It is fucking weird being a writer right now.

Especially the writer of what is ostensibly entertainment — it feels precariously like tap-dancing on the Titanic. It’s like, tippity-tap-tappity-tip, “Ya-da-da-da-doo-dee-da-da! Hey, ignore the iceberg, look at me dancing, I’m dancing over here, it’s great, we’re not smashing into a jagged frozen nightmare, ha ha ha that’s just the power of my dance you’re feeling as the boat splits apart and, oh god I’m falling into the hoary black depths, but maybe I can tap dance on an ice floe or the head of a shark–” *is frozen* *is eaten*

What I’m trying to say is:

It’s hecka hard to conjure words these days.

Hard to sit down, avert your gaze from the Hieronymous Bosch painting going on outside your window (“Oh, good, there’s a giant face vomiting up a skeleton bird and the skeleton bird is eating children”), and especially hard to put words down. It can feel hollow. Or like a waste of time, a fruitless endeavor. Or it might just feel like nonsense, like all you’re doing is typing out nice-sounding gibberish that has no impact on anything or anyone. Just squawking into the void. Squawk, squawk. And the void does not answer.

This is truly the stupidest, meanest timeline.

And it would be easy to… just not write.

But that’s not an option. Okay, it’s totally an option, but it’s not a good option, especially for me, where I use this thing I do *gestures broadly to my desk and the scattering of papers and the Chewbacca toy near my coffee-stained keyboard* to pay bills. If I don’t make words into books, I don’t make my mortgage. So, I gotta do it. And, I bet, you gotta do it to. Maybe not for the mortgage, but for your peace of mind. Because it’s what you wanna do. Or better yet: it’s who you are, full-stop, end of story.

Only problem:

How?

How the fuck do you do it? It’s like trying to give a colonoscopy to a rabid badger in the dark — it seems impossible, bitey, foul-smelling. But there are ways. There have to be ways. Let us count them, so we have a way forward, together. Some of this I’ve spoken of before, but it helps me to put it down in words, to create a mission statement and a motivational springboard to help propel me — and hopefully you, too — through the maelstrom.

First: It’s Okay To Be Pissed Off And Upset As Fuck

That thing you’re feeling? That roiling, writhing middle like you just had a enema of Gaboon vipers and jagged driveway gravel? That’s anger. You’re pissed off.

It’s perfectly normal.

Christ, it’s abnormal to not be wanting to bite your keyboard in half. I wanna throw my phone into a wood chipper daily, not because I hate my phone, but because I hate all the hate that my phone contains. *looks at phone* “Oh, good, Trump is putting babies in holes, now, just random holes in the ground, wherever goblin-dildo Stephen Miller can dig them.”

It’s vital to realize you’re not alone. Nor are you alone as a writer who has no idea what to do with all of this — all the fuckery, all the madness, all the poison and sepsis and outhouse tornado, all the cruelty and the terror and the from-creeping-to-sprinting fascism. You are not alone.

Second: It’s Okay To Look Away

You can see a pile of shit on the ground and recognize what it is without stepping in it, and rolling in it, and then eating it. You can see it and walk the other way. You can pinch your nose; nobody is demanding you smell it to prove it. You are not required to marinate in all that’s going on in order to understand it. I promise, in five, maybe ten minutes you can get caught up on the latest batch of dipshit atrocities going on and then go do something else. Go outside. Throw a ball for a dog. Smell some honeysuckle. Have sexytimes with one or several consensual partners.

Self-care is king. Said it before, will say it again: adjust your own oxygen mask before attending to the oxygen masks of others. You’re no good to us if you’re rolling around on the floor, frothing in undirected rage. Pick yourself up, eat a cupcake, read a book —

Then get back into the fight.

Third: Words Are Weapons

In the arsenal of resistance, we have many weapons. We can protest with our bodies, we have votes, we have work stoppages and boycotts, we have Molotov cocktails if shit gets really hinky — but we also have words. Words matter; you have to believe that, if you’re a writer. The entire world is made up of words, and you are good at adding words to the world.

So, do that. Use that. Form your words into weapons and let them fly.

We need to write letters to our politicians. We need to convey what we think over social media, en masse. We can write articles and blog posts, and yes, I understand that seems a very passive, safe form of resistance, but I assure you — words can go far, and can have great power. Art is a presence in protest, or should be: during the most turbulent tides of our time, we look to writers, comedians, musicians, comics, games, and so on and so forth, to help us understand what’s going on. To channel our rage. To crystallize our thoughts and contextualize the history behind us and what’s to come. To find empathy and to practice critical thinking.

