Imagine your perfect kitchen.
You have an oven. You have a stove. You have a microwave. Between the toaster and the refrigerator is a clock radio that plays your favorite tunes. Special lighting illuminates every inch of countertop. This kitchen is basically the Ikea model; functionality, variety, and brushed aluminum everywhere.
Unfortunately, this kitchen has no electrical outlets. When you go to make toast, you might be disappointed.
Now imagine the opposite. Your friend has a kitchen. It has electrical outlets every six inches. No matter how many beaters, blenders, or bread machines your friend owns, each one has an outlet. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have any of those appliances. In fact, despite all her outlets, she has nothing to plug in.
Yours might be the Ikea model kitchen, but hers is the Home Depot electrical showcase. (“Choose the outlet that fits your personality!!”)
Will either kitchen work if you want toast? Probably not. What kind of kitchen would give you toast? That’s pretty easy to imagine: the kitchen with the best of both worlds. Enough appliances to do the job, with enough outlets to power them all. Perfection.
Before I lose you, I promise I’m not going into kitchen design. I’d like to twist this metaphor to talk about speaking and writing (especially nonfiction). Despite the appliances, this is a “show don’t tell” kind of post. (more…)
Posted by Liam Wood on December 8, 2015
You walk into a bookstore. A promising book peeks out at you from a shelf. You take it out and look it over. Intriguing cover art, thick enough to really enjoy, and the synopsis looks great. You look at the title again to memorize it for next time (you don’t have the funds this time to splurge on unknown books), and wince. Despite all its promise, it has a generic title. White Lie, a contemporary novel. Dark Kingdom, a fantasy. My Perfect Laddie, a romance. Everything else sounds so promising, but someone didn’t know how to title their book.
For me, I wouldn’t be as enthusiastic. A title that brings nothing new to the imagination doesn’t promise much for the rest of the book.
On the other hand, some writers produce brilliant titles. The title gives a piece of the book which, combined with the cover, synopsis, and everything else, produces curiosity. The Scorpio Races, for instance, is rather cryptic in terms of the contents of the book. However, you know immediately it’s about a race, or a series of races. Scorpio isn’t very easy to interpret— it has a couple different connotations, but none of them apply to racing. It seems to imply a bit of danger and some other stuff that means more to people who have read the book. Combined, the words leave more unknown than they clarified. They create curiosity, and if you’re trying to figure out what the book is like, you’re still stuck.
I guess you’ll have to read the book to find out. Sneaky author.
You know what a good title does: it makes you curious, it gives you a taste without shoving it down your throat. But I think you also know how to create a good title. I’m pretty sure I just explained it. (more…)
Posted by Liam Wood on February 17, 2015
John Milton is as good as his writing.
He grew up wanting to write poetry, but held off on writing anything spectacularly huge until later in his life. When he had succeeded in his career, had a family, and gone blind, he finally decided to write some epic poetry, the kind he always knew he could write. He dictated Paradise Lost, and we still praise him for it.
But was it some act of genius? Was it a lightning-strike of a Muse, a moment of inspiration unparalleled before and since? Of course not. He spent time on this thing. He thought long and hard about how he was going to write it, who the characters were, and what story he wanted to tell. He weighed the options of language— should he write it in English, or a more epic language of Greek or Latin? (He was fluent in all three, and probably several more.) Should it rhyme? All of these deep, difficult questions plagued him, but he knocked them down one by one until he could produce the masterpiece we have today.
My point? There’s a process, my friends, to writing epic poetry. Homer, Virgil, Milton, all created amazing, lasting works— and you can too. (more…)
Posted by Liam Wood on February 16, 2015
I sincerely hope I never write literary fiction again.
Literary fiction is, when done correctly, gorgeous. It explores deeply the complexities of a character, showing in a different light all the disgusting glory of human existence. It insults, weeps, and delights itself. Again, when done correctly, literary fiction is gorgeous.
I don’t want it.
A couple days ago, someone presented me with a visual prompt: the sun behind a pair of mountains behind a grove of trees, all frozen solid. So I wrote a piece of flash fiction, and since I was on the spot and currently reading Thomas Wolfe, I wrote it in that style. I wrote about choices, and change, and the affect of beauty on the mind. It sounds so pretentious here, but it was only 200 words, and I showed as much as I could. It was good practice for description and emotion.
The next day, I realized how much I loathed what I had written. (more…)
Posted by Liam Wood on February 15, 2015
This is a concept I’ve sat on for months, mentioning it here or there when I needed it. A couple times, I’ve started to write a post about it, but stopped. It seemed too elementary, too high school essay writing class. Transitions are technical, boring– useful, but the world is fully survivable without them. But recently, I’ve begun paying attention once again to transitions. Books, movies, anything with a scene break. Transitions make a story run smoothly.
Transitions are fairly self-explanatory. They bridge from one thing to another. When something is running smoothly, such as paragraphs in a scene, no transitions are necessary. But the moment something breaks, such as a scene, a chapter, or a viewpoint, a transition either exists to smooth it over, or doesn’t.
A chapter ends with a plot twist to make the reader want to keep reading. A transition makes it easy to keep reading. (more…)
Posted by Liam Wood on January 12, 2015
Beautiful words are daunting.
Thankfully, beautiful words aren’t what we’re looking for. Since beauty is subjective anyway, it’s difficult to find any one qualification that makes a beautiful word. Think about it. What makes something poetic? Rhyming? Not necessarily. Syllables? Nope. Metaphors? Not at all. The only thing common to everything we call poetic is beauty, and that’s subjective. What makes it poetic?
Simple answer: it’s the Right Word.
The Right Word could have many definitions and facets. It could be exactly what it says, the correct word for a specific instance. Or it could be a sentence, again perfect in that space. Or it could be a paragraph, artfully short or vivid. The Right Word is any selection of words that happens to be perfect for its situation.
Think about that for a moment. Beautiful words are just perfect. That’s it. In order to write beautifully, you just have to write… perfectly. (more…)
Posted by Liam Wood on October 23, 2014
The beginning of a story is like its pitch.
I think that’s easy to prove. A pitch must engage a reader and make them curious about the story itself— a beginning must do much the same thing, except it gets more words and leads into the rest of the story. The pitch acquaints the reader with the type of story it is— a beginning does exactly the same, but in more depth. Really, a beginning is just a beefed-up pitch. That’s why it’s so important, and so difficult.
A pitch boils a story down into a couple words that are each loaded with meaning. Wizards at boarding school— each word there has a very specific meaning to generate the correct picture. Jane Austen with magic— again, each word is loaded with meaning (except the prepositions, of course). We all know Jane Austen’s style of writing, and we all have varying ideas of magic. We don’t need to know exactly what the magic is yet, but those four words are enough to conjure up the perfect image. Pitches like these use combinations of familiar words with specific connotations to create something new and interesting.
But notice, pitches never include the names of the characters, or the name of the magic, or specific syntax from the story. Harry defeats Voldemort at Hogwarts— if you didn’t know those terms already, that would mean nothing to you. It’s one way to pitch the story, but it doesn’t work unless you take some time to introduce each of those terms. (Note that this sort of pitch can be used for a sequel, because the syntax has already been established.) Because of these restrictions, pitches must only use terms the layman can understand— words that have very specific meanings, yet are still common to almost everyone’s vocabulary. (more…)
Posted by Liam Wood on September 22, 2014