Category: Writing

Fourth Street Fantasy Convention

This is a reminder to everyone who might be interested that Fourth Street Fantasy Convention is approaching.  For those who don’t know, this is a small convention (100+ people) heavily oriented toward writing and writers–I sort of made it up back in, I think, the late 80’s so I could hear smart people argue about problems I was having.  The theory is that anything that is about writing is also about reading; “How to Read Better” has always been an unstated discussion topic.

What distinguishes Fourth Street from most conventions are two things: 1. A very high percentage of professionals (writers, editors); and B. Strict single-track programming with lunch breaks, so everyone can be at every panel (and, of course, continue the arguments from one to the other).  It used to be that did the programming; lately it’s mostly Alec Austin with help from Tom Whitmore and me, and I’ve been delighted by how things have gone.  I have learned stuff.  I think it has helped me write better; I know it has helped me get more out of my reading.

Check out who will be there (John Scalzi, Elizabeth Bear, Will Shetterly, Emma Bull, &c &c)

It’ll be in Minneapolis, June 22-24, and for actual, useful details, go here.

I’d love to see all of you there.

 

 

Too Many Danes

By Rex Stout

 

When the doorbell rang at the old brownstone on West 35th Street, I was already in a lousy mood.  We had just finished the Beltham embezzlement case, and it was Friday, and I had wanted to celebrate by spending the weekend with Lily Rowan.  Instead, Wolfe had insisted I finish the paperwork.  I knew he would have no interest in a case, in any case, what with what we’d just been paid, so I made up my mind that, whoever this was, he was getting in to see Wolfe.

The man on the other side of the glass was young–I’d say in his early twenties.  He was slight, but seemed athletic.  When I opened the door, he said simply, “Mr. Nero Wolfe?”

“No,” I said, “I’m Archie Goodwin.  But if it’s a case, I can take you in to see Mr. Wolfe.  He’s just down from visiting his orchids.”

“His–?  No, never mind.  Yes, I’d like to see him about a case.”

“Then come in, Mr.–”

He handed me his card as I took his coat.  I looked it over–expensive printing, gold lettering.  I guided him to the leather chair.  Wolfe looked up, glared, started to speak, but evidently put it together, because instead his lips pressed together into a thin line–or as thin a line as he can manage.  I handed Wolfe the card.  He glanced at it, glared at me, then turned his attention back to our guest.

“Very well,” he said.  “How can I help you, Mr. Hamlet?”

“I want you to prove that my uncle killed my father.”

He wagged his finger.  “I will do no such thing under any circumstances.  Should I agree to take the case, I will endeavor to discover the truth.”

“That will be fine.  As a retainer, I can–”

“Excuse me, I haven’t said I’d take it, yet.  Now, what makes you think your uncle killed your father?”

“His ghost told me,” said Hamlet, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

Wolfe glared at me.  “Pfui,” he said.  He started to say more, but then stopped, and a sort of malicious glint came into his eye.  He turned to Hamlet.  “That is very interesting,” he said.  “It is getting rather late.  Perhaps you could stay to dinner and afterwards Archie can get all the details?  Archie, tell Fritz we will be having a guest.”

No way around it, I was beat.  I got up and headed to the kitchen to tell Fritz that something smelled rotten in the office.

 

[Sorry, folks.  I just sorta had to.  Next, Pamela will demonstrate how Shakespeare would have written Plot It Yourself.]

What the narrator knows; what the reader knows

I had a friend email me with a cool question: How do you let the reader in on something the first person protagonist doesn’t?

I know it’s tricky, and I know it can be done, and I know it’s a rush when you pull it off.  My answer involved set-up: You establish the character as someone who is liable to miss drawing the correct conclusion when certain types of facts are in front of him, then you can have him report on things from which the reader will draw the correct conclusion, but the protagonist won’t.  For example, he might reminisce about a time a certain woman was attracted to him, and talk about the way she communicated it, and then say that he didn’t realize that until much later.  Now you can have his current lover drop clues that she is on the edge of breaking up with him, and the reader will believe that he doesn’t see it.  If you do it well enough, that is: it’s all about walking the line between, on the one hand, making the clues so subtle the reader doesn’t catch on, and, on the other, making the clues so obvious the reader won’t believe the protagonist doesn’t get it.

Anyway, I thought it was an interesting question, and worth throwing out to the Smart People who hang out here to see what other answers emerge.

Help. I can't remember my own work.

I”ve just written a scene for my current project in which my viewpoint character goes on a rant about being at peace with one’s self, expressing disdain for the concept.  I finished it, looked at it, and said, “Wait.  I’ve written this already.” Was that my imagination, or did I actually write that scene?  If so, where?  I should look it over to see if this one is different enough, or if I should just scrag it.  If someone more familiar with my work than I am can tell me, I’d appreciate it. Thanks.