Is it enough? By itself, no.

But it’s part of it. We all add to this in our own way, and this is, arguably, your way. You gotta speak your mind. You gotta say what you feel. If only to purge all that pent-up poison.

(And here I recommend following Celeste Pewter, who often has very good advice on directing your words to counter this fuckery.)

Fourth: Words Are A Door

Just the same: embrace the power of escapism.

We all need to escape, man. Every day I’m looking for a portal out of this donkey show and into something more fun, something so distant that I can’t hear the chaos through the walls. Nothing wrong with writing that escape, or seeking it. Use your own stories to provide an out for yourself and your readers; and read books, too, that give you that escape. No shame. Words can be self-care. They can be a doorway out, for a time. A portal to a Narnia where it’s not a circus orgy of sick chimps running around, on fire, throwing flaming shit at one another.

Fifth: Words Are Trojan Horses

Sometimes instead of attacking head on with FROTHY TWEETS and FOUL-MOUTHED LETTERS TO YOUR REPRESENTATIVES, you instead pack a book with a lot of ideas and then you trebuchet that book out into the world. Just as there’s nothing wrong with writing an escapist story, there’s also nothing wrong with taking all that you’re feeling and pumping it into something — a book, a short story, a comic, a game, a poem, a fucking fortune cookie, I dunno. Somewhere. Anywhere. Sometimes, to contextualize resistance for yourself and your readers, you need to enrobe it in the raiment of something else — fantasy fiction, or superhero comics, or literary spec-fic. Ideas sometimes need idea-wrappers: you dress them up in something other than what they seem. It’s like giving your dog a pill: first you slather it in peanut butter.

Sixth: Connect With Your Community

To go back to the beginning: you’re not alone, so now’s the time to remember that and connect with those around you. If you’re feeling fucked up about the world and about your authorial place in it, ping some writer pals. They’ll listen. Trust me. And you listen to them, too. And then signal boost each other. Help out. Form a community. You don’t need to be ronin-ninja-without-clan. You have people. The way we make it through this gauntlet-of-fanged-assholes is not by ourselves, but together.

Seventh and Last: Fuck It, Put Words Down Wherever, Whenever, However

Sometimes that’s all it takes. You don’t need a direction. You don’t need a purpose. You don’t even need an audience. You are a writer, and your tool is right in front of you. Make sentences. Express thoughts. Write a journal, or angry Post-It notes, or an email to a friend. Squeeze the world and let the words ooze out. Write about your hopes, your fears, your everything, your anything. Make words. It’s okay. Have a laugh. Be funny. Be angry. Feel things and put them onto paper. Promote your work because we want to read it. Write your books because we need books now more than we did before. Write of resistance. Write for the resistance. Just make the words happen. A few at a time. Or a lot at once.

It’s what you do. It’s who you are. It’s how you’ll survive.

* * *

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

Here, have a pretty macro photo.

There shall be more at the bottom of the post.

Fuck Donald Trump.

I said that on Twitter the other day — that thread is here — and apparently, it resonated, given that it went somewhat viral. As it should, honestly. (Resonate, not go viral.) The time of being precious and polite is long past us. This is an era of dark corners, and we just keep on turning them, into deeper, blacker pockets of moral, national shadow. Our president — “president” — is the sick, beating heart of this whole thing, but he’s not alone in his fuckery, so nor should he be alone in his condemnation. We must condemn all his cronies, from Miller to Pence, and we must further condemn a dead-eyed, undignified, complicit Congress for — at best — idly standing by as he chews at the wires and support beams of this nation like a mad rat, and at worst, for helping him do all the things he does. Including, though certainly not limited to, separating migrant families at the border, and putting the children into a range of facilities, from prisons to cages to tent cities in the Texas heat. Fuck Trump, fuck the whole lot of them, and fuck the voters who helped vote for this foul stain upon our nation’s flag, credo, and fabric.

It’s hard not being angry all the time. And it’s weird being a writer or person of entertainment at this period because you mostly just wanna kick things and spit and thrash around, and yet we still have to form cogent sentences and sometimes use those cogent sentences to entertain, enlighten, and advertise.

So, we do what we can.

