The other day, I was mourning (for the thousandth time) the loss of the TV series, Firefly.   The loss of its potential, of levels of greatness it can never reach—feels to me like the creative version of the tragic life-cut-short-before-his/her-time.  This show was artistically satisfying, even when it was being cheeky, thanks to things like character/crew chemistry, self-referencing intricacies, and outstanding dialog timing.

Everything blended into a powerful ball of goodness, but the dialog timing impressed me the most, and I wondered if that timing could truly be duplicated in print, or is written timing too dependent on reader preconceptions or tendencies?  Visual clues (along with all the subtle supporting factors, like tone/audible emphasis) make up for much of what registers with us in the video format: facial expressions, stance, even camera angle and background/staging.  Those are mostly lost in our medium (or not lost, really, but not controlled by the writer to the same degree a director would have).

We writers can develop characters as endearing/humorous/complex as a series; we can evoke a similar range of emotions, but we do not have the toolset, and I wonder if that prevents us from developing the level of interaction timing that a video can provide.  Have you guys ever seen literary examples of the timing that you feel is up to par with the timing/delivery of your favorite movie or TV line?  Whether you have or haven’t, why do you think that is?

In any case, the next time my memory fades enough for me to enjoy the Firefly series again (and this is one case where it’s good that I have a shitty memory, heh—I can re-enjoy my favorite books and movies without a bothersome detailed memory to spoil it for me), I will toast those writers, actors and directors, and I will curse the execs who thought it wasn’t teeny-bopper enough (and therefore, not viable).

As a writer and aspiring novelist, I had always assumed that length was important.  I mean, if you don’t give them a fat book, readers won’t buy it, right?  After putting off my novel projects for years (or writing only tiny, disjointed scenes), I began writing shorts, thinking, “I have to start somewhere.”  These were very pleasant distractions at first, but they also began to highlight my reluctance to write anything longer than 35k words (for those who do not know, print novels tend to have a firm minimum of 60k words, with the average length probably being close to 150-200k).

I’ve read plenty of books that would have been better at half their length (and certain ones like Clancy’s The Sum of All Fears have me wondering how anyone could forgive his droning style enough to enjoy the story).  I have read plenty of “tips” for writing novels, but they don’t seem to resonate with me.  When the plot isn’t there, it’s just not there.  But, this practical attitude did not help me in my struggle to unlock the keys to the elusive novel.  The itch does not diminish when it’s buried; it still itches.

I analyzed favorites, like Follet’s Pillars of the Earth and Martin’s A Game of Thrones, and realized that I judged books on their lack of sluggish sections or their feeling of importance.  In these examples, Follet’s book is a little slow in places, but these are completely overshadowed by the flavor, the view, he gives you, and most importantly, the sense of this majestic flow of time, of how these simple traumas and petty actions can add (and have added) up to earth-changing events.  The sense of historical drive is personalized, I guess.

One might say that A Game of Thrones is “only a fantasy story,” yet Martin’s genius lies in the techniques he uses; the read is so smooth and the action is so quick, that even when it isn’t, you can feel the storm coming on, hard and fast.  This intensity reads like a violent short story, and I was almost amazed that I had read 807 pages by the time I had read the closing phrase.  Heh, one of my very first thoughts was, “How the hell did he do that?”

Part of the effect may be personal (ie, come from my personal taste that would not be shared by others), but I can’t believe that accounts for much.  Both novels have intricate, interwoven plots, versus the generally-brief plots I dream up, but is this the only difference?  I’d be extremely interested in hearing from novelists and other short story authors as well as the readers of both.  I’d love to hear about the reasons they like/dislike certain features.

Why is your favorite novel your favorite; what sets it apart from the others?  Do you mind when a plot seems to meander, to get distracted?  Do you give a special weighting (concessions) to a story of a certain length, or approach them all the same?  Even if you send me a private reply, I’d be curious to hear from you about this.

In the meantime, happy writing and/or reading.

Do you feel erotica readers these days like for a writer to “get to the point” when writing a sex scene, or do they like to be teased?

