A Brief Guide to Writing Terrible Fiction

This post was inspired, in case you were wondering, by a gut-churningly bad self-published and out-of-print true story about a man who hiked across Canada with his teenaged daughter, reconnecting with his lapsed Catholic faith along the way — a perfectly solid premise for a book, sure, but written so badly it almost defies belief.

Here’s a taste:

Joyous, through the green, green forest we walked onwards, filled with joy to be in the forest and being together.

I will neither name it nor post a review, for this reason as well as for the sake of decency.

The topic warrants an anticipatory rebuttal. Yes, “good writing” and “bad writing” are highly subjective concepts. Yes, different readers like different things. Yes, if you dismiss something as poorly composed you run the risk of sounding like a snob. (See my previous blog post on the subject of obnoxious elitism.) Today’s screed, however, is about how to avoid a few of the worst, most egregious violations of polished prose style — the telltale signs of amateur work. These are the bright red flags that will almost immediately cause a seasoned reader to abandon a story. (Agents and publishers, it is worth pointing out, are seasoned readers.)

Bad fiction is painful to read. Bad fiction causes people to wince, cringe, flinch, moan, grind their teeth, and ultimately toss the book across the room.

Stipulation #1: Granted, some bad fiction is extremely popular and successful. Equivalently, much extremely good fiction does not sell. I am not implying a necessary correlation.

Stipulation #2: Some great writers do violate the guidelines, some of them regularly. But you can get away with it if you’re a great writer. They write great fiction in spite of their transgressions, not as a result of them.

Stipulation #3: I can’t tell you how to be a great writer. I'm not one. But I can tell you a few ways to avoid being a horrible writer.

All right, with that said, let’s embark together on a journey into bad writing.

The Six Keys to Terrible, Terrible Fiction

There are six guidelines to follow if you want to write something really awful. Even if your story concept is fantastic and your characters are compelling, if you write like this your story is guaranteed to be unreadable.

1. Heavily overuse the passive voice.

2. Overexplain everything. Tell your readers what they’re supposed to be thinking and feeling. Reveal facts and disclose background information with long, rambling blocks of exposition, especially right in the beginning.

3. Use lots of clichés. Be sure to drop in some really hackneyed ones. (Bonus points for mixing your metaphors.)

4. Use lots of modifiers. Stack 'em in there. Focus on adverbs. Sprinkle them liberally into dialog.

5. Construct your sentences in clumsy, awkward ways. (Extra credit here for using the same unusual word over and over again.)

6. Do anything weird and distracting. Examples include writing in the present tense or the second person.

I considered adding a seventh guideline to this list, something about using wildly incorrect spelling, grammar, and punctuation. But I decided not to, because that’s not a guideline. It’s a hard rule, an absolute game-ender. No serious reader, not even a generous, gracious, and determined one, will continue more than a sentence or two into a piece of writing that shows a lack of basic competence with the English language.

I’ll start with a snippet of a fake novel. Then, for illustrative purposes, I will destructively reverse-engineer it, applying each of the six guidelines until it becomes an irredeemable, indefensible stink bomb. Ready? Let’s begin.

Rain hammered the surface of the sea flat. Wiping the porthole glass with a wool glove, Matilda glanced out and saw a few small icebergs floating in the dark water nearby. Beyond that, mist obscured her view and erased the horizon. She brushed a strand of grayish-blonde hair out of her face and turned back to her search for breakfast, checking one half-empty, musty-smelling galley locker after another. She found nothing but tins of tuna and the last of the canned beans. She pulled out a jar of pickles, looked at it for several seconds, frowned, and then put it back. With a sigh, she closed the locker and flopped down on the settee berth. The downpour drummed on the cabin topsides. Above her, the closed companionway hatch sealed out the weather but trapped diesel fumes. She reached for one of the many paperbacks on the shelf above the navigation table. She flipped through it, and a photograph she had once used as a bookmark fell out. She leaned down and picked it up. The snapshot, taken by her father, showed Matilda at the age of about sixteen or seventeen, wearing her favorite blue T-shirt and baggy white shorts, sitting at the tiller of her second sailboat, grinning. She stared at the picture for a while, then slipped it back between the pages and returned the book to the shelf.

Permit me to briefly call your attention to four things. First, notice that this entire paragraph uses only active verbs — no being verbs like “were” and “was.” Second, notice that while the sentence structure is varied, there are no run-on sentences or strange, convoluted lines. It’s easy to read. Third, notice the use of specific detail and sensory imagery: sights, sounds, and smells. You feel like you’re there, having this experience alongside Matilda. Fourth, notice that adjectives are used sparingly. And there are no adverbs at all.

OK, let’s consider all the information about Matilda, her personal history and her present situation that I have conveyed here without actually coming right out and saying any of it directly.