My best is that I can help you escape, from time to time, with the *waves magic wand* the mysteeeerious wooooorlds of fiiiiction, and so again I gently nudge you toward the fact that Zer0es is still like, $1.99 right now — or, if you’re looking for something different, people ask where to start with my fiction, well, I did a post that helps you figure exactly that.

In the meantime, I give you again some shiny-pretty-macro-and-non-macro photos. If only to give myself, and you, a moment’s solace in this time of unbridled fuckery.

(The first photo, by the way, is of a true rara avis, the scarlet tanager — a somewhat reclusive bird that’s also really beautiful, and hard to capture. Been trying to get a good shot of this one for weeks now with the new 100-400 lens. This one isn’t a great photo, but it’s serviceable, and I’m just happy to have gotten it. Also, the second photo — of a bee-like hover-fly — is a photo of what I think margined calligrapheris called a “.” What a fucking cool name for a bug. For anything! Find joy where you can folks. My other photos are over at Flickr.)

I’m kinda hovering around a couple different projects, so today, let’s devote it toward an AMA, aka, Ask Me Anything. Way this works is, you pop into the comments below, drop a question, and this afternoon I’ll go ahead and try to answer as many as I can. Note that jerky questions will be left unanswered, or worse, plunged into the Spam Oubliette where they will be left, screaming silently and pawing at the quivering pink walls of obscurity and oblivion.

That’s it. Easy-peasy play-Parcheesi.

Ask and ye shall receive answers. Probably. Maybe.

(I was going to go with, “Slaughtering the Sacred Cows,” which would have allowed me to segue neatly into a topical INTERNATIONAL HOUSE OF BURGERS MADE FROM SACRED COWS joke, but obviously I decided to go a nicer way with it.)

(Ahem.)

I did a thing on Twitter yesterday about this, but it also feels like a thing that should go here, in my blog, if only because I’m sure one day hackers will take down Twitter, and when they do, all of my wisdom — “wisdom,” he says, using vigorous bunny-ear air-quotes — will be flushed down the digital shitter. My post on Kill Your Darlings was sprung from a wellspring of wicked smart Twitter chatter from the likes of Jeannette Ng, Ann Leckie, Delilah S. Dawson, and it has since spun off further conversation about some of sacred cows of writing advice — the classics, the undefeated laws, the oft-repeated “rules” of writing stories. And of course like all so-called rules, they’re 49% truth, 51% bullshit — so I thought it’d be worth taking some time again to talk about which parts of them are bullshit, and why.

So, let’s SLAUGHTER

uhh I mean SET FREE?

the Sacred Cows of writing advice.

Let us begin.

Show, Don’t Tell

Nonsense! Shenanigans! Flim-flam banapants! Show, Don’t Tell isn’t a rule — it’s a trick. You literally cannot show something with your prose. All of prose is telling. It’s why we call it ‘storytelling.’ It is currently in vogue to write in a ‘cinematic’ way, especially through certain genres — thrillers, SFF, etc. — but that’s just a ruse. It’s a linguistic way to make the work seem more visual, and by proxy, open to some interpretation.

Example: you might not say, “Jessica was fucking pissed,” and instead, show the signs of her being mad. (She’s pacing, nostrils flaring, gritting her teeth, cursing under her breath, stomping her feet, kicking a trash can, punching a side of frozen beef, rage-eating lasagna, whatever.) So, as in reality, we don’t truly know her mind. We must make an interpretation of her emotional state, which is nice in that it forces the reader to do a little work. But also, sometimes, fuck that. Sometimes we just wanna say, “Jessica was fucking pissed.” That’s okay, too.

And sometimes we need to explain shit. Either in the text or through the mouths of characters as dialogue — but that leads us to our next sacred cow to slauuuuuhhh I mean set free —

Exposition Is Bad

Exposition is boring, people say. And so, therefore, it is bad, but I’d rather the argument be: Bad Exposition is Bad, Actually. It sucks when it sucks. When it’s done right, it’s artful as hell.

Listen, a good writer knows how to deliver information in an interesting, lively way — they can rewrite a lawnmower repair manual with vigor and tenacity. That’s literally our job: above all else, be interesting to the subset of people who form the backbone of our theoretical audience. (What I mean by that is, a so-called ‘literary’ writer would aim to be interesting to the ‘literary’ reader. A thriller writer would aim to be interesting to a thriller reader. Yes, ostensibly we aim to be interesting to ALL PEOPLE, but that’s impossible, so your first mark to hit is the reader that is intended to read your story.)

