Don’t jam your success up my ass and I won’t cram mine down your throat. Thus creating some kind of bizarre human centipede-esque creation where we recirculate success along with last night’s meal of Chunky chicken soup.

If I were to truly advise people to do as I do, I’d start them off at age 18, I’d get them to publish their first short story with a discerning editor who helps make the story a helluva lot better, then I’d tell them to, ohh, hang out a few years, get some bullshit jobs where they pretend you’re a writer but you’re no such thing, then lose faith a hundred times, then get a break in the pen-and-paper roleplaying game industry and, ohh, do that for ten years…

See? You’d go mad trying to follow the road I cut through the jungle. All those zig-zags and switchbacks and jaguar pits. And yet, no regrets. Because hey, fuck it. Here I am. Doing what I love.

For every person who does Thing A, you can find someone equally successful with Thing B, and C, and probably X, Y and Z. For every person who claims self-publishing is the one path, you can find plenty of evidence on the other side that says big publishers and small publishers can offer a writer measurable success, too. For every successful outliner there’s a successful panster. One bestselling author uses Word. Another uses Scrivener. A third uses Pages, or his iPad, or he urinates his manuscripts into the December snow. Every writer has his own crazy story, his own nutty way of finding success and satisfaction.

Do what thou wilt and find satisfaction within. If you’re not satisfied or don’t believe you’re achieving that what you want to achieve: change it up. That’s the nature of this thing: each subsequent story can earn its own fresh approach. You have multiple ways to attack and you’ve no reason to eschew the mighty power of diversification. You don’t need to be hemmed in by a single approach. You don’t need to separate yourself into camps — you just need to know your way of getting shit done. If it helps you get shit done? Keep it. If it prevents you from getting shit done? Ditch it. Re-examine, re-address, but don’t return to empty tribalism.

Do what thou wilt.

That’s empowering, isn’t it?

So go on, now.

Be empowered.

Put your foot squarely in the ass of your penmonkey destiny.

And tell the zealots and fundies and all the other assholes that you don’t need their approval, thanks. We can all put down the conch. And we can all stop trying to push Piggy around.

And that is the end of that tenuous Lord of the Fliesian metaphor.

Please to enjoy.

Get Your Pointy Teeth And Practice Your Zombie Shuffle: It’s Double Dead Day!

Purchase as book or e-book at:

Amazon (US)

Amazon (UK)

Barnes & Noble

iTunes

It’s the 15th of November.

Which means that Coburn the vampire is here.

Poor, poor Coburn. Once the king of his castle — his castle being New York City — he awakens from slumber to discover that his city and his world have been gobbled up by a zombie apocalypse.

Most of the humans are dead.

Which means his food source is spoiled. Vampire can’t live on dead blood, after all.

And so the vampire must move from predator to protector, a shepherd who must find a food source and stand vigil over the herd. It’s not an easy transition, of course. The monster is still a monster, after all.

(This ain’t Twilight, folks. Only way Coburn glitters is if he kills and eats a stripper.)

Along the way, what will he discover about the world? About the girl he protects? And about himself?

Gotta read it to find out.

A vampire in zombieland.

Featuring:

A teenage girl with a healing gift!

Zombie evolution!

Wal-Mart cannibals!

An army of Route 66 Juggalos!

A little white terrier named “Creampuff!”

And, of course, one cranky-ass cocky fuck of a vampire: Coburn.

Please to enjoy, folks.