1. Matilda has been an enthusiastic sailor since she was a child, and may have learned from her father. (As revealed by the old photograph.)

2. She is now a middle-aged woman. (As revealed by her grayish-blonde hair.)

3. She is currently on a small boat. (As revealed by the fact that the settee berth, nav table and galley are all so close together.)

4. It’s cold outside. (As revealed by the icebergs.)

5. It’s also cold inside. (As revealed by her wool gloves.)

6. She has been out there for a while. (As revealed by her dwindling provisions.)

7. She’s bored. (As revealed by her idle puttering about.)

8. She is an avid reader. (As revealed by the large inventory of books aboard.)

An inexperienced, unskilled or lazy writer doesn’t bother to find clever ways to suggest the essence of a situation. Instead, he just blurts it all out. And since he doesn’t trust his readers to understand what he’s trying to get across, he tends to yell it while waving his arms over his head. Good writers have faith in their readers and allow them the pleasure of figuring things out. Bad writers flog things to death.

The opening line is strong. It’s simple, yet vivid and original. It’s poetic without being pretentious. “The surface of the sea” has a pleasing rhythm as well as alliteration.

Let’s break the first two guidelines at the same time, shall we?

I’m going to break the first guideline by replacing all the active verbs with passive verbs. I’m going to break the second one by explaining everything.

It was raining. The surface of the sea was hammered flat by the rain, because it was raining so hard. Matilda was wearing wool gloves because it was so cold inside the sailboat she was in. Wiping the porthole glass, which was fogged because of the cold, Maltilda glanced out. A few small icebergs were floating in the dark water nearby, which was normal in the Arctic Ocean. Beyond that, her view was obscured and the horizon was erased by mist. Matilda was middle-aged and all alone in the sailboat. She brushed a strand of grayish-blonde hair out of her face and turned back to her search for breakfast. She was checking one half-empty, musty-smelling galley locker after another, finding nothing but tins of tuna and the last of the canned beans because she had been at sea so long and had already eaten most of her provisions. She was about to give up when finally she located a jar of pickles. She looked at it for several seconds, frowned because who wants to eat pickles for breakfast, and then put it back. With a sad sigh, she closed the locker with disappointment and flopped down on the settee berth unsatisfied and still hungry. The downpour was drumming steadily on the cabin topsides, making a lot of noise that was peaceful in a way but also kind of depressing. The companionway hatch above her was closed, which kept out the cold and rainy weather but also made the inside of the sailboat smelly and claustrophobic. Matilta was an avid reader and had a large collection of books on her boat. She reached for one of the many paperbacks on the shelf above the navigation table. She flipped through it, and there was a photograph in it, a photograph that she had once used as a bookmark. It fell out and she leaned down and picked it up. The snapshot was of Matilda at the age of about sixteen or seventeen, wearing her favorite blue T-shirt and baggy white shorts, sitting at the tiller of her second sailboat, grinning like a maniac. She had been sailing since she was very young. The picture was probably taken by her father, who had taught her how to sail. She stared at the picture for a while, then slipped it back between the pages and returned the book to the shelf, not in the mood to read because she was so sad and lonely right then. She was wishing something would happen, or that she had somebody to talk to.

See how boring that is? The repetitive use of passive voice feels inert. We’re basically just sitting here, not particularly interested, while the writer tells and tells and tells. Oh, but wait! We can make it so much worse.

Let’s break guidelines three and four by adding an abundance of modifiers and clichés.

It was raining cats and dogs. The surface of the great, wide, blue sea was hammered completely flat by the ferocious and unstoppable rain. Matilda was wearing thick, fluffy wool gloves because it was so frigidly cold inside the extremely compact yet cozy sailboat she was in. Wiping the porthole glass, which was totally fogged because of the intense cold, Maltilda glanced out inquisitively yet with determination at the familiar scene, knowing that a sailor’s life is a solitary one. A few small white glittering icebergs were floating languidly in the still, dark, salty water nearby, which was normal here in the frozen emptiness of the wild and dangerous Arctic Ocean. Beyond that, her view was absolutely obscured and the horizon was utterly erased by a dense veil of pale, chilly mist. Matilda was middle-aged and all alone in the sailboat. So hungry she could eat a horse, she brushed a strand of grayish-blonde hair out of her face and turned back to her on-going search for breakfast. She was focused like a laser beam on the task of checking one half-empty, musty-smelling galley locker after another, finding nothing but tins of tuna and the last of the canned beans because she had already been at sea so long at that point and had already eaten most of her provisions. She was about to give up in utter exasperation when finally to her surprise she located a jar of pickles! She looked at it undecidedly for several long seconds, frowned with annoyance because who wants to eat pickles for breakfast, she thought to herself, and then put it back. With a deep, sad, and lingering sigh, she firmly closed the locker with brooding disappointment and flopped down with a heavy thump on the settee berth unsatisfied and still hungry. The cold downpour was drumming steadily and relentlessly on the cabin topsides, making a lot of noise that was strangely peaceful in a way but also kind of morbid and depressing at the same time. The companionway hatch above her was tightly closed, which kept out the cold and rainy weather but also made the inside of the sailboat quite smelly and somewhat claustrophobic. Matilta was an avid reader and had a large and extensive collection of books on her boat. She reached hopefully for one of the many assorted and miscellaneous paperbacks on the shelf above the navigation table. She flipped curiously and optimistically through it, and to her sudden amazement found that there was a photograph in it, a photograph that she had apparently once used as a bookmark, because there it was, plain as day. It abruptly fell out. She quickly leaned down and gently picked it up. The nostalgic snapshot was worth a thousand words, showing Matilda at the age of about sixteen or seventeen, enthusiastically wearing her favorite blue T-shirt and baggy white shorts, sitting with great excitement and confidence at the tiller of her second sailboat, grinning like a maniac because she was obviously having the time of her life. She had been sailing since she was very young. The picture was probably taken by her proud father, who had eagerly taught her how to sail. She stared wistfully at the picture for a while, then slipped it carefully back between the pages and returned the book to the shelf, not in the mood to read because she was so sad and lonely right then. She was desperately wishing something would happen, or that she had somebody to talk to.

