Chuck Wendig's Blog, page 270

Will Hindmarch: The Terribleminds Interview

I think I can be upfront and say that Will Hindmarch, though he describes himself as a "mooncalf," is pretty farking awesome and I'm happy to call him friend and cohort. He's a freelance penmonkey such as myself, crawling through the trenches, chucking word grenades and getting blood on his face as good as anybody, except it's worth noting that the guy's prose has a forthright, yet poetic air to it. Anyway. You can read more about him HERE. Read his latest Escapist article: "Truth In Fiction." And purchase the Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities. Please enjoy this, the first of (hopefully) many terribleminds storyteller interviews. Feel free to ask Will questions and taunt him into answering.

This is a blog about writing and storytelling, so before we do anything else, I'd like you to tell me – and, of course, the fine miscreants and deviants that read this site – a story. As short or long as you care to make it, as true or false as you see it.

Alas, I don't tell stories lightly. I can't just launch into one on command. I need time to fret and ogle, to weigh and measure, to test and retest the tale. The last time, I think it was, that I tried to just tell a story on the fly, it was a story from memory that I augmented to make more compelling for the audience. But it wasn't my story, it was a story I'd heard on the Internet. ("Heard," I say—I'd read it.) It was a story about how William Gibson forms his novels, about how he does research and what he reads when he's writing, that sort of thing.

Anyway, I was speaking at a convention seminar in Atlanta. I was talking about writing and diligence and discipline, which is hilarious of me, and like an idiot asshole I'm telling someone else's story about someone else's deadlines and someone else's method. I start off by invoking William Gibson. "William Gibson once said," I said and then paraphrased a quote of his about reality and the muse. (And I say "paraphrased" generously—I may have made up a bunch of the quote, but the gist was there.)

I keep going. I mention William Gibson again, this time talking about deadlines and inspiration and how a novel (I've never written a novel) knows when it is finished. The audience is real quiet.

I keep on going. I cite William Gibson a third time, saying how I once read an interview with him where he used to struggle with how to get characters to cross rooms—to handle blocking and staging—and how he'd avoid the problem and just leave it to the reader and how if William Gibson could do it, then dammit, so could we.

A hand goes up near the back of the room. There's maybe forty, fifty people in attendance. "Yes?" I say, pointing at the hand.

Heads turn and lean out of the way. I see the spectacles and the face. My imagination flashes to the back-cover author photo of, I don't know, IDORU. The black-and-white windswept author photo overlays on the man across the crowd from me. It's him. William Gibson is among us. I'd invoked his name three times and now he was here.

"Yeah," he says. "I never said that."

I stay real still. Then I die. I die dead. Right there. Dead.

Now, that story's not true. The only time I've ever seen Gibson in the flesh was when he signed my copy of PATTERN RECOGNITION in a suburban bookshop outside Minneapolis. But this is why I try not to tell stories on the spot.

How would you describe your writing style?

I figure that's for other people to do. I change voices and styles a lot, depending on the needs of the assignment I'm working on. I haven't had a lot of time to write my own material lately, so my style has sort of been developing into a melange and what, from all of those different styles and voices, is mine? I don't know.

Here's something that's true, though: my style is certainly developing still. Maybe it'll always be developing. I aim for honesty in my own writing, but beyond that, the voice and approach I take to getting that honesty out is always in motion. This is good, I think, right? I don't want to be one of those writers whose stories are all the same.

In high school, I once had my writing style compared to Mark Twain's. I've been carrying that around with pride ever since. Earlier this year, my business partner, Jeff Tidball, who is a stunningly great writer, compared my voice to Michael Chabon's. I'm going to keep that on my keychain and thumb it whenever I get the serious doubts.

What's awesome about being a writer, and conversely, what sucks about it?

The work is awesome. It genuinely awes me. My imagination is probably my strongest muscle and I have a job that lets me use it. That's pretty great.

Of course, I'm almost never not working. The pay is shit and the hours suck. I sort of love that, too, though. I always know what I should be doing—I should be working. When I'm not working, I should be. When I am, I should be. I should be working.

What's awesome is that I'm doing the only thing I'm good at—writing. What sucks is that I'll probably never be happy with my skill level—I always need to be getting better. That sucks, but that's sort of awesome, too. Always something to do.

I should be working.

Deliver unto us a single-serving dollop of writing or storytelling advice that you yourself follow as a critical tip without which you might starve and die atop a glacier somewhere:

I once saw this written on a 3×5 note card on my brother's bedroom wall, over his desk. He's a writer, too:

The cardinal sins of storytelling:

1. Boredom

2. Confusion

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

I don't play favorites. Today I tell you that my favorite word is that old writerly chestnut, _defenestrate_, and tomorrow I say to myself, "Come on, man! That's a pretty obvious choice, isn't it?" So I say, "I put the word _mooncalf_ in my biography for a reason," and then I find out that somebody is offended by that word. Or I go, "Let's just say _zeppelin_ and be done with it," but then you think I'm some kind of obsessive, when really I'm just fascinated by dirigibles. No way to win this game. So, yeah, I don't know.

Favorite curse word, though, has got to be that classic: _fuck_. I like its versatility. Excuse me, its fucking versatility, you fuck. I like fuckery and motherfucker and fucktastic and their many kin. It's like an atomic cuss, from which many vulgar molecules can be wrought. I mean, fuck.

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

Again with your favorites. Lately I've been drinking Hendricks gin and tonics (a large pour of Hendricks gin and an eyeballed dose of tonic) and white russians (one part vodka, one part Kahlua, one part cream). Also, I like scotch neat or with one ice cube. If you've got port, I'll drink a lot of it.

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

How about a game that surprised me with its storytelling? Months and months ago, a game came out called ENSLAVED: ODYSSEY TO THE WEST that was written by Alex Garland (28 DAYS LATER, NEVER LET ME GO) and co-directed by Andy Serkis. Serkis also acts in this game, doing dialogue and motion-capture work. It features some of the best, most nuanced performances I've ever seen in a video game and all of it was sadly overlooked by the gaming public. The gameplay is solid running-and-jumping adventure-type stuff in an overgrown post-apocalyptic world (the game's especially lovely in the early levels) and it's all loaded up with ongoing character-building dialogue a la PRINCE OF PERSIA: SANDS OF TIME. It's not a perfect game, but it was overlooked for sure and now you can get it cheap, new or used. Well worth the time you'll spend in that world.

Where are my pants?

Not until I get my $240 in small, non-sequential bills, Wendig.

Got anything to pimp? Now's the time!

My new book is THE THACKERY T. LAMBSHEAD CABINET OF CURIOSITIES, which I share with a crazily wonderful contributor roster that I'm just going to list here, because when you list all these names together they make some kind of harmonic resonance pulse: Holly Black, Greg Broadmore, Ted Chiang, John Coulthart, Rikki Ducornet, Amal El-Mohtar, Minister Faust, Jeffrey Ford, Lev Grossman, N.K. Jemisin, Caitlin R. Kiernan, China Mieville, Mike Mignola, Michael Moorcock, Alan Moore, Garth Nix, Naomi Novik, James A. Owen, Helen Oyeyemi, J.K. Potter, Cherie Priest, Ekaterina Sedia, Jan Svankmajer, Rachel Swirsky, Carrie Vaughn, Jake von Slatt, Tad Williams, Charles Yu, and many more.

This is a vast, multi-author, multi-artist anthology exploring the fascinating collection of artifacts and doodads gathered by the sadly deceased Dr. Lambshead during his remarkable life. Inside you'll find stories, essays, and art galore. It's really a hell of a book, envisioned and assembled by the cunning and imaginative intelligences of Ann and Jeff VanderMeer.

How did you get involved with the Cabinet of Curiosities?

I've long been fascinated by collectors like Dr. Lambshead. My family is full of avid collectors and I married a museum professional, so my fascination is nearly utter, really. Dr. Lambshead, perhaps best known as a medical pioneer and adventurer, also amassed something approaching a museum of his own—the "cabinet" of curiosities is not so much a cabinet at all—and it's one of those iconic storehouses of occult and esoteric lore that I dreamt about visiting.

I work with Jeff VanderMeer at a creative-writing summer camp called Shared Worlds (http://shareworlds.wofford.edu), which he co-founded, and when I heard that he was working on a new book about Dr. Lambshead, I pestered him and bought his cigars until he let me do some research and write about an item from the collection all on my own. In the end, Jeff gave me the task of writing about the Auble Gun, because I have some (modest) experience with antique firearms.

Some of that is even true.

Care to tell us about your story, "The Auble Gun?"

"The Auble Gun" began with an illustration by Greg Broadmore of a tuxedoed gentleman with a spectacular, steaming Gatling-style gun on his shoulder. I added a faux-academic exhibit writeup, drawing a bit on my own feelings of inadequacy and my own limited experience with archaic firearms, and created a familial legacy of ambition, desperation, and failure that I probably think is funnier than it actually is. And, of course, we get to see how Dr. Lambshead's own history intersects with that of the Auble Gun.

