Stein On Writing: A Master Editor of Some of the Most Successful Writers of Our Century Shares His Craft Techniques and Strategies

by Sol Stein

“Detail is the lifeblood of fiction.” My only quarrel with that statement is that detail is also the lifeblood of nonfiction. And I want to go a step further. It is not just detail that distinguishes good writing, it is detail that individualizes. I call it “particularity.”

the use of apt particularities, the detail that differentiates one person from another, one act from another, one place from any others like it.

reader. Particularity is not only the essence of fine writing, it is sometimes rewarded by the gratitude of reviewers and readers, who can make bestsellers and classics of books whose authors pay attention to detail and the precise meaning of words.

For a writer, top-of-the-head writing, even letter writing, is dangerous because the habit could carry over into your work. If you work at particularizing in all of your personal correspondence, the recipients will enjoy what you write much more—and you will be practicing what you need to perfect to get your books published and to build an audience for your writings.

Try, fly, experiment, but if it shows strain, if it isn’t accurate, cut it.

Inaccurate similes and metaphors have the effect of deflecting the reader’s attention from the story to the words on the page. Yet when carried off, especially when a simile is original and a metaphor sings, there is no greater glory in the practice of words. In school we learned that a simile is a comparison of two unlike things, usually joined by the words “like” or “as.” Perhaps the “unlike” throws off writers. What is meant is that the writer shows by simile the similarity of two things that were previously not connected: Simile: She sprang up like a jack-in-the-box when the doorbell rang. We identify a jack-in-the-box popping up with suddenness, but if it said “She sprang up suddenly,” we’d lose the savor of the comparison.

In a metaphor, a word or phrase is applied to something that is figuratively rather than literally similar. This figure of speech results when words or phrases are brought together that do not ordinarily belong together, yet by their proximity convey a fresh meaning: Metaphor: His bicycle had wings. The bicycle was going so fast it seemed like a bird in flight or it was pedaled with élan as if it were airborne. As we’ve seen earlier, some of the best novel titles are metaphors. The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. We easily recognize the truth of such analogies. In commerci...

Those examples are clichés, tired from overuse. Most good writing is characterized by a careful use of precise and sometimes original similes and metaphors: Simile: He felt as if he were a teenager for whom illness and death were abstractions. Metaphor: ...

can you find spots of “bare bones” writing that could be improved by a simile or metaphor that you hadn’t thought of when you were getting your early draft onto paper?

Resonance is a term borrowed from the world of music, where it means a prolonged response attributable to vibration. In writing it has come to mean an aura of significance beyond the components of a story. Resonance can come from biblical associations.

resonance can be produced—by names, by reference to religious sources, by invoking life and death, by a bold conclusion, by hyperbole, by naming the parts of a book, by the use of aphorisms and epigraphs, and ideally from the writing itself, by the writer’s skillful use of similes and metaphors.

By Invoking a setting that has greatly influenced the life of a person. Some writers of biography will describe the subject’s birthplace in detail, but miss an opportunity for resonance.

A hyperbole is, of course, an exaggeration that is not meant to be taken literally. For the novelist, it presents an opportunity to lend resonance to what might otherwise seem ordinary.

greater value can be derived from naming chapters in nonfiction.

There are two points to remember about the use of aphorisms: If they are in the author’s voice, the point of view has to be either the third-person or the omniscient author’s point of view, not the first-person point of view of a character. If they are in a character’s dialogue, as in the case of Louie, you had better be sure the character you’ve created is the kind who could and would spout aphorisms on occasion.

By the use of Epigraphs. While aphorisms are your own, epigraphs can be other people’s aphorisms and thoughts that lend a touch of resonance to your work. An appropriate epigraph can convey the larger import of a novel, without the novel itself becoming didactic.

Hemingway as saying to an interviewer, “I rewrote the ending of A Farewell to Arms thirty-nine times before I was satisfied.” Asked what stumped him, Hemingway said, “Getting the words right.”

It is natural to resist rewriting. Every writer wants to be done with it, to cry, “Finished!” If you set a limit on how much rewriting you will do, you are merely devising an artificial barrier between your work and success. I have never encountered a writer who achieved a fully perfected manuscript in a first draft. In fact, the majority of published writers I have known write first drafts that are riddled with craft errors and embarrassingly bad writing compared to the version that finally sees print. They know that writing is truly rewriting.