In most of the erotica I’ve read, the writer tends to go right to the pounding: “Honey, I’m home-let’s-fuck” (yes, yes, this is a slight exaggeration, but you get my point).  And while this isn’t a bad thing, really, why do so many writers seem to be in a hurry to get to the sizzle?  I wonder if readers pick up on this, and if they even care—doesn’t the rushed setup hurt the steaminess?

I guess it depends on the genre, but do readers even make a value judgment like, “I wish he would have at least bought her flowers before he dove in; I like it better when…”  I’d like to think this is the case, and that there are plenty of readers who value meaningful interaction over plain sex.  I stubbornly keep writing as if this type of audience exists somewhere (though I have certainly written my fair share of hasty setups).

For example, here’s an excerpt from my latest novella, COB.  What makes one reader think this banter is just distracting?  Do so few readers care about the story weaving that leads up to the sex?

—–

“You realize what this warm liquid does to me, Greg dear?”  She savored the last sip before holding out her glass for a refill.

“I can guess,” he responded with a small smile on his lips, reaching for the bottle.  “You seem happy and relaxed—I’m certainly driving back to the hotel.”

“It puts Agent Perez to sleep.”  Chris stated matter-of-factly, as she watched the dark wine slosh against the sides.  “And what’s left is a woman who needs to be loved.”

“Well, you already have that—my love and admiration.  I knew I was right about you from the first time you rounded on me with that angry look.”  Greg laughed at the memory.

“Okay, so maybe that’s not what I need,” she corrected herself before leaning toward him.  “I need to fuck you,” she whispered.  “Hard.”  Greg leaned back in his chair, considering her with a raised eyebrow.

“Not sure how I’d feel about myself if I took advantage of you in an inebriated state.”

“Gonna be really pissed if you refuse,” she hissed, “and besides, it’d mostly be the other way around.  Don’t need your chivalry tonight.”

“Oh, but there’s where you misunderstand—chivalry isn’t something I turn off, lovely Christine.  It’s with my every thought.”  After a moment of reflection, he admitted, “Well, most of them, anyway.  So, let’s go before you have any more of that wine and make me feel worse about it.”

Christine beamed triumphantly as she stood and dropped enough money on the table to pay for both their meals.  Greg let it slide—it was really on the company, even though he disliked the symbolism.

As he opened the car door for her, she grabbed his tie, pulling him into a passionate kiss.  Despite the balmy night, he could feel her heat as she pressed against him, and he began to swell with need.

“Chris,” he moaned, breaking the kiss.  She looked up at him with deep wells of yearning.

“Don’t you want me?”

“Very much,” he answered immediately, “but what about—”

“Then don’t hesitate—take me to bed.  This damsel will be in distress until you do.”

Struggling to obey the speed limit, Greg drove them back to the hotel while Christine attempted to keep a hand on his erection.  She giggled in wanton glee as he warded her off with his free hand.

“Don’t make me wreck,” Greg warned, but he was grinning at their game.

“Wouldn’t that be a scene?  ‘Officer, my knight wrecked his chariot because he wants in my panties’.”

“Knights didn’t have chariots.”

“But you do,” she argued before going back to her teasing.  “Want to feel something damp, my knight?”

“You are so going to get it.”

“I’m counting on it—probably why I’m so wet.  My body needs you.”

“Then let me concentrate so we make it to the room.”

“Hmm.  Mind if I start without you?”

“That’s just as distracting.”  He felt her wet finger against his cheek.  “Jesus, Chris!”

“Relax,” she laughed, “that was just my spit…this time.”

—–

Of course, I’ve seen noted exceptions, recently.  The latest I edited, Varian’s soon-to-be-released novel, After, has over a hundred pages of ramp-up at one point (yes, there’s tons of quick, frenzied sex in other places, but the tension that builds over the hundred-page “tease” is quite amazing).  And I wondered if readers will appreciate that long, strained tease more than they like the quick setup, or if they only enjoyed the wild ride at the end.  What kind works best for you, and why do you think that is?  Please share your thoughts and experiences.

Well, I was going to post something completely different, but a dream made me change my mind.  Sure, I could have ignored the strong impulse, but that wouldn’t have felt right (and don’t most people, when it’s all said and done, want to feel right?).