The truth is, "The Auble Gun" has a lot of pathos in it for me, all hidden under a layer of stiff academia. It's a dynastic tale about reaching beyond one's grasp, dedicating one's self to someone else's obsession, and always coming in second place. While it's about the Auble family, it's also about my experiences, to some degree. But I don't want to say much more than that—I want to keep the focus on Dr. Lambshead and the Aubles, if I can. It's their story, really.

You're also a game designer. Tell us how playing and designing games helps you — or hinders you — in the act of writing prose fiction.

This is something I wrestle with and have written about a bit at my blog, actually. The short version is that storytelling games like table-top roleplaying titles (your Dungeons & Dragons and your Trail of Cthulhus) have helped me internalize and gain valuable traction in thinking about storytelling on the fly. I'm much more comfortable with story structure and characterization thanks to these games than I would be otherwise. Four hours spent running a great story game are solid experience for dealing with questions of boredom and confusion, for learning how to quickly get characters across, and for learning how to set a scene. They hone instincts.

The downside is that I sometimes get decision paralysis while writing straight-up prose fiction now. Without players, as living agents and audience, making decisions in the moment, I sometimes find it difficult to decide just which way a story should unfold. As a game writer, I'm usually writing options and consequences for exploring various options. As a story writer, I'm writing one option, one outcome. What if the better story lies through the door not taken? What if I force a character into an uncharacteristic decision? What if, what if, what if?

So, while I think story games are great practice for a lot of skills, they're no substitute for hours logged making mistakes and correcting them at the keyboard, writing actual fiction or actual script pages. These two skill sets overlap, and that part of the Venn diagram is where I'm strongest, but the rest of those circles are their own things. Got to log hours doing both if you want to be good at both.

You're a big fan of soundtracks — both as inspiration for writing and just for good old-fashioned ear massage. Recommend a soundtrack that most people wouldn't think to seek out.

Hmm. Tricky. I'm often surprised by the soundtracks and film scores that people actually have heard of or sought out. Bear McCreary's had rollicking concerts for his BATTLESTAR GALACTICA musical scores, for example, so I'd say people have thought to seek them out. I used to recommend Michael Giacchino's early scores for the MEDAL OF HONOR games, but he's got an Oscar now and is pretty well established, so I imagine that you've sought those out if you wanted to. I often tell people that the John Powell scores for the BOURNE films are excellent writing music—you'll feel like you're accomplishing something even when you're not—and the BOURNE ULTIMATUM score is an easy recommendation, but maybe that's too obvious, too? David Holmes' score for OCEAN'S TWELVE is the best in that series, in my opinion, and has a great energy and style to it, too. It really depends what mood you're trying to get in.

What are you working on now? Can you give us a hint? Whet our appetites?

Right now, I'm wrapping up development on the MISTBORN ADVENTURE GAME for Crafty Games, based on the novels by Brandon Sanderson. I'm editing Jeremy Keller's hard-boiled cyberpunk game, TECHNOIR. I'm also developing a couple of original RPGs for outfits like Pelgrane Press and, don't tell anyone, Evil Hat Productions. The first of them, for Pelgrane, is called RAZED, and it's an apocalyptic investigative survival RPG with a highly malleable setting. The other is so new that I don't think I can really talk about it, but it's grim and exciting and finally lets me play with a subject I've been wanting to tackle for years. I also have a couple of independent games in development, including a stealth-action title called DARK, which I'm hoping to launch on Kickstarter in the coming months.

All of that doesn't include a collection of short stories that I'll be publishing later this year, I hope, or the progress by agonizing inches that I make on my novel. I have to keep busy to keep the checks coming in and I frequently get distracted off of my own projects by projects for other people, 'cause I need to eat and my own projects are all gambles on future monies, rather than contract-driven certainties (well, "certainties"). You know how it is.

What Separates Man From Penmonkey

I've kicked your ass so many times, it's a wonder you can poop with all those shoes of mine crammed up into your colonic cubby-hole. If anything, you're probably shitting shoelaces by now. I feel like I come back here and I say the same thing over and over. It's the same hard-ass, hard-nose advice. Endlessly reiterative. I froth. I spit. I kick sand. I make the face that my son makes when he's trying to figure out how to belch or fill his diaper. I have an aneurism. I collapse in a puddle of my own blood and saliva. I lay there and wait until someone picks me back up and I forget I ranted and raved and then here I am, doing it all again.

Froth, spit, sand, diaper, aneurism, rant, rave, again, again, again.

You must be tired of me by now. Lord knows I'm tired of me.

And yet, I persevere. As I must. For you. For you.

…

HA HA HA HA! Who am I kidding? I love to froth! I'm happy to lose the occasional shoe to your grasping sphincter. I am addicted to punching you in the face meat with my dubious truth-making nonsense.

Even still, consider this my last official ass-kicking for a while, at least as an ass-kicking that comprises these core conceits. Let this be my final gospel to you, faithful readers. Let this be an exploration of the line that separates the common man — the guy who "has a book in him" but never manages to puke it up — from the hard-working, trench-crawling penmonkey.

We are separated by a line of shattered excuses and incomplete narrative.

On this side, action.

On that side, passivity.

Time to pound the lectern.

Penmonkeys Don't Have Time, They Make Time

I have 24 hours in my day.

You have 24 hours in your day.

That guy? Twenty-four hours. That lady? She has 25 hours, but she sucked the Devil's hell-wang and cut herself a deal. You don't want that deal. It involves Justin Bieber.

Life fills idle time. It's like water moving to empty spaces. It's why the phrase "free time" is a fucking joke. Adults don't have free time. Because when you're an adult, shit gets real. It's all mortgages and diapers and spreadsheets and shopping lists and cake recipes and suburban methamphetamine dealers just so you can have the energy to vacuum one more room, just one, just one.

Nobody "has" time. We don't bank it like cell phone minutes. You can't buy a gift card from Target. Writers are ever under the assumption that the rest of their lives comes first. Which it will, if you let it. And that's true of anything. If you wait for time to magically free yourself, then you'll be 80 and will have forgotten what you wanted to do anyway. Time must be managed. Time must be carved off, separated, crafted and shaped. You don't have time. You make it. You pull a little bit from here and a little bit from there and you lump them together until you have a glorious hour of writing time.

You don't wait for it to happen. Because if you do, you're going to be waiting a long time. Because here's the other secret? Time? It flows like a river, friend. Unless you dam it up, it moves on into the ocean.

And there you are raped and eaten by sharks.

True story.

Penmonkeys Have Heads Like Concrete Drain Boxes

Writing is a career that is endlessly reiterative. Talent matters, but it matters only in equal proportion to how much patience and perseverance you possess. You gotta be stubborn as a brain-damaged mule. Said for the many-th time: writing is about putting a bucket on your head and trying to knock down a brick wall. It's either you or the wall. You're either stubborn and pissed off enough to break on through, or eventually, the wall puts you on your ass. Up to you to conjure the fortitude.

The successful writers, the ones who work day in and day out, are usually ones who can tell you about the brick wall. And the long road to get to that brick wall. It won't happen overnight. It won't happen over the course of a single year. Took me over 12 years to get where I am, and I'm not even anywhere all that special, yet. A penmonkey career is a long con, not a short swindle.

You're either in for the long haul or you'll be hauled out before long.

Penmonkeys Are Not Stopped By Your Earthly "Writer's Block"

"Writer's Block."

"The Muse."

Two sides of the same coin. A coin made of lies. And sadness. And babies.

Yes, yes, writers get blocked. And writers can be inspired. The first: a sad state. The second: a glorious boon. But neither have power beyond what you give them. You don't need inspiration to work. Same as you don't need to give in to whatever's blocking you. Neither are made of anything real. They're just imaginary. Hallucinatory. Best of all: transitory.

What, you're sad? Of course you're sad. You're a writer. Bad day at the day job? Painful bunion? Kid won't stop crying? Besieged by ninjas? Mind a gray gruel-like mush?

You have to move past it. You have to shut that out. Even just writing down a string of pages-long nonsense may help jar loose the scree and debris. If you can't get shut of it, can't tune out the nega-frequency, then I'm truly sorry. But know that the working penmonkeys out there hammering away in the word mines don't want to hear about your writer's block. They've got shit to do. And if you're a tough cookie, you'll join 'em.

Your mental state cannot stop you. If it does, know that it has a better name than "writer's block."

You might want to call it "self-sabotage."

Penmonkeys, Like Honey Badgers, Don't Give A Shit

Three words. Practice them with me now: "I don't care."

Or, even better: "It's all good."

Bad review? Hard rejection? Someone tells you your "dream" of being a writer is bullshit? Mean person on the Internet? Self-doubt? Plague of uncertainty nibbling at your brain-stem like a passel of vampire hamsters? Fear of failure? Fear of success? Is your idea original? Will your book get published? What will the cover look like? Will anybody read it? Are you just a fraud? When will they discover you? When will they see that you're just wearing the costume of a writer?

Fuck it! Fuck all of it. Fuck it all right in the galactic dickhole.

No, I don't know what a galactic dickhole is. I've been drinking. Just, shhh. Shhhh.