Exposition is often essential — the reader does not enter into a story with All The Information Ever, and so you cannot expect them to have the prerequisite knowledge. That information might be data on the social strata of the high school in which the story is set, or the mating habits of the Humboldt Squid (aka, the Vampire Squid). The reader doesn’t know, so you have to tell them. You can show some of it, sure. You can depict it, rather than explaining it. But sometimes, that takes too fucking long. Seriously. If you need the reader to understand, say, how antibiotics work, you could show it by doing some 3,000 word flashback chapter where Doctor Darla Q. Antibiotics (aka the inventor of antibiotics, I’m pretty sure) discovers penicillin, or you could just take a 100-word paragraph to get the job done in a quick, zero-fuckery way. And which path you choose really depends on the story you’re telling.

But more to the point, exposition is not bad.

Exposition is often necessary. We cannot show everything. Part of the power of a story written in prose is that we are granted an extra layer of story that visual media can only infer — we are allowed and even expected to visit the interior of narrative. Thoughts, ideas, narration, history — a lot of it bundled up as, yes, that’s right, motherfucking exposition.

Write What You Know

Oh, god, this one.

I don’t know anything, and yet I write a lot of things, because I am capable of learning stuff. I am not a hacker, but I wrote a book about hackers. I know very little about ants, but I wrote a book about ants. Featuring characters who are decidedly not me. You know how I do it?

a) I do research

b) I make shit up

Write What You Know is not a law — it’s an opportunity. It’s an opportunity to know more things, and it’s an opportunity to connect your current experiences with the work at hand, both out of a search for some authenticity and, well, because of basic laziness. Sometimes that means finding an emotional core to the story that connects to your emotional core. Sometimes it means taking your experiences in one hand (climbing a tree) and using that experience to inform a completely made up one (climbing a castle tower).

You can experience stuff, you can research stuff, and you can make stuff up.

That’s writing. That’s it.

Writers Have To Write Every Day

WRITERS HAVE TO WRITE EVERY DAY OR THEY DO NOT APPEASE THE WORD GODS, AND IF THE WORD GODS GO UNAPPEASED, THEY SEND UNTO YOU THREE CROWS, AND THESE CROWS WILL SPEAK THE FORBIDDEN WHISPERS THAT ROB FROM YOU THE WILL TO CONTINUE, CURSING YOU WITH WRITER’S BLOCK UNTIL YOU AGAIN COMPLETE THE SACRIFICE OF 2000 WORDS PER DAY AND SO THAT IS WHY WRITERS MUST WRITE EVERY DAY —

Nope. They don’t. Some do. Others don’t. I think if you’re the kind of writer who can’t really get it going, then maybe trying to write every day has value — it can develop discipline and habit. But others might try it and move swiftly toward burnout. Find what works for you. Challenge your process. When your process isn’t yielding results, change your process.

Cut All The Fat Out Of Your Story

Except fat is often the most delicious part of our meal. A story isn’t a stainless steel tube that feeds you nutrient narrative gruel. Fat is flavor, and can also be in fiction. Sure, if you’re writing a high-test action scene or a scene of tension, you might undo some of the action or tension by suddenly pumping it full of unnecessary oleaginousness. But well-marbled, layered fat — meaning, bits of flavor text that may not directly contribute to PLOT PLOT PLOT — are welcome throughout most stories. Sometimes, the fat is the most interesting part.

All You Need To Be A Writer Is To Read And To Write

I hate this advice. I hate it like I hate poison ivy because it’s deeply dismissive toward what it takes to be a writer. Real talk? Reading and writing do not automagically make you a good writer. Yes, you have to do both of those things! They are essential. But sitting on chairs and whacking wood with a hammer doesn’t make you a carpenter. Driving a car and opening up the hood and fucking around with belts doesn’t make you a mechanic. You have to read, yes, but you also have to learn to read critically and read well-outside your chosen genre. You have to write, yes, but you also might need someone to instruct you in writing — a teacher, an editor, another writer. You also have to live a life. And think a lot. And a whole bunch of other things that may be unique to you: take walks, travel, fight bears.

Start Your Story With Action, Bang, Zoom, Kaboosh!

Or don’t? Starting with action is tough. Listen, action works because it’s conflict, it creates tension, but to have conflict and tension we need a reason to care about the characters involved — and we don’t get invested in those characters if the moment we see them they’re under fire or in a car chase or whatever. At that point, it’s purely a mechanical exercise, a rote scene placement, to get us to the supposedly “boring” character development.