I had a simple dream last night, so mundane and realistic that it wasn’t until I was watching the water drain away that I realized my tub wasn’t plugged up.  I could have sworn it was; I saw it not drain properly, and I remember the distinct feeling of dismay at having to clean it out again (nasty, nasty job).  It was only when I tried to resolve this confusion that I realized I had dreamed the incident—it was a vague memory, barely distinguishable from other memories that I take as fact, as personal history.

I was annoyed for about two seconds.  Then I laughed, wondering how many more of those types of dreams I’ve had, how many false memories I have swimming around in my head.  That would be an uncomfortable thought if I let it, if it weren’t so fascinating.  This dream—this careless dream—I had “caught in a lie” only because the proof was in front of my eyes (and so soon after waking).

I have thought about this all morning, driven by the urge to share it with someone. 

Hell, the very first piece of erotica I ever wrote was from a powerful dream in ’88 or ’89 (sadly, I lost my original, dated notes).  I had awoken with the completed story in my head, having dreamed it all: the accident, the discovery, the strange and philosophical underpinnings, and even the ending.  I skipped classes that day to make certain it was all recorded, and I remember clinging to each detail as I ignored my cramping hand in the feverish drive write it down before I forgot important pieces.

I’ve had several important plots unfold in my dreams, especially in the past several years that I’ve been serious about my (non-serious) writing.  I always keep a small voice recorder by my bed, and my computer is just four urgent steps away. 

In fact, I learned that I can condition myself to be more receptive to dreams, and have used that technique to mine whatever place those dreams come from.  Though, after a few days of that, I become so tired that I have to turn it off (it’s a conscious willing before one sleeps to remember or not remember the dream details).

Do you guys pay attention to your dreams, or shrug them off?  Do you have the luxury of hunting for the real thrill- or joyrides?  Have you made your peace with the nearly uncontrollable nature of dreams?

Sweet dreams,

Kev

With the hurdles cleared, the new eXcessica anthology opens a submissions call to the public. We will be broadcasting the following details to the appropriate sites over the next few days.

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Have you ever written an intense story that was both too short to publish and too powerful to forget?

The focus of this call for submissions is “focus.” We are searching for concentrated power, condensed-yet-loaded plots, that leave the reader out of breath. No subject is off limits (save for the restrictions posted at www.eXcessica.com)—rather, the emphasis for this submissions call is on brief, compelling, and focused stories. We do not want plots that meander or pontificate, and we’re not looking for “stroke,” unless it’s superior because of ingenious handling and depth. We are looking for those works of art that prove the potency of the short.

As a guide, we’re targeting 1k-3k word lengths, but this is not a restriction. We challenge you to impress us, and in turn, we will nurture the selected gems, assuring they gain exposure in this compilation. We also plan to have an addendum of author details, where you can tell readers about yourself and advertise your other works. Another feature that will set this anthology apart will be an editor’s foreword on each story, which will act similarly to a positive review. If there are subtle techniques or hidden trivia in your story, we encourage you to give us the details, which may help us titillate the readers. By submitting a story, you agree to let us edit it (changes will be returned to the submitting email address for author approval). However, if your work is carefully edited prior to submission, it will earn a greater chance of being accepted.

You will retain any rights to your story in exchange for your permission to use it in this single project (which will consist of an electronic anthology sold through Fictionwise and eXcessica, and a possible hardcover release), and we hope you will join us in marketing the resultant product. A wise man once said: “It would be fantastic if literature could stand solely on its merits without hype but, alas, it all-too-rarely does.” Even though this anthology will be too “eXcessive” for mainstream appeal, teamwork will make an enormous difference on the compilation’s impact (and your exposure).

The proceeds from all sales will be donated to Teaching Matters (www.teachingmatters.org), with eXcessica retaining 10% for overhead and site maintenance (and our publishing partner, Fictionwise, has a set cost to publish). For questions, comments or submissions, contact Kev Henley at focus.anthology@eXcessica.com. Please put “submission” somewhere in the header when submitting a story (which should be attached in rich text format).

May you gain satisfaction and personal growth from your writing.