I call my method of revision “triage” after the system for treating battlefield casualties to provide maximum benefit with limited facilities.

The steps I am about to propose are not written in stone. Their order can be changed, as long as the principle is maintained: major matters are attended to first. Even if you use a computer, I recommend that you have a hard copy of your manuscript to consult for the simple reason that seeing what you wrote on paper will give you a fresh impression of your work. If you follow the steps I am about to suggest, reprint the appropriate section after making any major changes so that you are working with clean copy when you finally go through the manuscript from beginning to end.

Character problems should be dealt with before beginning a general revision. I am about to ask you some questions about your protagonist that will help you decide whether or not that character needs work. • What is it about your character that you like especially? Does that happen to be also a trait of yours? If it is, that may be a symptom of the autobiography trap, creating a character that is too like yourself, which hurts the distance that every author needs from his creations. One way to ameliorate the problem is to give the character a distinctive trait—positive or negative—that you are absolutely sure you don’t have. • If you were about to take your only vacation of the year, how would you feel if your character were going along? You would probably be seeing your character at mealtime and in between, day in and day out for a week or two. Honestly now, would you look forward to that? You are asking your reader to spend a good number of hours with that character. You may need to add some sparkle to your character, some interesting eccentricity, perhaps a personality characteristic that will make his company more enjoyable. • How well do you understand your character? One way to find out is to imagine that you have just won a lottery jackpot of two million dollars. Your character doesn’t know you’ve been playing Lotto, but he is likely to hear about it on the news. People have mixed feelings about the sudden success of friends. Would it be better for you to tell your c...

The next step in revision is to take a hard look at your villain or antagonist. Note that I use the singular—“villain” or “antagonist.” If you have more than one, you may be diffusing the impact of the character’s villainy by spreading it. Is your antagonist morally bad, not just badly behaved? Does your antagonist enjoy doing wrong to people? Is your character not just mischievous but malicious? What I’m getting at is the degree of villainy. Is your character just badly behaved or a truly evil person? The choice, of course, is yours. But readers find morally villainous characters more interesting. Now let’s swing the other way. Does your villain have something that charms or entices people?

If you’re having difficulty making your villain charming or interesting, try seeing him through the eyes of someone who loves him. Or at least cares a lot about him. The villain will be a more effective adversary if he has been humanized.

The next step is to give some thought to your minor characters, who are often not minor if the credibility of a scene depends on believing their verisimilitude (lifelikeness). Just one special characteristic can make a difference. An easy way to help characterize minor players is to use one of the senses you may have neglected.

The next step is to be sure you have a credible conflict between your protagonist and the antagonist. Stories from time immemorial have consisted of people overcoming obstacles against high odds and strong adversaries.

The next step is to evaluate the scenes. What is the most memorable scene in your book? Don’t go to your manuscript for clues. If you can’t remember the scene, it isn’t memorable! Then ask yourself what is the least memorable scene?

What in the scene you selected as most memorable made it work so well? What does that suggest about the least memorable scene? This comparison in itself may spark an idea for revision. Don’t be disappointed if you can’t think of a radical revision of your least memorable scene. The usual remedy is to cut it! If cutting it removes some piece of information the reader needs, find some other way of conveying that information in an existing scene.

Once you’ve dealt with scenes that weaken your manuscript, the next step is to test motivation. First, from memory, jot down what you believe to be the three most important actions in your novel. Is each action motivated in a way that you would accept if this story were told by somebody else?

remember that motivation has to be either provoked by circumstance or planted ahead of time. Motivation can usually be established by planting it ahead of the scene in which the action takes place.

backgrounds of killer and killed because we want reasons for actions, not just to prosecute the killer but to understand human behavior, especially when it is not like ours.

Motivating actions takes work, and using coincidence is much easier. But coincidence is the mark of transient works, and I have met few novelists who are satisfied to think of their work as merely temporary entertainment.

Now read the first page as if it were the other author’s manuscript. After reading the first page, would you go on to the next page? If there isn’t a compelling reason to go to page two, it usually means that you haven’t sparked the reader’s curiosity.

there. If in doubt about a change, don’t make the change. Instead, make a note to yourself for later consideration.

