Category: Writing

Scrivener: Truth is counter-intuitive, software shouldn’t be

Yeah, that title sounds like a snark, but I’m sure a lot of the problem is me. I’m playing with Scrivener mostly because it will make life easier next time I do a collaboration with Skyler. I’m going to keep track of how things go as I learn this thing, and add to this post as I do so. I’m used to the Unix world in general and emacs in particular, and for me, what I loved was how intuitive everything was. The first time I created my first emacs file, back in the Dawn of Time, I was doing useful work within five minutes, and looking up what I needed to know as I went; in general, I’ve found that true of Unix stuff and DEC software, and almost nowhere else. Obviously, this may say more about me than about any particular software package.

The first annoyance I came across is author name–it appears at the top of every compiled page, just like it should.  The name of the author is $surname.  As some of you know, that isn’t actually my name. If I were to publish as $surname, many of my fans wouldn’t find the book. I would think there has to be a way to set scrivener so that when I start a new project it automagically plugs my name in. It has to exist. Why am I having so much trouble finding it?

As those of you who read the Vlad novels know, I write with a lot of dialog, a lot of italics, and a lot of lines with both.  “I know what you mean, Boss.” “Shut up.” One thing I can do in emacs (thank you, DDB!) is that I can just hit a button that defines Start Italics Here and Stop Italics Here and puts the cursor in the middle. Sweet. I’d actually be okay with a Start Italics button and a Stop Italics button. So far, however, the only way I’ve found to do italics is to write the passage, then select the text, then click on the italicize button. This slows me down and makes me think about things other than the next sentence, and that is exactly what I don’t want to be doing.

On the other hand, Scrivener gets serious props for a neat little switch that goes, “convert italics to underlining.”

Also, there’s the word count issue. My version (Windows) permits me to count characters or words. The thing is, I was taught that what editors actually want is the One True Word Count, which has the same relationship to actual number of words that a New York Times article has to an international news event: some, but never as much as you’d like. There might be a way to fake this thing into giving me the One True Word Count, or at least information to make it easier to calculate, but so far I haven’t seen it.

Anyway, gonna keep playing with it.

Fantasy Series: Keeping the Big Secret

I’ve mentioned before that one of the things I do when I’m struggling with a book is read nice things people have said about my stuff–it helps me get cocky, and that helps me write. This often leads me to reread Jo Walton’s stuff on Tor.com because, well, it says nice things. Today I noticed the following thing she said: “I think Brust must be the best person at keeping a secret in the world. There are revelations late in the series that it’s quite clear, on re-reading, that he knew about and was hinting at all the time.”

This gave me to think. At the time, I never considered it as, “I have to find the right moment to reveal this thing.” In fact, I don’t ever remember thinking that. For one thing, it contradicts the “burn story” rule that I have at least tried to keep as a guideline. So, how, in a long series, do you keep the Big Secret until the right moment for the reveal while simultaneously burning as much story as you have wood for? Well, here’s the thing: You don’t. It’s never about keeping anything secret, exactly. It’s simply an extreme case of that other rule, the one about the writer knowing more than the reader.

****** Spoiler for Orca ******

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, certainly, I knew all along that Kiera was one of Sethra’s disguises; it was a necessary and not terribly brilliant part of defining Sethra’s character that she would want to keep informed of what the Jhereg were up to, and, if she were to be a thief, obviously she’d be a very good one. But I never said to myself, “I will save this revelation until the right book.” For one thing, when I wrote Jhereg, I had no idea there would be any others.  What I told myself was, “This will probably never emerge, but it will have a huge effect on the relationship between Vlad and Sethra, and thus on Vlad’s entire career and development.” No one was more surprised than me when I suddenly came to a moment when it seemed right, necessary, and cool to let the reader in on that–in fact, the only thing I had to do was go back and plant a couple little things to explain how Vlad figured it out.

 

 

****** End Spoiler ******

 

 

 

James D. MacDonald, in his lecture at Viable Paradise, displays a miniature house he built and talks about how he constructed it. There is a room where there is a figure of a guy that you can’t see because it is fully enclosed. But, Jim says, he knows it is there, and that knowledge informs how he constructed the house. This is a perfect metaphor. There are many things I know about the world I’m building, and the relationships among the characters, that never make it into the stories, but that, simply because I’m aware of them, have an effect, greater or lesser, on what happens. So, then, the “reveal the big secret” moment never, to me, feels like, “Now I can finally reveal that,” but rather, “Oh, the story would be really cool if this happened right here, and, hey, look, I just happen to have that all set up; ain’t I clever?”