Find clarity in what you do. Remove noise and zero in on pure signal. All that matters is what you do. Put differently: don't care so much. I know that runs counter to what you think, which is to care deeply, care strongly, care without reservation or reason. Note that I'm not saying to not have passion: but eventually you need to throw up your hands (er, not puke them up because, ew — why did you eat your hands?) and say, "Fuck it." You should care only about the thing that you're doing, which is writing the perfect novel, script, manifesto, whatever. Any outside noise? Shut it out.

Penmonkeys Do Not Find Better Things To Do

You always have the option to do something other than write. Clean your office. Run some errands. Walk the dog. See a movie. Hang out on Twitter. Digest porn. Sacrifice albino mammals to dark gods.

Life presents you with an endless menu of options. Writing is merely one choice amongst an infinity.

And penmonkeys make that choice every time.

Penmonkeys Know Their Craft

Being a writer actually features two primary tiers of craft (with lots of niggling little sub-tiers and micro-strata): writing, and storytelling. Storytelling is the larger scope, the idea of conveying a narrative and making it count. Writing is the smaller, more technical craft: you must find a way to convey the story you hope to tell. You need both of these skills.

My father was a great storyteller. And yet, I have a strong feeling he wasn't a capable writer. Now, to be clear, he didn't need to be: he was an engineer, a plant facilities manager, a gunsmith, at no point did he need to sit down and be a writer. Meaning, he didn't want to be a penmonkey.

You do. So learn how to write. And learn how to tell stories.

And keep learning, too. You don't stop just because you've written one thing. This isn't a simple discipline. It doesn't have easy margins. Penmonkeys always have more they can learn.

But Also, Penmonkeys Have Permission To Suck

You are not born a writer. Penmonkeys are made. Challenged by the fires of their own self-doubt, and pickled in a brine of gin, vinegar, salt, bourbon, and straight-up word sauce.

(For the record, word sauce is actually just steak sauce.)

Sometimes, what you do isn't going to be great. Don't get mopey. Don't succumb to the Penmonkey Blues. You need to leave yourself that margin-of-error, that force field of occasional suckitude. Not everything you do is going to have that new car, new baby smell. Some of what you do is going to smell like the ruptured bile-sac of a sick possum. Penmonkeys don't let this get them down. They move on. They fix what they fucked up or they write something new, something better, something that takes the lessons learned and puts them fast into play. Learn this phrase: "That's okay, I can fix it in post."

Penmonkeys Write Till It's Right

You don't write till it's "Ehh, shrug, pbbt, poop noise," you write till it's right. Too many authors go off half-cocked. They jump in and jump out too fast — "Here's my completed work!" — and then they submit a "final product" that has the shape and definition of a quivering blob of Ambrosia Salad.

With raisins in it.

With raisins.

Once, while in a bathroom in college, I saw that someone had written on the wall in black marker:

WORK THE CLIT.

Not bad advice in general, and for penmonkeys, this is good as metaphor. You gotta work the clit till the cookies pop. Work the story until it's right. Not until it's done. It's easy to finish something. It's hard to finish something and do it well. You need to bring that story to climax. Until it explodes its juices all over your chin, over your cordoruys, over that weird apparatus you're wearing. Work the clit. Write till it's right.

Penmonkeys Love To Write, Not To Get Published

This is easy enough: the writer's goal should be to get published, but the writer's love should be of writing. Too many writers are in love with the idea of writing-to-be-published and too few are in love with the act of writing. But tried-and-true penmonkeys love the craft, the act, the actual telling-of-stories.

They care about publishing. But they love to be writing.

Penmonkeys Do Work — And Don't Quit

Penmonkeys work. Penmonkeys don't fuck around.

Write every day. And finish what you started. And with each day of writing, learn something new about who you are and what you do. Penmonkeys don't merely talk about writing (though, plainly, they do that quite a lot — I can't tell you how many times I see writers pooh-pooh on writing advice and then lo and behold they leap to their own blogs to do what now? Offer writing advice). They actually also do the writing.

They aren't hamstrung by fear. They don't find better things to do. They don't watch day in and day out as time fritters away. They don't let others dissuade them from this path.

They write. Endlessly anon.

They don't write because they "have to" — that's an endearing writer's myth, but a myth just the same. Penmonkeys write because they want to. They write because if they don't, drum roll please, then nothing gets written. Writing is a difficult act of mountain climbing or cave spelunking: it's work, hombre. But climb to the top or crawl down into the deepest dark and you'd be amazed at what you find there: rolling clouds, glowing bacteria, the cleanest air, the cleanest water, the Buddha under the Bodhi tree, cave crickets with human faces, gods and monsters and goblins and unicorns and Lady Gaga.

On the worst day of writing, the work is instructive. On the best day, the act is transcendent.

The work is purifying and perfect even when it's not.

This is a beautiful, if you let it be beautiful.

Above all else: writers write.

* * *

If you dig on the apeshit crazy-face no-holds-barred profanity-soaked writing advice found here at terribleminds, then you may want to take a wee bitty gander-peek at: CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY, which is available now! Buy for Kindle (US), Kindle (UK), Nook, or PDF. Don't forget to work the clit.

25 Things You Should Know About Dialogue

Time for another iteration of the 25 Things series. This, I suspect, may be my last one here on the blog for awhile, but I'm contemplating putting together a small e-book of these lists with some new ones thrown in for good measure (already written part of 25 Things You Should Know About Publishing and Writing A Fucking Sentence). In the meantime, enjoy this one, and don't hesitate to add your own in the comments.

Previous iterations of the "25 Things" series:

25 Things Every Writer Should Know

25 Things You Should Know About Storytelling

25 Things You Should Know About Character

25 Things You Should Know About Plot

25 Things You Should Know About Writing A Novel

25 Things You Should Know About Revisions

1. Dialogue Is Easy Like Sunday Morning

Our eyes flow over dialogue like butter on the hood of a hot car. This is true when reading fiction. This is true when reading scripts. What does this tell you? It tells you: you should be using a lot of dialogue.

2. Easy Isn't The Same As Uncomplicated

We like to read dialogue is because it's easy, not because it's stupid. Dialogue has a fast flow. We respond to it as humans because, duh, humans make talky-talky. Easy does not translate to uncomplicated or unchallenging. Dialogue isn't, "I like hot dogs," "I think hot dogs are stupid," "I think you're stupid," "I think your Mom's stupid," "I think your Mom's vagina is stupid." Dialogue is a carrier for all aspects of the narrative experience. Put differently: it's the spoonful of sugar that makes the medicine go down. I think I'm supposed to add "motherfucker" to that. I'll let you do it. I trust you.

3. Sweet Minimalism

Let's get this out of the way: don't hang a bunch of gaudy ornaments upon your dialogue. In fiction, use the dialogue tags "said" and "asked" 90% of the time. Edge cases you might use "hissed," "called," "stammered," etc. These are strong spices; use minimally. Also, adverbs nuzzled up against dialogue tags are an affront to all things and make Baby Jesus pee out the side of his diaper, and when he does that, people die. In scripts, you don't have this problem but you can still clog the pipes with crap if you overuse stage directions. Oh, heavy dialect and sland? Just more ornamentation that'll break the back of your dialogue.

4. Uh, You Do Know The Rules, Right?

Learn the structure of dialogue. If a screenplay, know the format. Capitalized name, centered above parenthetical stage direction and the line of dialogue. VO, OC, OS, contd:

SCOOTER (VO)

(shouting)

I always said that life was like a box of marmots. You

never know which one's gonna nibble off your privates.

In fiction, know when to use a comma, when to use a period, know where the punctuation goes in relation to quotation marks, know that a physical gesture (nodded, f'rex) is not a dialogue tag.

"Fuck that monkey," John said.

"But," Betty said, "I love that dumb chimp."

John nodded. "I know, Betty. But he's a bad news bonobo, baby. A bad news bonobo."

5. Use It To Set Pace

You want a pig to run faster, you grease him up with Astroglide and stick a NASA rocket booster up his ass. You want your story to read faster, you use dialogue to move it along. Like I said: dialogue reads easy. Dialogue's like a waterslide: a reader gets to it, they zip forth fast, fancy and free. Want to slow things down? Pull away from the dialogue. Speed things up? More dialogue. Throttle. Brake. Throttle. Brake.

6. Shape Determines Speed

Short, sharp dialogue is a prison shiv: moves fast 'cause it's gotta, because T-Bone only has three seconds in the lunch line with Johnny the Fish to stitch a shank all up in Johnny's kidneys. Longer dialogue moves more slowly. Wanting to create tension? Fast, short dialogue. Want to create mystery? Longer, slightly more ponderous dialogue. Want to bog your audience in word treacle? Let one character take a lecturing info-dump all over their heads.

7. Expository Dialogue Is A Pair Of Cement Shoes

One of dialogue's functions is to convey information within the story (to other characters) and outside the story (to the audience). An info-dump is the clumsiest way to make this happen. Might as well bludgeon your audience with a piece of rebar. And yet, you still gotta convey info. You have ways to pull this off without dropping an expository turd in the word-bowl. Don't let one character lecture; let it be a conversation. Question. Answer. Limit the information learned; pull puzzle pieces out and take them away to create mystery. Let characters be reluctant to give any info, much less dump it over someone's head.

