- Learn how apostrophes work; and semi-colons.
- Well, it’s really rather important that you just do this. Run search and delete on every instance of the following words: really, just, quite, rather, very, oh, so, well and suddenly. Check out my post ‘One Word At A Time’ for this and other editing tips.
- Practise Show vs Tell the Anton Chekhov way: Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
- Take a chunk of back-story or exposition and rewrite it into a dialogue. Then repeat. Then repeat again. Dialogue is much more engaging than flat-text exposition and a page of conversation is easier to read than a thumping boulder of a paragraph.
- Focus on sensory detail. Not just sight, but sound, taste, touch and smell. It will enrich your reader’s experience. I blogged here about using all the senses.
- Every time you see two clever, descriptive adjectives side-by-side, delete at least one of them. Yes, every time. Writers can publish with excess of adjectives, but only once they’ve sold a gazillion books and are unassailable. (If you doubt me, check out J.K. Rowling/Robert Galbraith – but then go and delete half your adjectives, because you won’t so easily get away with it.)
- Review your work for any not-so-perfect tenses (past perfect, past continuous and past perfect continuous) and opt for something more immediate. I blogged about how this works here.
- Delete the first paragraph of every chapter. There’s no need for foreplay, dive straight to the action. Hmmm, personally, I appreciate literary foreplay, so I’m not sold on this tip – but better writers than me will endorse it.
- Delete the last paragraph of every chapter. Don’t hang about after the action. Get out, fast. This, I can vouch for.
- Clichés – avoid them like the plague… Yes, you guessed it, I blogged! This one might actually hit the mark (doh!)
One of the things I struggled with when preparing the framework text for query letters/emails, was genre. I’m a marketer in my current day job, so I understand perfectly well why it’s helpful for agents and publishers to be able to classify a book according to what category or categories it falls within. Amongst other things, genre (and, by the way, sub-genre and sub-sub-genre) will point to a likely audience, set expectations as to the content and style, and drive decisions on cover design, marketing and promotion.
Knowing your genre means you can pinpoint authors whose books bear similarities to your own – although whether you indicate same to agents in your submission material is a matter of fierce debate here and there on the interweb. Either (i) do it because it helps the agent figure out where you might sit in their talent stable or (ii) don’t do it because it makes you seem cocky and pretentious and you should let them be the judge. No help there then.
Inevitably for every mainstream genre, there are gazillions of sub-genres, and sub-sub genres, and it’s up to you how far you navigate the tributaries, to arrive at a label which adequately categorises the novel you’re writing.
What follows here is not some great rambling on the whys and wherefores of genre – if you’re looking for guidance in categorising your own writing, Google is your friend. There is already more help out there than you can possibly need in an entire literary lifetime. This is about me and my genre, and how I got there.
The first issue was the question of literary vs commercial. Commercial books – apparently – sell in large volumes to an audience which may not be sufficiently discerning – apparently – to mind that books in this category may – apparently – not be all that well written. In commercial fiction – apparently – the plot is the only thing that matters. Everything else (characterisation, setting, sensory detail, realistic dialogue, linguistic style, grammar…) is inconsequential relative to the plot. It may therefore have been thrown together and served up as a literary and linguistic dog’s dinner – and – apparently – nobody minds.
Literary fiction, on the other hand, is all about the quality of the writing, and how poetic, evocative or mesmerising it is. And the plot? Who needs plotting when the writing, line by line, word by beautiful, witty, well-chosen word, is such a sublime joy to read. Apparently.
For those of us who fall somewhere between the sublime and the ridiculous (no, I’m not getting drawn on which is which, thank you very much) there is a wealth of options for that first level categorisation, amongst which Quality Commercial, Mainstream Literary, Literary-Commercial Crossover, Book Club, or even more specifically, ‘Richard & Judy’, and my personal bête noir, LitLite.
I vacillate between Quality Commercial and Book Club for Singled Out. Books which end up on book club reading lists tend to offer plenty of scope for discussion around moral dilemmas, character qualities or shortcomings and so on – and I like that. And Quality Commercial? I don’t see what’s wrong with cherishing the vision that I’ve written something which might be simultaneously popular/saleable and well-written. An agent or publisher will probably put me straight one of these days.