Your first objective in a general revision is to tighten the manuscript. I know of only one novelist who writes tight first drafts that need expanding in revision. The others need cutting, lots of it. It is perfectly normal to overwrite in first drafts.

Every time he came to a paragraph he wasn’t sure contributed to the book, he marked it and with a block move transferred it to the end, after the last page. When he finished he found that he had transferred dozens of paragraphs and that only one or two, in modified form, deserved a place in the text. It’s a useful strategy. I’ve tried it and it works.

watch out for the between-the-scenes material, especially the offstage recounting of actions not seen. Try to eliminate as many of these as you can, or make them active and interesting in themselves.

In your general revision, cut words, phrases, sentences, or paragraphs, pages, or whole scenes that seem not absolutely necessary. Watch for places where your own attention flags.

Unless you are consciously trying to slow things down between fast-moving scenes, be relentless in moving the story forward. If you find it bogging down at any point, it could be for many reasons: perhaps too slow a pace, not enough happening. If you don’t see an immediate fix, mark the place in the margin and write down what you think might be wrong.

If you catch the author talking at any point, or a mix of points of view, mark the section

cut every unessential adjective and adverb. Cut “very.” Cut “poor” for everything but poverty. Make every word count.

If you’ve said the same thing twice in different words, pick the better one and cut the other. If you find yourself using the same uncommon word twice within a few pages, use your thesaurus to pick a synonym. And in your read-through, mark every cliché for excision.

In my own work, I make transpositions hundreds of times in a book-length manuscript. Sometimes it is to let the emphasis of a sentence fall in a different place.

When you “love” certain images or sentences, they are frequently so conspicuous as to interfere with the story. If they are, save them in a special box that you’ll look into five years from now, and thank me for having asked you to remove them from your manuscript,

Root out sentimentality, which is an excess of response to a stimulus. It makes writing “flowery.” Your job is to stimulate emotions in the reader. An excessive response turns off the reader,

If any dialogue runs longer than three sentences, break it up with an interjection from another character or a thought or action. Check to see that responses in dialogue are oblique, at least from time to time.

Substitute “he said” and “she said” for language that tells the reader how the lines are spoken. That’s the dialogue’s job.

You might consider at this stage whether the ending of your book is a high point of satisfaction for the reader.

This time, as you read, watch for anything that momentarily makes you see words on the page and takes you out of experiencing the story. You are aiming for the reader’s total immersion. You should be able to spot these flaws after you have made the kind of changes I’ve suggested. If all this checking seems excessive, ask yourself would you fly in a plane in which the experienced pilot felt so cocksure that he didn’t actually perform the checklist that makes flying safer for all of us?

Hemingway said, “We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” We know that’s not literally true. Many of Hemingway’s stories and some of his novels are masterly. He meant we can always learn more.

TEN COMMANDMENTS FOR WRITERS 1. Thou shalt not sprinkle characters into a preconceived plot lest thou produce hackwork. In the beginning was the character, then the word, and from the character’s words is brought forth action. 2. Thou shalt imbue thy heroes with faults and thy villains with charm, for it is the faults of the hero that bring forth his life, just as the charm of the villain is the honey with which he lures the innocent. 3. Thy characters shall steal, kill, dishonor their parents, bear false witness, and covet their neighbor’s house, wife, manservant, maidservant, ox, and ass, for reader’s crave such actions and yawn when thy characters are meek, innocent, forgiving, and peaceable. 4. Thou shalt not saw the air with abstractions, for readers, like lovers, are attracted by particularity. 5. Thou shalt not mutter, whisper, blurt, bellow, or scream, for it is the words and not the characterization of the words that must carry their own decibels. 6. Thou shalt infect thy reader with anxiety, stress, and tension, for those conditions that he deplores in life he relishes in fiction. 7. Thy language shall be precise, clear, and bear the wings of angels, for anything less is the province of businessmen and academics and not of writers. 8. Thou shalt have no rest on the sabbath, for thy characters shall live in thy mind and memory now and forever. 9. Thou shalt not forget that dialogue is as a foreign tongue, a semblance of speech and not a record of it, a language in...