My point is not, in fact, that I’m especially clever. My point is that the old chestnut that speaks of knowing things about your world that you do not reveal not only gives your world additional depth, but can sometimes pay off in other ways. As long as you aren’t so cryptic about so many things that the reader is left in a fog (or you, as a writer, get so wrapped up in inventing things that you never write the story), there is no downside to knowing things you don’t reveal.

Reviews and Criticism: Some Things to Think About

This post is aimed at writers.  As we in the science fiction community deal with some ugliness that has taken a quasi-political form and had a powerful negative effect on many writers, here are some things you may want to consider.

I will sometimes read reviews of my work. I will go to Amazon and click the 5-star ones, and read others that are full of lavish praise. I do this because sometimes I need cheering up–I need to remind myself, “Yeah, I can do this.”  I mean, in my more cynical moments I believe that the way to tell if you’re a “real writer” is that you sometimes think you’re not a real writer.  It’s good to have ways of pulling yourself out of that, especially if it has a bad effect on the quantity or quality of your work; if you’re lucky enough to have reviews out there that will help you do that, hey, what the hell.

With a few exceptions, I do not read negative reviews of my work, or even pay attention to the negative comments (“My only complaint is….”) within a positive review.  The book is done.  Moreover, if there is something someone hates about it, it is a gimme that it is the same thing that someone else likes, so I’m not “learning” anything from it.  I have a list of people for whom I have a great deal of respect, and to whom I listen when they speak about what needs improvement, either in a particular work or in my writing in general; nothing good can come of listening to anyone else.  The exceptions, with reviewers, are people who, over the years, I have determined are smart, perceptive, know what I’m trying to do, and can articulate where I failed to do it (yes, Jo, I’m looking at you).  These reviews can, in fact, give me useful information.

I can see you nodding along with me.  Good.  We agree.  I’m glad to hear it.

Now consider, for a moment, reviews or criticism that call you, for example,  a racist, because you didn’t include anyone of some particular race, or you did but someone thinks you were stereotyping, or being insensitive, or whatever.  These comments are every bit as legitimate, in my opinion, as any other sort of criticism, and deserve exactly the same consideration.  To wit: if you’re getting the comment from someone you know and trust, take it the way you would any other comment, give it due consideration, and decide.

I mention this because one of the things I see going on around me, is that reviews and criticism that focus on these things are treated as if these comments are special–particularly if aspects of the personal identity of the reviewer (race, sex, disability, sexual preference, &c) is a factor in the review.

I beg to submit that these sorts of reviews are no different from others, and deserve no special status.  If it is coming from a reviewer or critic you trust, then it should get the same consideration as any other sort of criticism; and if it is not, by making an exception, you are, in my opinion, doing yourself and your writing no good whatsoever, and are granting people you have no reason to trust, far, far too much power over the work you produce.

 

Answering My Reviewers

I know you aren’t supposed to answer your reviewers, but, hey, rules are made to be broken. I have considered all of my reviews carefully, and it seems to me that it would be worthwhile to investigate some of the literary, epistomological, and political assumptions that underlie some of the things that have been said about my books over the last 31 years.

So, after much thought, here are my replies:

 

Okay, good point.

Bollix.

Thanks.

Did you even read it?

Your face is boring.

No, you’re wrong, you really liked it.

Thanks.

And you’re another.

Do you eat with that mouth?

Your mom is boring.

Thanks.

Compared to what?

Uh, maybe.

Really? That’s what you got out of that? Are you stupid?

Your mom’s face is boring.

Thanks.

Oh, yeah?

 

There, that should about cover it.

 

Viable Paradise 18 Report

Dreading the one-on-one about the story I couldn’t get into: Check

Being the only one in the small group who thought a story was wonderful: Check

That helpless feeling when I couldn’t fix a story: Check

That triumphant feeling when I could: Check

Too much alcohol and too little sleep: Check

Getting pissed off at fellow instructor only to realize it was caused by the above conditions: Check

Saved by the staff: Check

Fleeting unreasonable crush on student: Check

Seeing a student bounce about how TNH had fixed the whole story with just a couple of tweaks: Check

Absurd amounts of fun playing music: Check

Feeling unreasonably stupid: Check

Feeling unreasonably  smart: Check

Intense writing discussions where I learned more than I taught: Check

Being close to tears realizing that none of these wonderful new people would be back next year: Check

Yep, VP is over and I has a sad.  It was wonderful.  Thank you all.