Next, there’s the subject and content of the story. At the high level, is it a romance or a thriller? Is it science fiction or magic realism, chic-lit or crime? Is it humorous or historical, fantasy or satire, politics or parody? Is it erotic, domestic or dynastic? And… breathe. Yes, if you’ve looked into this, you’ll realise as I did, there are myriad ways to slice-and-dice for genre. There’s a crime in my story, but it’s not, technically speaking, a crime novel – there’s no mystery (well, not much mystery) and no police (ah, almost no police). There is a little romance and an erotic moment or two (no sniggering at the back please), but not enough to make it a romance and certainly not enough to position it on the same shelf as Fifty Shades of Naughty.
Having read several (too many?) blog posts and articles, I think I’ve got there. The genre I’ve concluded best fits Singled Out is Psychological Suspense. Theoretically this is a crime fiction sub-genre – but that’s as close as it’s going to get to crime.
The elements which characterise psychological suspense include the following:
- Psychological suspense may use crime as a pretext for investigating psyche and personality, but the story is about the context of the crime, rather than the crime itself.
- There’s often no mystery as to who committed the crime – what psychological suspense is interested in is not whodunnit, but whydunnit.
- Psychological suspense is about the mind of a criminal – and the other people involved. There will be insights, observations and reflection, from all sides of the house.
- Psychological suspense stories are often told from multiple points of view – from inside the minds of protagonist and antagonist alike.
- The overarching mood is one of dread or malignity – a sustained suspense embedded with moments of heightened tension, rather than a build-up to one massive peak.
- Psychological suspense stories often feature psychologically damaged central characters such as sociopaths, or people with weaknesses, phobias, a tragic past, the weight of guilt or shame bearing down.
- The reader can see what’s happening before it happens – they watch, seemingly helpless. I liken it to the reader banging soundlessly on a window, trying to attract the attention of a character, who walks innocently towards some terrible scenario or event, content in the company of the person the reader knows to be dangerous.
- Interestingly, psychological suspense is often ambivalent when it comes to ethics and justice. There are moral ambiguities, few happy endings or easy solutions; and the baddies don’t always get what they deserve.
I’m fascinated by stories like this – they’re the ones I go to when I’m looking for a good read, and so it felt good to be writing one, even though it’s not what I set out to write. I started out to pen a wry dissection of the comings and goings on a singles holiday. But when I realised this amounted to not very much and would bore a readership to tears, the landscape shifted. And that’s when I begun to learn how much I loved writing about bad stuff happening and dark, damaged psyches.
Hey ho, happy days.
One of the things that hit a nerve when I wrote that most popular post of mine on editing (that’s One word at a time), was the culling of certain redundant words, such as really, rather, just, quite, very, oh, so, well and suddenly. That came to mind when I realised the other day, on reading Amanda Bumgarner’s excellent post on eliminating word overuse, that I’d left one important word off that list. Yes, you guessed it – the word… that.
When you turn your mental volume dial up on that little word, that’s when it starts to jump out at you, from every line and every paragraph.
That is one of those words that stutters into our sentences without our even noticing. How insidiously it sneaks in and takes up residence, unloved and unwanted. I think that if I counted up the number of times that that appeared in my novel, that that would be as revealing as it would be painful. That, I know, is something that I could not bear to do, and that’s an end of it.
So that’s the point that I want to make, that that is one of those words that is almost always surplus to requirements – and that should be enough to encourage you to consign that word to the literary equivalent of the cutting room floor.
And that’s all I’ll be saying on that matter.
Apparently now Europe’s biggest bookshop, Waterstones Piccadilly is a paradise for the reader. Its five floors are an abundance of every kind of book from any genre you care to think of, categorised both systematically and creatively, and topped and tailed with comfy areas to kick-back with a drink and a bite to eat.
I headed straight for Fiction on the first floor. Bypassing the helpful shopping baskets (I didn’t see them) I was soon loaded with armfuls of paperbacks. I’m an avid audiobooker, but if I’ve enjoyed listening to a book, I need to own the paper too (I blogged about this a while back, here). Consequently, I keep a running list of books I need to buy, simply so I can go back through them and enjoy them… differently, and of course, possess them, in real leaf-through-the-pages format, as nature and the publishing world intended.