But look at one of the biggest action thrillers of all time and you’ll find —

Die Hard doesn’t begin with action.

It’s not until the seventeen-minute mark that we get action — meaning, Hands Goober shows up with his wacky crew of party planners. Up until that point, it’s John McClane on a plane, in a limo, in a party, talking to his wife, in a box, with a fox. His character is established. His relationships, also established. So that when those things are threatened, we have a reason to care. That said, the movie also gives the faint hint of coming action: a literal Chekhov’s Gun on the plane when a passenger sees McClane’s service pistol. It’s a hint, a promise, a threat.

Prologues Are A Curse Upon This Earth, Never Do A Prologue, If You Do A Prologue, Your Urine Will Turn To Fire, And Ants Will Never Leave Your Skin As They Colonize You As Punishment For Deigning To Do A Prologue, You Monster

Except you should do a prologue if you need to do a prologue. As with exposition, the problem isn’t prologues — it’s bad prologues. It’s unnecessary or confusing prologues. Listen, part of why prologues can be problematic is that they’re context-free prequel text to the book someone is about to read, often featuring characters we don’t yet know or care about and who might not show up again until the end of the book. But they can be done right, and they can be necessary, and if you need one, you need one. Just make sure it’s both interesting and necessary.

Never Start With Weather —

But what if the weather is relevant? If the story starts during a hurricane, I better jolly well be told that there’s a fucking hurricane going on.

Never Start With A Character Beholding Herself In The Mirror —

Did it in Blackbirds. Book got published. Fuck you.

Characters Must Be Likable And —

Shut up. Also did that in Blackbirds. Also this is very often advice that seems to be demanded of women characters and/or women writers, as dudes can be as unlikable as they need to be, because then they’re complex and interesting and redemptive and

*weaponized eye roll*

Adverbs Are Evil, And They Are Hexes, Do Not Trigger The Ancient Hexes

Never use adverbs! Unless you want to use a word like “never,” because the word “never” is a fucking adverb. Adverbs are a huge swath of language, modifying verbs the way adjectives modify nouns. We need them. Just don’t over do it, for fuck’s sake.

“Always Use Said,” He Said

Nah. Mix it up. Authors use hissed, spat, shrieked, ordered, offered, commanded, explained, whispered, and so on and so forth. Long as you don’t use a non-dialogue verb with dialogue (“I went to the store,” he tickled), or a really awkward one (“I love cheese,” he ejaculated), you’re probably in good shape. Everything in moderation, I say. True in life. True in writing.

In Conclusion

Writing advice, as I am fond of saying, is bullshit.

But bullshit fertilizes. It has function, if you want it to. These most common pieces of writing advice are useful for newer writers, but never good to keep as gospel, because for every piece of ironclad writing advice are ten writers who can snap that iron bar with their bare hands, breaking those rules left and right — with grace, aplomb, awards, and sales. None of this stuff is as simple as it seems on the surface, and demands a deeper scrutiny than just accepting them at shallow face-value. Dig deep. Challenge these ideas. Fuck ’em when they don’t work for you.

What are some pieces of super-common writing advice that you’ve realized are basically bullshit? Let’s hear it. Line ’em up, shoot ’em down.

* * *

THE RAPTOR & THE WREN: Miriam Black, Book Five

Miriam Black, in lockstep with death, continues on her quest to control her own fate!

Having been desperate to rid herself of her psychic powers, Miriam now finds herself armed with the solution — a seemingly impossible one. But Miriam’s past is catching up to her, just as she’s trying to leave it behind. A copy-cat killer has caught the public’s attention. An old nemesis is back from the dead. And Louis, the ex she still loves, will commit an unforgivable act if she doesn’t change the future. 

Miriam knows that only a great sacrifice is enough to counter fate. Can she save Louis, stop the killer, and survive? 

Hunted and haunted, Miriam is coming to a crossroads, and nothing is going to stand in her way, not even the Trespasser.

Indiebound | Amazon | B&N

I got a new lens!

Er, for my camera, not like, some kind of cyborg shit for my eyeball. Thought that would be cool? Anyway. I’m talking about the Canon 100-400mm mk II (with IS!) zoom lens. Which lets me capture shots like that one above — a chipmunk, notoriously hard to capture because they’re basically tiny woodland ninjas, now easy to capture thanks to the lens. I intend to use it for birding, mostly, because I guess I turned into an old man? (The other day I spent a half-hour tracking a scarlet tanager through the woods. I saw it but failed to get off a snap, so that’s how I wasted my day.)