8. Showing Through Telling

And yet, you have to do it. Dialogue is a better way of conveying information than you, the storyteller, just straight up telling the audience. The curious nature of dialogue, however, is that it would seem to rectally violate that most sacred of writing chestnuts — show, don't tell. I don't open my mouth and project fucking holograms. I tell you shit. And yet, the trick with dialogue is to show through telling. You reveal things through dialogue without a character saying them. This means it's paramount to avoid…

9. The Wart On The End Of The Nose

"On-the-nose" dialogue is dialogue where a character says exactly what he feels and what he wants for purposes of telling the audience what they need to know. When a villain spoils his own sinister plan, that's on-the-nose. When a protagonist says, "I cannot love you, elf-lady, because an elf once touched me in my no-no hole," that's on-the-nose. Trust me, we'd live in a better, happier world if real world dialogue was all on-the-nose. On the other side, we'd experience duller, shittier fiction. Characters — and, frankly, real people — reveal things without saying them.

10. The Words Beneath The Words

Text versus sub-text. On-the-nose dialogue versus dialogue that is deliciously sub rosa. Meaning exists beneath what's said. The best real world example of this is the dreaded phrase spoken by men and women the world around: "I'm fine." Said with jaw tight. Said with averted eyes. Said in sharp, clipped tongue. Never before have two words so clearly meant something entirely different: "I'm fine" is code. It's code for, "Yes, something is fucking wrong, but I don't want to talk about it, but actually, I do want to talk about it but I want you to already know what's wrong, and what's wrong is that you had sex with my mother in a New Jersey rest-stop and put it on Youtube you giant unmerciful cock-waffle."

11. Pay No Attention To The Dead Man Behind The Curtain

Put differently: pretend that dialogue is more about hiding than it is about revealing. The things we the audience want to know most — who killed his wife, why did he rob that bank, did he really have a romantic dalliance with that insane dancing robot — are the things the character doesn't want to discuss. Dialogue is negotiating that revelation, and it's a revelation that should come as easy as pulling the teeth out of a coked-up Doberman. Meaning, not easy at all.

12. Where Tension, Suspense And Mystery Have A Big Crazy Gang-Bang

The fact that characters lie, cheat, conceal, mislead and betray all in dialogue tells you that dialogue is a critical way of building tension and suspense and conveying mystery. Characters are always prime movers.

13. Quid Pro Quo, Clarice

Hannibal Lecter susses out the truth through dialogue. (Oh, and he also eats people.) But he's also performing meta-work for the audience by sussing out character through dialogue. Clarice Starling is painted in part by Lecter's own strokes. A character's blood, sweat, tears, ball-hair and breast-milk lives inside their dialogue. How they speak and what they say reveals who they are, though only obliquely. After writing a conversation, ask yourself, "What does this say about the characters? Is this true to who they are?"

14. Let The Character Sign Their Own Work

Each line of dialogue from a character is that character's signature. It contains their voice and personality. One speaks in gruff, clipped phrasing. The other goes on at length. One character is ponderous and poetic, another is meaner than two rattlesnakes fucking in a dirty boot. Don't let a character's voice be defined by dialect, slang, or other trickery. It's not just how they speak. It's also what they say when they do.

15. Dialogue Is A Theme Park

Theme is one of those things you as the author don't really speak out loud — but sometimes characters do. They might orbit the theme. They might challenge it. They might speak it outright. Not often, and never out of nowhere. But it's okay once in awhile to let a character be a momentary avatar of theme. It's doubly okay if that character is played by Morgan Freeman. God, that guy's voice. He could say anything — "Beans are a musical fruit" — and I'm like, "There it is! Such gravitas! Such power. It's the theme. It's the theme!"

16. Dialogue Is Action

We expect that dialogue and action are separate, but they are not. Speak is a verb. So's talk. So's discuss, talk, argue, yell, banter, rant, rave. Verb means action. That means, duh, dialogue is action, not separate from it. Further, dialogue works best when treated this way. Don't stand two characters across from one another and have them talk at each other like it's a ping-pong game. Characters act while speaking. They walk. Kick stones. Clean dishes. Load rifles. Pleasure themselves. Build thermonuclear penile implants. Eat messy sandwiches. This creates a sense of dynamism. Of an authentic world. Adds variety and interest.

17. The Real World Is Not Your Friend

I'm not talking about the MTV reality show, though one supposes there the lesson is the same (so not your friend). What I mean is, if you want to ruin good dialogue, the fastest path to that is by mimicking dialogue you hear in the real world. Dialogue in the real world is dull. It's herky-jerky. Lots of um, mmm, hmm, uhhh, like, y'know. If you listen really hard to how people speak to one another, it's amazing anybody communicates anything at all.

18. For The Record, You're Not David Mamet

Yes, yes, I know. David Mamet writes "realistic" dialogue. Everyone interrupts everyone. They say inexplicable shit. They barely manage to communicate. Subtextapalooza. It's great. It works. You're also not David Mamet. I mean, unless you are, in which case, thanks for stopping by. Would you sign my copy of Glengarry Glen Ross? All that being said…

19. Again: Not A Ping-Pong Match

Characters don't stand nose to nose and take turns speaking. People are selfish. So too are characters. Characters want to talk. They want to be heard. They don't wait their turn like polite automatons. They can interrupt each other. Finish one another's sentences. Derail conversations. Pursue agendas. Dialogue is a little bit jazz, a little bit hand-to-hand combat. It's a battle of energy, wits, and dominance.

20. Conversation Is Conflict

Dialogue can represent a pure and potent form of conflict. Two or more characters want something, and they're using words to get it. Before you write conversation, ask: what does each participant want? Set a goal. One character wants money. Another wants affirmation to justify her self-righteousness. A third just needs a fucking hug. Find motive. Purpose. Conscious or not. Let the conversation reflect this battle.

21. Authenticity Trumps Reality

"But it really happened," is never an excuse for something to exist in fiction. Weird shit happens all the time in reality. Ever have something happen where you say, "Gosh, that was really convenient?" You put that in your story, the audience is going to kick you in the gut and spit in your cereal. Dialogue suffers from similar pitfalls. Just because you hear it in reality doesn't mean it works in the context of story. Story has its own secret laws. You can make dialogue sound real without mimicking reality. One might term this "natural" dialogue; authenticity is about feeling real, not about being real.

22. Sometimes, You Just Gotta Babble That Shit Out

Writing dialogue sometimes means you just let two characters babble for awhile. Small talk, big talk, crazy talk. Let 'em circumvent the real topic. Give them voices. Open the floodgates to your sub-conscious mind. And let the conversation flow. Write big, write messy, write long. Cut later in comfort.

23. Nothing Wrong With Banter

You might write two characters just sitting down and shooting the shit and think, "I'll cut this down later." But don't be so sure. Sometimes characters just need to chat, babble, mouth off. Who they are can be revealed in two people just fucking around, seeing what comes out of their heads. That can work if it's interesting, if it puts the character on the map in terms of the audience's mental picture, and if it eventually focuses up to be something bigger than how it began. Oh, and did I mention it has to be interesting?

24. The Greatest Crime Against Humanity Is Writing Boring Dialogue

Like I said, dialogue is easy to read. Or, it's supposed to be. Anybody who writes dialogue that's dull, that doesn't flow like water and pop like popcorn, needs to be taken out back and shaken like a baby. Find the boring parts. The unnecessary stuff. The junk. Anything that doesn't feel a) necessary and b) interesting. Stick it in a bag and set it on fire. Want to read great dialogue? Sharp, fast, entertaining, witty-as-fuck, with a lot going on? Go watch the TV show GILMORE GIRLS. No, I'm not kidding. Stop making that face.

25. Double-Duty Dialogueing

Heh, "duty." Heh, "log." Shut up. If you take one thing away from these 25 nonsense nuggets gems of wisdom, it's this: let dialogue do the heavy lifting and perform double- or even triple-duty. Dialogue isn't just dialogue. It's a vehicle for character, theme, mood, plot, conflict, mystery, tension, horror. Dialogue does a lot of work in very short space: it's the goddamn Swiss Army knife of storytelling. Or Macgyver. Or Trojan Horse. Or Macgyver hiding in a Trojan Horse carrying a Swiss Army knife. Didn't I tell you to shut up already? Where's Morgan Freeman when you need him? He'll tell you to shut up and you'll listen.

Corollary: "Everything Is Dialogue"

Part of why dialogue reads so easy is because it's conversational, and conversation is how we interact with other humans and, in our heads, with the world. We talk to inanimate objects, for fuck's sake. (What, you've never yelled at a stubborn jar of jelly? SHUT UP HAVE TOO.) There's a secret, here, and that is to treat all your writing like it's dialogue. Write things conversationally. Like you're talking to the audience. Like you and the audience? Real BFFs. You can abuse this, of course, but the point is that in conversation you'll use straightforward, uncomplicated language to convey your point — no value in being stodgy and academic when you're just talking. So too is it with writing, whether it's description in a screenplay or in fiction, you'll find value in straightforward, uncomplicated, even talky language. Talk with the audience, don't lecture at them. Everything is dialogue. Some of it's just one-sided, is all.