Ouch! That one’s not going to win any literary awards.

But why stop now? Let’s drive this one all the way to the bottom of the swamp. I am going to break guidelines five and six by putting this story in the second person present tense and using tortuously convoluted run-on sentences. Hold your breath and plug your nose.

Like cats and dogs, that's how it's raining today. The ferocious and unstoppable rain is hammering completely flat the surface of the great, wide, blue sea. You are wearing thick, fluffy wool gloves because it is so frigidly cold inside the extremely compact yet cozy sailboat you are in, and you use them to wipe the porthole glass, which is totally fogged because of the intense cold, and you glance inquisitively yet with determination at the familiar scene, knowing that a sailor’s life is a solitary one. In the still, dark, salty water nearby, a few small white glittering icebergs are floating languidly, which as you know so well is normal here in the frozen emptiness of the wild and dangerous Arctic Ocean where you currently are. Beyond that, your view is absolutely obscured and the horizon is utterly erased by a dense veil of pale, chilly mist. You are a middle-aged woman and are all alone in the sailboat, so hungry you could eat a horse, and so brushing a strand of grayish-blonde hair out of your face you are turning back to your on-going search for breakfast. You are focused like a laser beam on the task of checking one half-empty, musty-smelling galley locker after another, finding nothing but tins of tuna and the last of the canned beans because you have already been at sea so long at that point and have already eaten most of your provisions. You are just about to give up in utter exasperation when finally to your surprise you locate a jar of pickles! You look at it undecidedly for several long seconds, frown with annoyance because who wants to eat pickles for breakfast, you think to herself, and then you put it back with a deep, sad, and lingering sigh, and firmly close the locker with brooding disappointment and flop down with a heavy thump on the settee berth unsatisfied and still hungry. The cold downpour is drumming steadily and relentlessly on the cabin topsides, making a lot of noise that is strangely peaceful in a way but also kind of morbid and depressing to you at the same time. The companionway hatch above you is tightly closed, which keeps out the cold and rainy weather but also makes the inside of the sailboat quite smelly and somewhat claustrophobic to you. You are an avid reader and, having a large and extensive collection of books on your boat, you reach hopefully for one of the many assorted and miscellaneous paperbacks on the shelf above the navigation table. You flip curiously and optimistically through it, and to your sudden amazement find that there was a photograph in it, a photograph that you had apparently once used as a bookmark, because there it is, plain as day, when it abruptly falls out. Quickly you lean down and gently pick it up. Truly, the nostalgic snapshot is indeed worth a thousand words, showing you at the age of about sixteen or seventeen, enthusiastically wearing your favorite blue T-shirt and baggy white shorts, sitting with great excitement and confidence at the tiller of your second sailboat, grinning like a maniac because having been sailing since you first learned when you were very young, you are obviously having the time of her life there. The picture was probably taken by your proud mother, who had eagerly taught you how to sail. You stare wistfully at the picture for a while, then slip it carefully back between the pages and return the book to the shelf, not being in the mood to read because you are so sad and lonely right then. You are desperately wishing something would happen, or that you had somebody to talk to, for no man is an island, even though you are a woman and are on a boat not an island, you think humorously.

And there you have it. We took what might have been the beginning of a perfectly nice little story and transformed it into an unreadable piece of pure crap. So if writing terrible fiction is your goal, congratulations. You now have all the tools you need. Soon those one-star reviews will be washing over you like the urine of the angels.

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My author page:
www.AustinScottCollins.com

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