If you’d still rather macros —

Well, here is a picture of a jumping spider. It’s behind the cut because spider, but I really encourage you to look at it if only for those giant green fangs. Also here’s a mantis eating an ant — an ant I literally threw to the mantis and it caught because mantids are fucking rad —

And here’s an even more up-close-and-personal look at the ring-necked snake that lives by our cellar door — at a casual glance without the camera, the snake is a dull gray color. But with macro and flash, man, it’s like a Chromatic Dragon. Look at those blues! Really beautiful animal.

YAY BUGS AND SNAKES AND SPIDERS.

THE THINGS I AM MADE OF.

Whatever. Let’s see. What else is happening?

Well, the world is still falling to shit, so that’s great. Net neutrality is gone, Trump diarrheaed over all our allies while simultaneously fawning over Putin and giving a handjob to North Korea, so we’re in really great shape on the world stage and America totally hasn’t become a shitty-pantsed embarassment in a very short time, ha ha ha, oh good.

International House of Pancakes is now International House of Branding Fuckery, oh, I’m sorry, I mean, the B stands for Burgers, I guess?

Everything is deeply stupid, so read books, because they are a temporary escape from the pure liquid nonsense raining from the sky.

In that vein, I note that Zer0es is still $1.99 — for your Kindle, on B&N, on Kobo, even iBooks. Hackers plus surveillance plus body horror thriller.

Also, audio books for The Raptor & The Wren (Emily Beresford narrating, out July 3rd, preorder now) and Damn Fine Story are incoming (date: tba).

And I think that’s it for today.

Be good, humans, because our goodness is all we have.

I like when a topic ping-pongs its way around Twitter. Particularly in the department of writing advice — because it nearly always zips about, this way and that, carrying with it different perspectives and scrutinizations of the topic at hand. And that helps me look at my own point-of-view on these things, and helps me pull the topic out, furrow my brow, and give it a hard, gnarly squint under the magnifying glass.

Current writing topic du jour:

Kill your darlings.

It is, as with all pieces of writing advice, good advice.

Until it’s not.

Meaning, no one single piece of writing advice is a one-size-fits-all unitasker. Nearly all pieces of writing advice — with maybe the exception of FINISH YOUR SHIT — can easily be Judo-flipped onto its back. Nearly every piece of writing advice and its opposite is true, at some point, for many writers. And it’s vital we not be rigorous with what we feel are these chestnuts of writing advice. These chestnuts must, in fact, be roasted time and time again to bring out their nuttiest, most delectable flavor. Or, put differently, take the words of writer Jeannette Ng, who is in fact a finalist for the Campbell Award for Best New Writer this year —

“But in general I feel like we don’t publically interrogate this paradigm enough: The idea that exposition is always bad. That ornate prose is just showing off. That we shouldn’t get too attached to bits of our own writing, that we should kill our darlings.”

What a great verb, by the way.

Interrogate.

[Also: read Ann Leckie and Delilah S. Dawson on the subject, today.]

Let’s rewind a little.

In writing, you have three tiers of putting together a story.

You have: technical sentence construction, which is to say, you put words together, gluing them hence with various fiddly bits of punctuation, and then they make sentences. And then you string sentences into paragraphs and paragraphs into pages. This is the technical aspect of writing.

Its laws are flexible, but firm. In other words, if I wrote, “It’s laws are flexible; but firm,” you could make a strong case that the construction of that, the grammar of it, are wrong.

Next level down: prose construction. This is the aspect of writing that probably gets the most attention, and it’s about constructing narrative at the language level. It’s about dialogue, it’s about exposition versus action, it’s the escalation of using writing not only to convey an idea, but also to convey a story. Right? And here, again, laws exist. The laws though are a little goofier. If grammar is fairly bedrock, then here we’re talking something that’s muddy and wet — a soft, gently moving earth. It’s stable… until it’s not. There are tectonic shifts. Gentle undulations. We claim that “good writing” is objective, but it’s very plainly not; our ideas of “good writing” will shift and warp as the months and years and decades go on.