So. How about you?

What are your rules of writing dialogue?

* * *

Did you enjoy this post? Guess what? Chuck has a book chock full of the same kind of booze-soaked, profanity-laden writing advice you found here. Look for CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY. Buy fo r Kindle (US), Kindle (UK), Nook, or PDF.

The Penmonkey Incitement

Wow. THE PENMONKEY INCITEMENT sounds like a lost Robert Ludlum novel.

Never mind.

I would like to sell more copies of CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY.

I have, at this exact moment, sold 328 copies over the last six weeks.

For the record, I'm not unhappy with that number. It actually makes me giddy. I see that number, I do a little dance. In my pants. Hah, just kidding, I don't wear your oppressive Earth pants. PENMONKEY is actually poised to out-earn IRREGULAR CREATURES despite the latter being on sale since January and having sold twice as many copies. So, hey: thumbs up.

Even still, I want more copies of PENMONKEY in the world.

I seek nothing short of total dominance of the "writing advice" market, where me and my hunter-killer robots storm across the barren wasteland of the publishing industry, eradicating bad writing left and right with our laser beams and pinching claws. I want a throne built of slushy manuscripts and lined with the teeth of those writers who had sense knocked into them (and molars knocked out of them) by my book.

I also want a Lamborghini. I mean, c'mon. I had the poster as a kid. Lamborghini. Hot bikini chick. Maybe a python or some shit. And I suspect that my little bloggery-book on writing advice is the way toward such fame and fortune. And toward a chick with a constrictor snake inside a hot late 80′s sports car.

Okay, I kid. But I would still like to get more PENMONKEY out there, regardless of my lack of Lamborghinis or doom-bots. Right? Right.

To do so, I thought, okay, maybe an incentive program. Maybe, if I don't sell 100 copies every week, I would do something horrible. "You don't buy my book, I'll shoot this unicorn."

Except then I figured, ohh, ohhh, nobody's going to buy the book because everybody's going to want to see the unicorn shooting. And they're going to wanna see how I dispose of all those unicorn carcasses.

So, I went back to the wise words of my Kung Fu mentor, Wily Cheung Dragon, who said:

"Be a fountain, not a drain."

Which, it turns out, was just advice on how to pee, but hell with him, he was old and smelled like wet dog.

Point is, incentives should be positive.

So, here then, are the incentives for CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY. Ready?

Every 50 Copies Sold: Did Somebody Say "Postcard?"

I sell 50 copies, I will mail you a postcard. In the real mail. In the corporeal world. This postcard will be — well, I don't know what the hell it'll be. Maybe a PENMONKEY postcard, I dunno. But I do know what the postcard will say, and that's a postcard-sized piece of single-serving writing advice. I will not duplicate this advice across any postcards. It will be handwritten, which means you get to gaze upon my calligraphy, which is about as legible as if you cut off a chicken's head and stuck a fountain pen in the stump and then let him flop around on a piece of paper. Still: free postcard.

Every 100 Copies Sold: Free Motherfucking T-Shirt

Folks have been clamoring for a PENMONKEY t-shirt. Well, I'm not selling one. What am I, a t-shirt shop?

No.

I am, however, giving one away.

That shirt will probably be this shirt:

Since I'm only giving away these shirts, that means it will be rare and worth millions of dollars. Okay, maybe not that last part. But rare! Definitely rare. Yeah.

That said, I reserve the right to change the t-shirt at any time. I probably won't, because I'm lazy, but I'm also unpredictable. Like a homeless guy with a knife and a drinking problem.

I only promise that the t-shirt will contain the word: PENMONKEY.

(That shirt also says terribleminds on the back, by the way. I did it with Zazzle.)

Every 200 Copies Sold: I Edit Your Shit

For every 200 copies, I will pick someone at random and offer them the chance to get a single editing pass on 5000 words of their content or 50 script pages of a screenplay from yours truly. I will give it a robust single pass of copy, content and context, and further, I will always be tactful but make no aims to be nice. Know that going in (then again, if you read this blog, you know I'm a tough-love type — I love you, sure, but my love comes stapled to the end of a Louisville slugger).

You may say, what are my qualifications beyond being just some fuckface with an author's blog and a book containing dubious NSFW writing advice? I've been writing professionally now for over 13 years, and further, I've done quite a bit of editing and developing work. For example, I hired writers, developed content, and edited the writing across the entire Hunter: The Vigil game-line. Those writers I hired will likely tell you that they hated me and envisioned my death, but I also believe they'll tell you that I improved their work. (If any of those writers are here now, feel free to pop in and say so. Or, tell me you still hate me.)

Every 500 Copies Sold: Some Awesome Fucker Gets A Kindle

Yep. For every half-a-thousand sold, I'll pick someone at random and give them a Kindle. I'm not made of wampum over here, so it'll be the "regular" Kindle that comes bundled with special offers (THIS GUY right here). If you already have a Kindle, then feel free to either say, "Send it to [insert person's name here]" or "No, thank you, please pick the next person on the list, as I am one magnanimous muhfucka."

The Deets

Here, then, is the 411, the deets, the down-low.

This, er, "incentive program" is only open to those in the United States of America. I can't pay international shipping, and further, may not be able to give international work a good proper edit. [EDIT: That said, if you're international and you want me to edit your work, so be it, I will.]

I will run this for the next 1000 sales of PENMONKEY (starting with sale #329) or for the next year, whichever comes first. After that, I may continue, discontinue, or change the parameters and have my doom-bots add new "incitement protocols."

I will keep a running tally somewhere on this site, soon as I figure out where that goes best. Sidebar? Maybe.

Any "incentives" will be received within 60 days of notification, though I have little doubt it'll get to you a lot sooner. (The only tricky one is the edit, which may take time, so I want that 60-day cushion.)

This program is open to those who have already procured PENMONKEY (i.e. those first 328 purchasers) provided they live in the United States.

If you bought a PDF, I already have your email address and you don't need to do anything at all.

If you bought a copy via Amazon or B&N, I need proof of sale and and e-mail address. Proof of sale can be a screen cap of a receipt or a photo of the book on your e-reader device. I reserve the right to be a jerk and test you and quiz you. Because that's just how I roll. (Though recall: I also roll lazy. So I probably won't.)

You can send proof of purchase to a special address I've got set-up for the whole shebang:

terribleminds at gmail dot com.

"Incitement Recipients" will be chosen at random via spreadsheet + random number generator.

If you have any questions, use the comment box below.

To procure PENMONKEY:

Kindle (US), Kindle (UK), Nook, or PDF.

I politely request that you spread the word on this, as it doesn't work unless… well, people know about it.

Let the doom-bots begin their incitement.

I look forward to my hot-chick-in-a-Lamborghini.

Flash Fiction Challenge: The Fourth Of July

Check out last week's players in the "Sub-Genre Mash-Up."

Monday's the Fourth of July. In this country, that means grilled meats, flag-waving, fire-crackers, humidity, parades, patriotism, picnics, baseball, families, and so on, and so forth.

It's a day of celebration.

But fiction, well. Fiction likes a taste of the dark stuff. Fiction seeks to subvert happiness with a foul tincture of darkness. That, then, is your task for this week. Take the Fourth of July and muddy it up.

The flash fiction must be set on the Fourth of July.

This is a good challenge for horror or crime fiction, I think. Less so for fantasy and sci-fi, but if you think you can make it work, do it. Just be sure you show how long the shadows are on this hot summer holiday.

Once again: 1000 words.

Post it on your blog, and link back here, then make sure to let us know in the comments where to look for the fiction. You've got a week. Closing up shop Friday, July 8th, at 12 noon EST.

Load up them bottle rockets.

Jump into the pool.

Tell the grillmaster how you like your burger.

And be sure to hide the bodies.

"Decisions, Decisions," by C.Y. Reid

Okay. Here goes, the first weekly terribleminds guest post — this one by C.Y. Reid, who would like to talk to you about his experiences writing a Choose Your Own Adventure Android app. Welcome him, and don't hesitate to drop down into the comments section and ask the dude some questions. Please to enjoy.

Have you ever made a really difficult decision? One that's plagued you for days on end, the resulting nervous state of emotional limbo never quite seeming to dissipate despite what you're doing, where you are, or what's doing its best to distract you? We've all been there, and it's tough.

Now, I'm not talking about the stuff that holds a conventional sense of gravitas. One university or another. One car, one coffin, one career or another. I'm talking about the ridiculously bizarre decisions we fixate on to the point of generating our own internalised state of OCD. Which sandwich to have for lunch. Which bus to get. Which film to watch.

These decisions are what we agonise over more often than those with more serious consequences (though I'd argue that a bad sandwich is pretty serious), because they occur more often, and sometimes form part of an overall set of choices that define our lives. With choose-your-own-adventure writing, you're not offering people constant, life-changing choices – you're offering them the small beat-by-beat movements, occasionally punctuated by cliff-edge decisions, like how to fight a dragon, or how best to shut down your imagination while reading Chuck's search term bingo posts.

