The Fire in Fiction (2 page)

You can begin to see the difference as fiction writers try to break in. The majority of writers seek representation or publication years too soon. Rejection slips quickly set them straight. How do they respond?

Some cleave to the timeless advice
get it in the mail, keep it in the mail.
The more thoughtful pull their manuscripts and go back to work.

Here's another clue: once in a while an unready but promising manuscript will cross my desk. Wanting to be encouraging, I send a detailed e-mail or letter explaining my reasons for rejecting it. What do you suppose is the most common response? It's the immediate offer of a trunk manuscript; a shame, since what is needed is not something else but something better.

Serious fiction writers sooner or later reach a point where their command of craft seems good enough for them finally to break in. Their supporters agree. Critique groups proclaim the latest manuscript the best ever. Mentors say
this should be published
and introduce the no-longer-newcomer to New York agents at the next regional writers conference. Interest is expressed. The big break seems imminent.

Still, rejections arrive, often glib brush-offs like
I didn't love this enough
or
this would be difficult to place in the current market.
In response, status seekers grow frustrated. They decide that landing an agent is a matter of timing or luck. Storytellers may be understandably bewildered at this stage but recognize that something is missing from their writing. They resolve to do something about it.

At my
Writing the Breakout Novel
workshops I again notice the difference between these two types of writer. Some want to know how to make their manuscripts acceptable.
If I do
this
and I do
that,
will I be okay?
When I hear that question my heart sinks a little. That is a status seeker talking.

A storyteller, by contrast, is more concerned with making his story the best story that it can be, with discovering the levels and elements that are missing, and with understanding the techniques needed to make it all happen. Status seekers rush me fifty pages and an outline a few months after the workshop. Storytellers won't show me their novels again for a year or more, probably after several new drafts.

You would think that at long last finding an agent who says
yes, it's time to show your novel to publishers
would relax the status seeker's anxiety for validation, but that isn't true. Generally speaking, authors are never more work than during the submission process. It is normal to want updates on how submissions are going, but with status seekers the process can get nutty. If declines keep coming, I hear unhelpful suggestions.
What about Viking? Didn't they launch Stephen King? Should we submit my comic vampire novel there?
There also are impossible questions:
What does it mean when an editor doesn't respond after six weeks?

As you can see, questions like that don't really need an answer. What the status seeker wants is a contract. He wants to know that his years of effort will pay off.

The first contract is a watershed that finally divides the status seekers from the storytellers. Once in the hands of an editor, a status seeker will focus on what he is getting (or not) by way of cover, copy, blurbs, and "support" like advertising and promotion. It certainly is okay to want the best for one's novel. It is also normal for publishers to put only modest effort into launching debut fiction.

Why? Because two-thirds of fiction sales are
branded
—fans buying new titles by authors whose work they already love. For unknown authors, ad and promo dollars produce few unit sales. That drives status seekers crazy.
Why throw money at authors who are already bestsellers? How am I supposed to grow if my publisher doesn't spend some bucks pushing me?

Storytellers have a more realistic grasp of retail realities. They may promote, but locally and not for long. They'll put up a website, maybe, then it's back to work on the next book. That's smart. The truth, for newer authors anyway, is that the best promotion is between the covers of the last book.

What about later stages of career? Do status seekers correct course and grasp the fundamentals of success? I wish. Typically, in mid-career, status seekers go full time too soon. They grow to rely on advances for their living. Revisions become perfunctory. Frustration grows. A friend gets a film deal and panic sets in. In-store placement, posters, and
shelf talkers
become the keys to salvation. After six or seven books, advance size becomes critical.
I am working too hard to keep getting paid fifteen thousand per book!

Storytellers ignore the ephemera. Their mid-career focus is hitting deadlines and delivering powerful stories for their readers. The issues that come up are about developing their series or what to write as their next stand-alone.

In advanced stages of their career, status seekers will grumble about publishers, spend on self-promotion (or spend nothing at all), and expound as experts on getting ahead. They change agents, obsess over trunk projects, write screenplays. They wind up at small presses. A typical request from a status seeker at this terminal stage is,
I whipped off a graphic novel last weekend; can you find me a publisher for it?

Storytellers are different. Storytellers look not to publishers to make them successful, but to themselves. They wonder how to top themselves with each new novel. Their grumbles are not about getting toured but about getting more time to deliver. Storytellers take calculated risks with their fiction. Mostly they try to make their stories bigger.

Therein lies the essence of why storytellers succeed where status seekers fail: Storytellers may seem anointed, but they are anointed by readers. Give readers stories that blow them away every time and they will become the loyal generators of the sales that make career success appear effortless.

Storytellers are oriented the right way; consequently, their stories almost never go wrong. Which type of fiction writer are you? Really? I believe you, but the proof is in your passion and whether or not it gets on the page.

PLAYING WITH FIRE

Readers know when a novel is drifting off course. We may not be able to articulate where the problem lies, but clearly some novels are poorly focused, lacking force, self-indulgent, or just plain ill-conceived.