Final level for purposes of this discussion is: all the story bits. Story being abstract. Story being narrative construction not at the language level, but the idea level. Character and theme, rhythm and flow, tension and release, the shape of narrative, and so on and so forth. This area probably gets the least total attention, which is understandable — it’s a PYROCLASTIC HELL REALM WHERE THE ONLY LAWS ARE MAD-MAXIAN IN PROPORTION.

Story is wigglier than a snake covered in fire ants. It’s slippery like an over-lubed dildo. It has few rules, if any. I dare say that if you show me any ironclad story rule, I can give you ten writers, right quick, that fucked that rule right in the ear.

One of the pieces of writing advice that is supposedly ironclad is the aforementioned:

KILL YOUR DARLINGS.

*crash of thunder*

And as I said above, it’s good advice, until it’s not.

More to the point, Kill Your Darlings (besides from being a great band name) is 101-class writing advice. It’s entry-level, as are most of the authorial platitudes. Show Don’t Tell? Sure, great, until the time comes when you need to tell the reader something. Write What You Know? Go for it, until you realize you don’t know a whole lotta shit, and if you take that advice too literally you’ll never write a goddamn thing that isn’t you sitting at the keyboard writing about writing about writing. Never Use Adverbs, For They Are Wizard Prisons! Great, great advice, perfectly golden always and forever, oh, except the words “always” and “forever” are motherfucking adverbs. Writers Write Every Day — except until they don’t, and some write every week, or every month, some write 2000 words a day, some write 15000 words once a month, some write for a couple hours, or four, or eight, some write to music, some write to the screams of the people they have trapped under their floorboards. Open With An Action Sequence, except action sequences don’t always give the proper context, and also, what if you’re not writing action?

On and on and on.

But today, we’re again tackling the old saw: kill them ding-dang darlings, darlin’.

It is, taken lightly, good advice.

It is, taken rigorously, very bad advice.

Why, taken rigorously, is it bad advice?

It’s bad because it presupposes to know what is essential in a story. A story, we are then lead to believe, is a concise series of narrative events, and anything that does not move them forward is chaff that must be separated from the wheat lest the story-food be chewy and unpleasant. And certainly, that can be true: if a part of the story truly stands in the way of the story, and most or all your readers feel it, then maybe that thing was truly a darling after all, a piece that was not only non-essential, but that blocked the story pipes like a flushed baby diaper.

But we run the risk of treating stories — or the idea of Story, big S — as something irrevocable and unswerving. It assumes that Story is a hard-and-fast blueprint pressed into well-set concrete. It demands we accept that Story is A+B+C, and onward, until Z. And any deviation from that alphabet is heresy: no imaginary numbers in there, no emoji, no X where the R should be, no cat’s-butt asterisk where the D would go, no series of FUs hunkered down in the middle like a glorious profane parade of middle-fucking-fingers.

It also assumes that Story is only, only, only for the audience.

And that isn’t true.

That can’t be true.

A story only for the audience is the worst kind of story — a soulless exercise. Maybe one that works! Maybe one that sells well, I dunno. But for my mileage as a creator, to remove me from that creation, to take myself and my ideas and my fears out of it, well, you might as well let Norman Rockwell paint over every Picasso, or vice versa. The artist is a presence in the art. The storyteller is part of the story. And so we must leave some room for the storyteller, and Kill Your Darlings narrows that space in some cases — and it can be constrictive.

Consider what is essential in all aspects of your life.

In a meal, what’s essential is, what? Nutrients. Food to survive. So, if food were reduced to a Soylent-like nutri-gruel, you’re fine, right? I mean, it’s totally cool not to live in a world with ice cream or snap peas or bacon or [insert your favorite food here], right??

In decor, what’s essential? Almost nothing. Decor isn’t essential. You don’t fucking need it. That painting on the wall doesn’t hold up the wall. It’s chaff. A darling. Kill it. Scour it with cleansing fire! Clarity is king! Burn down such frivolous rubbish HA HA HA HA *turns the flamethrower on the Bayeux Tapestry, also where did you get the Bayeux Tapestry, you thief?*

In a story, what’s essential?

Beginning, middle, end?

Character doing stuff, saying stuff?

Is a character’s description essential? How much is essential? One sentence? Three adjectives? A paragraph? A page? A whole chapter?