It's best to think of a choose-your-own-adventure novel like the roots of an old oak tree. You're starting out from the trunk, the body of work that forms the basis for everything else – the world-fluff. Every smattering of nutrients you suck up through exploring the roots travels back up towards the surface, contributing to an ever-growing understanding of the world you're exploring, page by page, in a far more direct and interactive way than you're usually allowed to.

But each branching path can't just be an obvious choice; a long, spiralling, weathered finger of wood with the resilience of aeons underground, or a short, dead stump. You have to make every single fork in the road matter just as much, and that means you can't simply write sword-or-white-flag choices. A lot of recent videogames have featured choose-your-own-adventure elements, from Fable's simplistic good-and-evil system to Mass Effect's conversation wheel.

But the problem with these choices, and a lot of the choices I see in choose-your-own-adventure fiction is that they're all based around an underlying theme of black-and-white morality. That theme is what is going to not only kill off half your pages, due to the fact that most readers will elect not to rape and pillage the townsfolk, rather than save and reassure them, but it's also going to mean that the reader's choices are simply a reflex.

Indecision generates fear, and I think that's one of the reasons we get so stressed out about whether or not to dash to the duty-free just when our gate number is due at any moment. There's that internal sensation of horror that pervades our decision, and I think by making people stop and think, you're generating an adventure that means something to the reader.

Some storytellers think that they need an action beat every so many pages. But with this, every page in a choose-your-own-adventure tale is an action beat. Life isn't a passenger experience, and if you're offering someone a sense of interactivity within your fiction, you have to commit – half-arsing it just leaves them feeling like they're playing within a sandbox, but you're only letting them have the ambulance and the Tonka truck, rather than the Hot Wheels dream machines you're dabbling with in the background.

If you want to write a choose-your-own-adventure novel (please do, it's an art form that deserves more attention), I salute you, because as a writer, it's brave of you. To hand one of the reins over to the reader and step back, knowing that they might only see less than a third of the pages you've written, perhaps never even reading through again to get a different ending, is bold. So be bold, and allow them to choose adventure.

C.Y. Reid is an SEO copywriter by day (boo, hiss, etc), and a passionate creative writer by night. He blogs at www.cyreid.com, tweets as @ReidFeed, and you can find Scoundrel's Cross at this link.

Strangling Mermaids: More Writing Myths That Need To Die

Point of fact: I'm the guy at parties who tells you that urban legend you're passing around — about the AIDS needles in the McDonald's playground ball-pit or the dead baby used to smuggle cocaine or the chihuahua-that's-actually-a-rat — is bullshit. I don't know why. Everybody has fun telling those kinds of stories and there I am, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose, murdering misinformation — and, oh, fun — in equal measure. I'm just skeptical, I guess. You tell me that the punch in the punch bowl is spiked with vodka, I'm likely to ask, "Did you check Snopes? SNOPES OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN."

I bring the same measure of myth-killing (and subsequent accidental fun-murdering) to writing. Writers often live or die by magical thinking, and that's all well and good when it's not fucking with your mojo. But myths often contain secret dangers. The Mexican Pet legend — i.e. the chihuahua-that's-actually-a-rat — contains a not insubstantial seed of xenophobia and racism. "Oh, those silly disgusting Mexicans," it says, "with their dog-like rats and their rat-like dogs. You just can't trust things from wacky Mexico!"

And thus I find it instructive to shine a light in dark spaces.

It's probably annoying.

But, too bad. Here I am, once more kicking over logs inside the writer's mind and seeing what squirmy little wormlets lurk underneath. Let's tackle some more writing myths.

"All It Takes To Be A Writer Is To Read And Write!"

If ever there was a piece of advice that was more dismissive of the act of writing, I don't know what it is. At the heart of the advice is this: if you really want to learn how to write, then the only things you need to do is read books and, in turn, write them. Boom. Done. From there, you'll… I dunno, just figure it the fuck out.

Can you imagine if we believed that true of other skills?

"Piano? Ehh. Just listen to some Billy Joel and then go flop around on this Casio keyboard for an hour and a half. You'll pick it up." "Painting? Sure, sure, here's a bunch of Bob Ross VHS tapes, just put those on and then fingerpaint a bunch of happy little trees for a few weeks. You'll be Leonardo Picasso in no time." "Truck driving? Yeah, fuck the CDL. Just watch me do it, then you have a crack at it. That's all you need. No, don't worry if you mow down a church picnic or some shit. Them churchies have had it too good for too long."

Reading and writing are two critical components of learning to write. True. No argument. But to suggest that's all it takes is ludicrous — this isn't fucking Skee-Ball. Writing's got a lot of moving parts, many obscured behind a metric butt-ton of abstraction. This idea misses first that going out and living your life is a critical component to being a writer: you learn about stories by living your own stories. You also learn storytelling by hearing stories told, not just by reading them or writing them. Further, this removes from the equation any power you might get from writing classes (compositional and up) and writing advice, both of which are not only functional, but for many, fundamental.

Newsflash: I read a lot as a kid and I wrote a lot, too.

It didn't make me a bestselling author at age 12.

The classes I took? The writing advice I read? The conferences? The sit-downs with other writers? The notes from editors? All of it, instructive. All of it putting me where I am today.

"My Characters Control Me!"

Despite how it sounds, I don't actually want to destroy the magic implicit to storytelling. A very real magic lives there, and while I believe that writing is a craft, I've come to further believe that storytelling is an art.

But for me, the focus of magic must be internal, not external. Magic shouldn't happen to the writer; the writer should be the one in control of the magic. It's the difference between having your penis stolen by black magic sorcerers or, instead, being the sorcerer who uses his magic to steal penises. Right? Right.

So it always amazes me when writers speak of their fiction — and, in particular, the characters within that fiction — as being somehow alive, as if they're real people running rough-shod over your story because these characters just don't give a raw red fuck what you, the writer, want. Does that mean I've never been surprised by my characters? Of course I've been surprised by my characters. But I don't attribute it to them being real. Instead, I high-five my subconscious mind and say, "Nicely done, part of my brain, I approve of your decision." I mean, it's not like comic book writers are like, "Yeah, I don't know why Superman just took a Kryptonian Super-Shit on Hawkman. It's just, hey, that's Superman. I don't control him. That crazy motherfucker does what he wants. The underwear on the outside? His idea."

Here's proof that you control your characters. When next you sit to write, have one of your characters just take a handgun and shoot himself smack dab in the head. You can go back and erase it — but did he fight you for control of the gun? No. No he didn't. (And if he did: seek help. Or call a penis-stealing wizard, because maybe that dude has some advice on controlling your shit.)

"I Write Because OMG I Have To Or I'll Explode!"

Again, another thing that gives short shrift to writers and writing. Writers write because they want to write. We're not compelled to by some outer force. We are not mouthpieces of the divine.

Further, writing isn't a mental illness. (Though it may feel that way at times.) We are not compelled to do it like slavering word-junkies. Christ, if writers were truly compelled to write, you'd probably see a lot less video game playing and a helluva lot more actual writing getting done.

By acknowledging that we want to write and must force ourselves to do so, then… drum roll please, we actually do so. Don't be so dramatic to think that you're metaphysically or psychotically forced to write by elements beyond your control. You cede that kind of authority to spectral hands then when the day comes you don't write, well, that's probably because the Powers That Be demanded it. Oh well!

"By Performing That Action, I Will Have Given Away My Thunder!"

Your creativity is not a newborn rabbit, so frail that even the mildest startle causes its tender systems to shut down. And yet I continue to hear about how this or that (outlining, prep-work, revising, editing, etc.) somehow damages the author's creativity by robbing the project of its rare magic. Or, put differently, "It's just not fun anymore." You wrote an outline and it ruined Christmas.

You know what's not fun? A bad day of writing. You know what else isn't fun? When your word processor poops the bed and crashes in the middle of writing a paragraph. Rejections aren't fun either. Neither are bad reviews. Or paring down word count. Or excising a beloved character. Or, or, or. Point is, writing isn't a giggly run through a tickle-factory. The process is host to an endless array of cold realities. If your story idea is so fragile and crystalline that doing prep-work — or simply talking about it with a friend — then your story wasn't worth much of a shit to begin with.

A corollary to this features discussions about money and publishing, as if discussions surrounding those things tarnish the high-and-mighty art of writing. If money somehow cheapens writing for you, then your notion of writing was really too wan, too feeble, to survive. In this day and age, with a competitive market and a fast-exploding self-publishing market, talking about advances and book prices is meaningful and necessary. Just because you don't like it doesn't mean the adults don't still need to have the conversation.

If you truly feel that way about money and art, great. Prove it. Don't get an agent. Don't contact a publisher. Give your work away. Online. On street corners. Wherever. Just hand it off. Because, fuck money, am I right? Fuck sustainability. Fuck feeding your kids or your dogs or paying for health care or buying bags of scrumdiddlicious Funyuns (or their snacky-food counterparts, Munchos and Bugles).

Go ahead. Just give it away.