What went wrong? Was it a stubborn refusal to abandon a difficult idea? Was there something in the story that the author was afraid to tackle? Or was it some flaw in the premise itself, a subject that simply didn't have enough juice?

It is essential, I believe, to realize that the power of a novel doesn't lie in some independent inner life. A timely topic by itself will not make a novel great. Nor can a novelist count on characters to take over the story. The strength of a novel arises, rather, from the author's day-to-day story development. A sound idea and dynamic characters are merely starting points. Greatness comes in the shaping.

If you have read my previous book,
Writing the Breakout Novel,
or used my
Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook,
you know that I believe in learning from others. Everything we need in order to understand the techniques of passion lies within the covers of novels that you will find currently on the shelves. In picking illustrative examples I have selected from many genres, subjects, styles, and intents. There is some bias toward recent novels of long-published writers and toward bestsellers, but those are not the only criteria.

Plot descriptions put my examples in context. Be aware that there are plot spoilers ahead. If you like, read the novels cited herein first for enjoyment and later for technique. I don't care. All that matters to me is that you stop waiting for magic and embrace passion as a daily practice.

At the end of each chapter you will find exercises. These are the practical techniques, the application of the theory. Try them. There is a tendency among writers to read writing advice and think
right, got it.
Then at the next keyboard session, the words flow in the same old way. It's what feels safe, I know, but to grow you must try new things.

Master novelists do. In fact, I believe they are uncomfortable when they are playing it safe. So what about you? Are you ready for a leap into mastery? Are you ready to control your own success? Do you want to blow away your readers every time? If so, put the methods herein to use right away.

If you do that, I think you will feel an immediate difference in your writing. In a little while you should find every sentence, every scene, and every writing session growing productive in exciting ways. I suspect that since you will be stoking the fire in your stories as a matter of routine, you will soon stop believing in luck. You may ultimately see that mastery is not a mystery, nor a state to be achieved sometime later on. Greatness is within your grasp now.

Showing you the practical methods that, when used by others, we call mastery is the purpose of
The Fire in Fiction.
Applying those methods is your challenge. When you have these techniques working for you, go ahead and tell your fans that it's all magic, if you like. You and I will know that passion is your craft and that you use it every day.

Is there a difference between a protagonist and a hero? A protagonist is the subject of a story. A hero is a human being with extraordinary qualities. A protagonist can be a hero, certainly, but isn't always. Quite often in manuscripts the protagonists are ordinary people. They may face extraordinary circumstances in the course of the story but when we first meet them they, in effect, could be you or me.

That early introductory moment is where many authors begin to lose me. Why? Meeting a protagonist who is a proxy for me, with whom I can readily identify, should be ideal, shouldn't it? Isn't that how sympathy arises? I see myself in the novel's focal character and, therefore, her experience becomes mine? Actually, it doesn't work quite like that. A reader's heart does not automatically open just because some average schlemiel stumbles across the page.

What draws you to people in life? An even better question is, to what
degree
are you drawn to people in life? It varies, doesn't it? Most people leave you indifferent, I'll bet. When you are pushing your loaded shopping cart across the supermarket parking lot, are you filled with love for your fellow shoppers? (You are? Are you tripping on ecstasy?) How about your fellow workers? Probably you find reasons to like them. Your friends? No doubt your shared experiences, values, and interests keep them in your circle.

Now think about the people whom you deeply admire. Who are the individuals for whom you would cancel other plans? Who stirs in you awe, respect, humility, and high esteem? Are these regular people, no different than anyone else? They may not be famous but they are in some way exceptional, right?

Whether they are public figures or just ordinary in profile, our heroes and heroines are people whose actions inspire us. We would not mind spending ten straight hours or even ten days with them. That is important because ten hours is about how long it takes to read a novel and ten days is not an uncommon period of time for readers to commit to a single book. When it is your book, what sort of protagonist do you want your readers to meet? One whom they will regard more or less as they do a fellow grocery shopper?

To create an immediate bond between reader and protagonist, it is necessary to show your reader a reason to care. Pushing a shopping cart is not a reason to care. Demonstrating a character quality that is inspiring does cause readers to open their hearts.

There are many ways to signal to your readers that your protagonist is worth their time. Let's explore a few of them.

AVERAGE JOES, JANE DOES, AND DARK PROTAGONISTS

What if your protagonist is a genuine Everyman, a regular Joe or Jane who is going to be tested, later, by irregular events? Or, what if your protagonist is dark: wounded, hiding, haunted, self-loathing, an outsider, or simply unpleasant?

Can we care about such protagonists? Why should we? We don't spend much time with such people in life, why would we do so with our valuable reading time? Despite that, contemporary literature is packed with dark protagonists about whom consumers are avid to read. Why? What makes them different? What is working when we, by all rights, shouldn't much care? Let's have a look at some successful dark protagonists. We can learn from them what is necessary to make all protagonists people about whom we eagerly want to read.