What about the description of family crests and epic meals and massive amounts of diplomacy? That wouldn’t go well in a spare thriller, but in epic fantasy, it’s a feature, not a bug. In the very good zombie novel This Dark Earth by John Hornor Jacobs, he includes a chapter about characters getting a locomotive up and running, under siege by zombies — it is, in the technical sense, utterly non-essential. It’s also my favorite chapter in the novel, and it gives the book a kind of counterweight and heart that anchors it, despite doing nothing for the plot, or even for the characters we generally care about.

Next year, I have a novel out — Wanderers. One day, a young woman finds her sister sleepwalking down the road — the sister cannot be harmed, cannot be stopped, and every mile or three, she’s joined by another sleepwalker. On and on they go, the flock of sleepwalkers growing as their friends and families walk with them as shepherds. We don’t know where they’re going, or why, or for what purpose sinister or benevolent, and that’s what the book is about — that mystery, and those people. The book is 280,000 words. It’ll be in the 700-800 page range when it finally bursts its copy-editing cocoon and becomes its MIGHTY WINGED BOOK FORM. It’s a huge-ass book. And all along, I had to resist a single piece of writing advice:

Kill your darlings.

At every turn I wanted to slam my foot on the accelerator and just push the story forward as fast and furious as I could get it to go. But that wasn’t what the story needed. It wasn’t what I needed it to be. I needed it to sometimes slow down, to take strange exits off the highway, to deviate in unusual directions for a time. It needed to have an epic scope, to change shape, to be a thing that wasn’t just the rush to rise, the bang of climax, and then the fall. It had to be bigger, odder, more beastly in its form, and that’s how I wrote it, and my editor — thankfully! — kept me from turning away. She demanded I stay on that path to write the book that way, and given the response the book is getting in very early readers, I’m thankful I did.

On the developmental edit, you know how much total word count I cut?

Nothing.

In fact, I rewrote the beginning and then added another 10,000 words.

But if I had really listened to the advice, kill your darlings, the book wouldn’t be the book. The story wouldn’t be the story. It would be leaner, meaner, a prison shiv instead of the whole prison  — but a lot of things would’ve been murdered to make it that way. I would’ve lost so much. And therein lies too another problem with the phrasing of kill your darlings, as it presupposes that we need to cut things we like — which is kinda fucking bonkers, isn’t it? What we like is often important. It informs why we’re writing the story in the first place. Aren’t we better off instead looking for things to cut that we cannot defend, that at the end of the day aren’t bits we like very much at all? The things we love about a story, aren’t we served better by ultimately finding ways to make them work, to earn their place in the piece because, in fact, we love them so?

As such, I’ve learned what the opposite of kill your darlings is, and it’s this:

Know what hills you’re willing to die on.

What I mean is this: at the end of the day, it’s your name on that book. Not your beta readers’ names. Not your editor. Not your mom, your sister, your dog, your agent, your God, your favorite Star Wars character.

There, on the cover, is your name. A magic name. A seal of ownership.

So you gotta own what’s under the cover, too.

If a thing in the book is a so-called darling, you have to make a decision: is it a thing you thought you liked but doesn’t do anything for you? Then it can go. But if it’s a thing you truly love, a thing you truly need, keep it. Weld it to the fucking page with fire and lightning. I’ve had had reviews tell me that the interludes in Aftermath were utterly non-essential. I’ve had readers tell me the interludes in Aftermath were their favorite things in the book. And the only thing I can say about that is, I wanted them in there. Whether people loved them or hated them or both, I — me! — wanted them in there. Because they were mine, and a thing I loved, and a thing that was precious to me — they were part of the fabric of the narrative no matter how quote-unquote essential they were. Sometimes, the most interesting parts of a book are the darlings — the pieces that don’t conform. The pieces that stand out. Sometimes a thing stands out because it’s ugly and you gotta shave that wart off fast as you can. But sometimes a thing stands out because it’s the thing that defines the work — it’s a dignified stare, a bent nose, a beautiful imperfection that is far more compelling than all the expected, anticipated, overwrought bits.

Of course, the caveat is: you own it. Whether it works or it doesn’t, you own it.

But you own the story either way.

Might as well make it yours, in whatever fashion that feels most proper.

Kill your darlings when you must, yes.

But know too when they must remain, because they are yours, and they belong, no matter how much anyone tells you otherwise. Know when they are not merely a darling, but a beautiful bit to defend, to protect. Know when they are a hill you’re willing to die on, even if you do, in fact, die upon it. Know they they’re there. Why you must keep them. Then plant your feet, raise your sword, and demand your darlings be allowed to live.

* * *

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