The moment you say, "Well, I'd like to get something for it…" is the moment you enter the money discussion. And it's also the moment where I stick a bomb in your dickhole. FOOOOOM.

"My Ideas Are Super-Secret-Smooshy-Special!"

There exists a notion that the foundation of the writing life — that the curly pubic-coil that comprises a penmonkey's most basic DNA — is a foundation made of ideas. This is why the question is always, "Where do you get your ideas?" Because people place an incredibly high value on them.

Ah, but — this high value doesn't hold a lot of water.

Ideas aren't that meaningful by themselves. I've seen some writers stymied because they "don't have a good idea." An idea isn't the backbone of a story. It's isn't the whole pig. It's just the squeal and maybe the tail and that's it. The idea's the thing that gets you off the ground, but it's not currency. It's not a secret treasure. Most ideas aren't even that original. I don't know if stories even have original ideas.

What's original — and what matters — is the execution of an idea. The question should't be, "Where do you get your ideas?" but rather, "How exactly did you make good on this idea and sit down in front of the computer day in and day out and give flesh and bones to this notion and then, beyond that, how did you give breath to that flesh and bones and make that story get up and dance instead of being just a hollow gas-bag of unfulfilled, unoriginal, ill-arranged, who-gives-a-shit ideas?"

But I guess that question's a little too wordy. And besides, if writing is just about ideas, then how easy it must be! Eeeee! Giggle snort! Tickle-factory, here I come!

What else? Your turn. What myths sustain — but can also harm — the writer's life?

* * *

If you dig on the apeshit crazy-face no-holds-barred profanity-soaked writing advice found here at terribleminds, then you may want to take a wee bitty gander-peek at: CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY, which is available now! Buy for Kindle (US), Kindle (UK), Nook, or PDF.

The Five, By Robert McCammon

THE FIVE is Robert McCammon's messiest, strangest work of fiction.

That may not sound like a good thing.

You'd be wrong.

See, this is a novel about the last days of a hardscrabble indie rock band — the titular "The Five" — and the horror they endure at the hands of a schizo sniper, a horror that ultimately brings them together before properly setting them apart. Contained within the story is this ghostly vein of the supernatural, a delicate component of good versus evil that never shows its full face, that always remains hidden in the margins of shadow that McCammon paints.

So, when I say "messy" and "strange," I mean it in the truest rock-and-roll sense. Think if you will of the The White Stripes. Or The Doors. Or Jimi Hendrix. Or late Beatles. Or Sleater-Kinney. Or any garage band playing music that isn't about perfection but about what lies beyond and within each note — the messy thump of a bass drum, the fuzz of a grinding guitar, the trippy vertigo strains of an organ. We're not talking the measured bleeps and blips of pop music: we're talking about the unkempt margins of rock-and-motherfucking-roll, son.

I don't know how McCammon does it, but both the story and the execution of that story mimic that kind of garage band rock. It's loose and messy, it deviates from expected courses, it escalates just when you think it's going to ease off and eases off just when you think it's going to escalate, it's trippy and slippery. Above all else, it offers a kind of genius from a storyteller who has in my mind achieved a mode of transcendence — here, then, is McCammon as storytelling Bodhisattva, staying around this crass publishing arena to show the rest of his what it's like to write from the heart and make it count.

Another way of thinking about it is by talking about James Joyce. Weird, I know, but bear with me: if you read Joyce's work, his fiction doesn't become more buttoned-up — it gets bigger, broader, more personal, and certainly weirder. Even comparing PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN with ULYSSES is a fascinating exercise: the first fairly lean, the second similar but with a far greater storyworld. ULYSSES shows Joyce beyond the top of his game — he's climbed the ladder, gotten to the top, and kicked it down behind him — and reveals an ultimate expression of the novel. He's not afraid to deviate, either. He wanders down alleys you didn't even know where there, with Leopold Bloom as our vehicle through the mundane chaos, the heroic normalcy of an everyman's day.

(Let's not talk about FINNEGAN'S WAKE right now.)

THE FIVE is McCammon's ULYSSES.

That's a wacky statement. I know. But I think it's true. This tale of "The Five" — Nomad, Ariel, Mike, Terry, and Berke — takes those same trips down dark alleys, concerning itself less with a mechanical thriller-slash-horror plot and more with the nature of these characters and the power and madness of rock-n'-roll in this day and age. This is actually marketed as a horror novel, and… it is, I guess, but only barely. That's not to say it's not scary. It's rough stuff at times. But again the supernatural component, while present, is barely there — a stroke of subtlety rather than overt paranormality.

I'll be honest. I wasn't sure about the book for the first… 20, 30 pages. But then you slip into the vibe of it and it reveals itself. Soon your heart's thumping like a kick-drum.

If I had one complaint it's that early on McCammon seemed more interested in describing the technical beats of the music as it played — problematic for a guy like me who has the musical inclination of a cantaloupe. (Confession: I once played the drums. Second confession: I probably wasn't very good.) But eventually he moves away from that and describes the music in cleaner, more poetic beats — paving the way to let you know how the music's supposed to feel rather than the rote mechanics of how it's played. It conjures to mind that this is a novel with the potential for transmedia extensions, if only in the form of us getting to hear the music of "The Five."

Anyway. Point being, I recommend it. Two drumsticks thrust up and twirling. It's a powerful, profound, trippy novel that's troubling and unsettling throughout. This isn't like anything else McCammon has ever done — again, it's far fuzzier at the margins. But Stephen King was right to call it "full of rock and roll energy." It isn't McCammon's easiest read. But, ULYSSES isn't an easy read, either. Even still, both novels are some of the best of the form.

The caveat applies here that McCammon is easily my foremost "totem spirit" in terms of writers who influenced me. The guy's one of my literary heroes and it's nice to see him not just working, but at the top of his game. I'm looking cuh-razy forward to THE PROVIDENCE RIDER and whatever horror novel he's got after that. (I still need to see if I can get my hands on his new WOLF'S HOUR stories, though. Dangit.)

All right, cats and kittens.

Your turn.

Recommend a book.

And go read THE FIVE while you're at it.

25 Things You Should Know About Revising And Rewriting

Previous iterations of the "25 Things" series:

25 Things Every Writer Should Know

25 Things You Should Know About Storytelling

25 Things You Should Know About Character

25 Things You Should Know About Plot

25 Things You Should Know About Writing A Novel

1. Forging The Sword

The first draft is basically just you flailing around and throwing up. All subsequent drafts are you taking that throw-up and molding it into shape. Except, ew, that's gross. Hm. Okay. Let's pretend you're the Greek God Hephaestus, then. You throw up a lump of hot iron, and that's your first draft. The rewrites are when you forge that regurgitated iron into a sword that will slay your enemies. Did Hephaestus puke up metal? He probably did. Greek myths are weird.

2. Sometimes, To Fix Something, You Have To Break It More

Pipe breaks. Water damage. Carpet, pad, floor, ceiling on the other side, furniture. You can't fix that with duct tape and good wishes. Can't just repair the pipe. You have to get in there. Tear shit out. Demolish. Obliterate. Replace. Your story is like that. Sometimes you find something that's broken through and through: a cancer. And a cancer needs to be cut out. New flesh grown over excised tissue.

3. It's Cruel To Be Kind

You will do more damage to you work by being merciful. Go in cold. Emotionless. Scissors in one hand, silenced pistol in the other. The manuscript is not human. You are free to torture it wantonly until it yields what you require. You'd be amazed at how satisfying it is when you break a manuscript and force it to kneel.

4. The Aspiration Of Reinvention

I'm not saying this needs to be the case, and it sounds horrible now, but just wait: if your final draft looks nothing like your first draft, for some bizarre-o fucking reason you feel really accomplished. It's the same way I look at myself now and I'm all like, "Hey, awesome, I'm not a baby anymore." I mean, except for the diaper. What? It's convenient. Don't judge me, Internet. Even though that's all you know. *sob*

5. Palate Cleanser

Take time away from the manuscript before you go at it all tooth-and-claw. You need time. You need to wash that man right out of your hair. Right now, you either love it too much or hate its every fiber. You're viewing it as the writer. You need to view it as a reader, as a distant third-party editor flying in from out of town and who damn well don't give a fuck. From subjective to objective. Take a month if you can afford it. Or write something else: even a short story will serve as a dollop of sorbet on your brain-tongue to cleanse the mind-palate. Anything to shift perspective from "writer" to "reader."

6. The Bugfuck Contingency

You'll know if it's not time to edit. Here's a sign: you go to tackle the edit and it feels like your head and heart are filled with bees. You don't know where to start. You're thinking of either just walking away forever or planting a narrative suitcase bomb in the middle of the story and blowing it all to H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks. That means you're not ready. You're too bugfuck to go forward. Ease off the throttle, hoss. Come back another time, another way. Cool down.

7. The Proper Mindset

Editing, revising, rewriting requires a certain mindset. That mindset is, "I am excited to destroy the enemy that resists good fiction, I am ready to fix all the shit that I broke, I am eager to shave off barnacles and burn off fat and add layers of laser-proof steel and get this motherfucker in fit fighting shape so that no other story may stand before it." You gotta be hungry to fuck up your own work in the name of good storytelling.