A friend once told me, “Trying to find an editor is like playing pin-the-tale-on-the-donkey. Even if you get lucky, you still get an ass.” I laughed, but that certainly didn’t boost my confidence. In the years since I’ve emerged from my comfortable-but-dark shell, I’ve been pleasantly surprised. The volunteer editors I’ve met were very nice, perhaps too nice.

Still, the pessimistic nature of my introduction to editing made me constantly away of important factors. This tendency to analyze increased ten-fold when I began editing—I longed to edit with the same values I’d want from my editor, and how could I do that unless I understood exactly what I wanted? The following is a summary of my thoughts from the past couple of years, and I believe this post is fitting because of our peer editing system.

Let’s begin with the obvious: great editing skills certainly include more than a grasp of grammar. Attributes such as attitude really make the difference between someone who can edit a manuscript and someone who can help that writer grow.

To bend Morpheus’ sound bite to my purpose, “…I can only show you the door. You’re the one who has to walk through it.” An editor can be an important sounding board, guide, and even an ally, but that editor cannot help anyone who is unreceptive or unprepared. There is little help for people who are convinced they’re at the pinnacle of their writing skills, or—for whatever reason—are stuck in an emotional loop. Typically though, any seasoned writer will realize they cannot possibly see all the mistakes and areas for improvement in their own work (more on this in my next blog in two weeks).

A truly thoughtful person will inquire and offer whatever level of help is appropriate to the situation. So, I believe the first key to being a great editor is empathy. Talk to the writers to identify with them and find out what they need. Usually, I settle for the direct approach: simple questions asking them what kind of help they’d like to receive. Many haven’t really thought about it, but it won’t take much to discover important clues, so get them talking about their goals and their expectations for their story. Gauge how wary they are about the entire process, and try to set them at ease—you can be their best resource if they allow it.

Communication. If not the penultimate goal of an editor, it should be near the top. Though this might go without saying, I like to state the obvious. A good editor should, as well—never assume something is grasped, and even at the risk of sounding like a simpleton, restate an important point in as many ways as needed. Even illustrate the point if you can; it is a valuable tool to aid in mutual understanding. Talking in half thoughts or expecting the writer to “know what you mean” is asking for a miscommunication that can be extremely unproductive. Collect your thoughts carefully before expressing them, and always check to see if more clarification is needed.

Beyond having a good eye for grammatical mistakes and typos, it’s beneficial to discern subtle nuances and patterns. Be focused on plot flow and tone consistencies as well as character development and dialog believability—these are areas where an analytical, outside perspective can truly aid the story.

Heighten the writer’s awareness of the importance of a story’s beginning; be more critical of the opening impression. This is the time when the reader goes through a learning curve and is unconsciously feeling around for the right rhythm, tone, and style as well as the more obvious “what’s happening.” Mention even the smallest error or miscalculation during this time—it might slide later in the story, but during the critical introduction, it can often give a bad (or incorrect) first impression. An opener that gives pause or does not enchant the reader is in need of editing (at the very least, it should build the base for what the reader can expect).

Be a perfectionist and be patient. Don’t skip a point simply because you think they’ll object; the writer can always veto your suggestions (and always accept the veto with grace, even if you approach it later in a more sneaky fashion ).

Know that there are exceptions to every rule; be flexible. The key is to always stay focused on the question, “Does this exception hurt the story from the reader’s standpoint?” While you’re a guide to the writer, you are also the reader’s champion.

And lastly, there is the over-arching benefit of being a “giver”—people without an obstructive ego or a chip on their shoulder who want only the best for those they help. It’s important to wish for the writer’s success as much as they do, to get satisfaction, even pleasure, in a shared job-well-done. An open spirit of helpfulness is contagious once writers see what to expect, and hopefully they will pass it on.

Ideally, an editor’s overall goal is to support the development of writers. Helping them feel more satisfied with a story and their progress as a writer is a very sweet reward in and of itself (though recognition for the help also goes a long way—no one wants to feel under-appreciated). Be excited for their story’s potential, and be creative when offering suggestions—just be sure the writer knows suggestions are given freely, with no requirements or expectations.

There is no such thing as a perfect editor all the time, but it is a goal worth struggling to obtain. This world needs more great editors, because they support the great stories.

Happy writing and reading.

Kev