So I picked up three from my listened-and-enjoyed list:
- The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel by Deborah Moggach – an eclectic group of oldies retire to India
- A Kind of Intimacy by Jenn Ashworth – dark but comic, about a deliciously weird, damaged girl
- Smut by Alan Bennett – two unseemly short stories in Bennett’s inimitable style (narrated for audio by the author himself)
But it didn’t end there. With the able and enthusiastic assistance of the… um… assistants, I tracked down another five from my must-read list.
- Instructions for a Heatwave by Maggie O’Farrell
- The Red House by Mark Haddon
- May We Be Forgiven by A M Homes
- The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
- Bel Canto by Ann Patchett
Yes, I know I’m arriving at one or two of these a little late in the day, but there’s just so much reading one woman can do. Especially when the thing she most wants to do with her spare time is… write.
I read all over the genre geography. I enjoy the kind of books which fall into what’s variously called lit-lite (yuk!), accessible literary, crossover or even, I saw the other day, ‘Richard & Judy’. I particularly enjoy edgier psychological suspense – that’s what I’m writing, after all. I’m not into romance, historical or sci-fi, but I meander around the fringes of crime/police procedural, thrillers, chick-lit and full-blown literary as the mood takes me.
I get leads from Goodreads and I buy loads from Amazon as it’s convenient – who can argue with that? But an afternoon in a bookshop is an indulgence and I loved every minute of it, especially being so warmly and professionally served by people who really, properly know their books.
Grammar purists like me bemoan the demise of that apparently outdated possessive apostrophe, flushed away from Waterstones’ (ha!) branding as of last year, for reasons of… practicality. But given the pleasure quotient of a meander around their floors, it seems churlish to dwell.
I had lunch with a friend, took my time over a coffee and dreamed. I’ll be back again, to shop. But just maybe, one day, I’ll be back there to do a reading and a bit of meet-the-author. How’s that for a star to shoot for?
I’m picky about punctuation and I adore audiobooks. Today I was reminded of a comedy sketch which brilliantly and heroically blends these two things – Victor Borge on Phonetic Punctuation. Comedy routines come and go, but some go on forever – especially now, thanks to YouTube. Blissfully, it took me less than 30 seconds to locate this delightful piece (even though it’s been given an incorrect title). You can enjoy it here.
I last had to think about tenses a very long time ago, when I occupied a grainy and much carved-upon school desk. That was back in the day when, if you weren’t concentrating, the teacher could still get away with firing a blackboard rubber or a piece of chalk at your skull. Even then, when called upon to ‘parse the following sentence’ I could rarely get beyond locating nouns, adjectives, verbs and adverbs. Ask me which tense the sentence was written in, and with anything beyond simple present and simple past, my otherwise capable brain would throw its metaphorical hands in the air and surrender.
My mentor cast a spotlight on three tenses which weaken my narrative. Until she showed me what I’d been doing, I hadn’t seen it. In case you’re hobbled by the same grammatical blind-spot as I am, here they are:
- Examples – he had studied in London; she had waited for some time
- Examples – he was browsing the internet when I rang; she was waiting for me when I got off the plane
Past perfect continuous:
- They had been chatting for several minutes before I arrived; he had been standing at the bar for the last hour when the police arrived
I’m not going to blather on about how and why each tense is used – there are numerous resources on the internet for that. The point my mentor was making was that for my narrative to have the most impact, the reader has to be there for the action. They don’t need to be held at arm’s length, or told what has happened backstage, as it were; they need to see the story unfolding in front of them.
The girl’s hands were trembling becomes The girl’s hands trembled
Most of the guests had come down for dinner becomes One by one the guests came down for dinner
And what about this clunker:
Henry had hung back. Whilst everybody else had crowded the table, anxious to be in the centre of things, he had taken up a position on a stool at the far end of the bar and ordered himself a beer.
Modified only slightly, it has a more immediate feel:
Henry hung back. Whilst everybody else crowded the table, anxious to be in the centre of things, he took up a position on a stool at the far end of the bar and ordered himself a beer.
The impact that choice of tense has on a narrative seems obvious once it’s pointed out; but I guess that’s what being a neophyte is about – and I love the learning. Now the burden is on me to go back through my 45,000 or so words and make sure she doesn’t catch me out again.