8. Go In With A Plan Or Drown In Darkness

You write your first draft however you want. Outline, no outline, finger-painted on the back of a Waffle House placemat in your own feces, I don't care. But you go to attack a rewrite without a plan in mind, you might as well be a chimpanzee humping a football helmet. How do you know what to fix if you haven't identified what's broken? This isn't time for intuition. Have notes. Put a plan in place. Surgical strike.

9. Don't Rewrite In A Vacuum

You write the first draft in isolation. Just you, your keyboard, a story, some industrial lubricant and a handgun. All other drafts are part of a team initiative. SWAT, kicking in windows, identifying perps. Beta readers, editors, agents, wives, friends, itinerant strangers, hostages, whatever. Get someone to read your nonsense. Get notes. Attend to those notes. Third parties will see things you do not.

10. Embrace The Intervention Of Notes

You get notes, it's tough. It's like coming home and being surrounded by friends and family, and they want you to sit down and listen as they talk about getting you unfettered from your addiction to obscure 80s hair-bands and foul Lithuanian pornography. But listen to those notes. They may be hard but they're both instructive and constructive. They are a dear favor, so do not waste them.

11. But Also, Check Your Gut

When someone says "follow your gut," it's because your intestinal tract is home to an infinite multitude of hyper-intelligent bacterial flora. It knows what's up if you can tune to its gurgling frequency. You get notes and they don't feel exactly right, check the gut. Here's the thing, though. Notes, even when you don't agree, usually point out something about your manuscript. It may highlight a flaw or a gap. But it can also be instructive in the sense that, each note is a test, and if you come up more resolute about some part of your manuscript, that's okay, too. Two opinions enter, one opinion leaves. Welcome to Chunderdome.

12. When In Doubt, Hire An Editor

Editors do not exist to hurt you. They exist to hurt your manuscript. In the best way possible. They are the arbiters of the toughest, smartest love. A good editor shall set you — and the work — free.

13, Multitasking Is For Assholes

It is the mark of the modern man if he can do multiple things at once. He can do a Powerpoint presentation and mix a martini and train a cat to quilt the Confederate Flag all at the same time. Your story will not benefit from this. Further, it's not a "one shot and I'm done" approach. This isn't the Death Star, and you're not trying to penetrate an Imperial shaft with one blast from your Force-driven proton penis. You have to approach a rewrite in layers and passes. Fix one thing at a time. Make a dialogue pass. A description pass. A plot run. You don't just fix it with one pull of the trigger, nor can you do ten things at once. Calm down. Here, eat these quaaludes. I'm just kidding, nobody has 'ludes anymore.

14. Not Always About What's On The Page

Story lives beyond margins. It's in context and theme and mood — incalculable and uncertain data. But these vapors, these ghosts, must line up with the rest, and the rest must line up with them.

15. Content, Context, Then Copy

Behind, then, the layer cake of editing. Start with content: character, plot, description, dialogue. Move to context: those vapors and ghosts I just told you about. Final nail in the revision coffin is copy: spelling, grammar, all those fiddly bits, the skin tags and hangnails and ingrown hairs. Do these last so you don't have to keep sweeping up after yourself.

16. Evolution Begins As Devolution

Two steps forward, one step backward where you fall down the steps and void your bowels in front of company. Here is a common, though not universal, issue: you write a draft, you identify changes, and you choose a direction to jump — and the next draft embodies that direction. And it's the wrong direction. Second draft is worse than the first draft. That's fine. It's a good thing. Definition through negative space. Now you can understand your choices more clearly. Now you know what not to do and can defend that.

17. Two Words: Track Revisions

You know how when there's a murder they need to recreate the timeline? 10:30AM, murderer stopped off for a pudding cup, 10:45AM, victim took a shit in the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese, etc? Right. Track the timeline of your revisions. Keep a record of them all. First, if your Word processor allows you to track changes and revisions, do that. If your program doesn't (Word and Final Draft both do), then get one that does. Second, any time you make a revision change, mark the revision, save a new file every time. I don't care if you have 152 files by the end of it. You'll be happy if you need to go back.

18. Fuck Yeah, Spreadsheets

Spreadsheets seem anathema to writing, because writing is "creative." Well, rewriting is clinical and strategic. A spreadsheet can help you track story beats, theme, mood, characters, plot points, quirks and foibles, conflicts, and so on. Any narrative component can be tracked by spreadsheet. Here's one way: track narrative data per page or word count. "Oh, this character drops off the map for these 10 pages of my script." "This plot needs a middle bit here around the 45,000 word mark." "Not nearly enough laser guns and elf-porn at the turn of the third act."

19. A Reiteration Of Opinion Regarding "Creativity"

If you looked at that note about spreadsheets and thought something-something blah-blah-blah about how it will destroy your creativity and ruin the magic of the story, then form hand into fist and punch self in ear. If you need every day of writing to be a nougat-filled boat-ride through Pez-brick tunnels, you're fucked. Rewriting is hard. Creative comes from "create," and often, revision is about destruction. In other words: harden the fuck up, Strawberry Shortcake, 'cause the boat ride's about to get bumpy.

20. Put The Fun In Fundamentals

You can't revise if you don't know how to write. Same if you don't know the tenets of good story. How would you fix basic fucking problems if you can't find them in the first place?

21. A Trail Of Dead Darlings

Don't misread that old chestnut, "Kill your darlings." Too many writers read this as, "Excise those parts of the work that I love." That would be like, "Beat all the positive qualities of your child out of him with a wiffle ball bat." You should leave in the parts you love… if they work. Killing your darlings is about that word: "darling." Elements that are precious preening peacocks, that exist only to draw attention to themselves, those are the components that deserve an ice-axe to the back of the brain-stem.

22. Look For These Things And Beat Them To Death, Then Replace

In no particular order: Awkward and unclear language. Malapropisms. Punctuation abuse. A lack of variety in sentences. A lack of variety in the structure of the page. Plot holes. Inconsistency (John has a porkpie hat on page 70, but a ferret coiled around his head on page 75). Passive language. Wishy-washy writing. Purple prose. An excess of adverbs. Bad or broken formatting. Cliches. Wobbly tense and/or POV. Redundant language. Run-on sentences. Sentence fragments. Junk language. Cold sores. Mouse turds. Light switches that don't turn anything on. Porno mustaches. Dancing elves. Or something. I need a nap.

23. Clarity Above Cleverness, Or, "How Poetry Lives In Simplicity"

Poetry gets a bad rap. Every always assumes it's the source of purple, overwrought language, like it's some kind of virus that infects good clean American language and turns it into something a poncey 11th grade poet might sing. Poetry lurks in simple language. Great story does, too. You don't need big words or tangled phrasings or clever stunting to convey beautiful and profound ideas. In subsequent drafts, seek clarity. Be forthright in your language. Clarity and confidence are king in writing, and the revision process is when you highlight this. Write with strength. Write to be understood. That doesn't mean "no metaphors." It just means, "metaphors whose beauty exists in their simplicity."

24. Don't Make Me Say It Again: Read. Your Shit. Aloud.

I don't care if the dog is looking at you like you're crazy. If you're on the subway, hey, people think you're a mental patient. Oh well. Seriously though, I hate to repeat myself but I am nothing if not a parrot squawking my own beliefs back at you again and again: Take your work — script, fiction, non-fiction, whatever — and read it aloud. Read it aloud. READ IT ALOUD. When you read your work aloud, you'll be amazed at the things you catch, the things that sound off, that don't make sense, that are awkward or wishy-washy or inconsistent. Read it aloud read it aloud read it aloud read that motherfucker aloud.

25. Loose Butthole

Ultimate lesson: clinging to a first draft and resisting revision is a symptom of addiction — you may be huffing the smell coming off your own stink. The only way you can get clean is when you want to get clean, and the same goes with revisions: you're only going to manage strong and proper revisions when you're eager and willing to do so. Relax your mind. Loosen your sphincter. And get ready for war. Because revising and rewriting is the purest, most fanfuckingtastic way of taking a mediocre manifestation of an otherwise good idea and making the execution match what exists inside your head. Your willingness to revise well and revise deep is the thing that will deliver your draft from the creamy loins of the singing story angels.

Flash Fiction Challenge: Sub-Genre Mash-Up

Once again, last week's challenge is worth your look-see — "MUST LOVE ROBOTS." Scan the comments. Find the delicious robot stories contained within.

And now for this week's challenge.

Here, then, is a list of six sub-genres:

Steampunk.

Superhero.

Noir.

Erotica.

Farce.

Men's Adventure.

Your job is to choose two of these and mash them up into one crazy flash fiction tale. Superhero Erotica? Steampunk Noir? Men's Farcical Adventure? Mix, match. Go nuts.

You've got 1000 words.

Due by July 1st (Friday) at noon (EST).

Here's the second thing, though: I'll pick my favorite story out of the bunch and offer that writer a critique of up to 5,000 words of fiction (short story, part of a novel, whatever).

So, jump in. Get writing. Write so it rocks.

See you on the other side when you invent your own sub-sub-genres.