Eric Staggs: Writer

As I blunder through graduate studies, I deal with more and more theory. My attitude towards theory mirrors Napoleon Bonaparte, who said “One does not compose the Iliad by studying grammar.”

Napoleon is of course, right. Storytellers begin at an early age and it’s a quality that often runs in the family. How many writers can tell you a story about how their grandmother or dad told wild and crazy stories? I guess my point is that storytelling, though an ingrained part of the human animal’s psyche* and is present in all of to some degree, might be a trait that cannot be learned.

Have you ever heard someone tell a bad or boring story? If you know instantly what went wrong, you’re probably a pretty good storyteller yourself. Don’t fall into the trap of books “about writing.” They can only tell you what you should instinctively know as a storyteller. The real work has to come from you, and actually be worked through.

There are some universal tips, however, that can help you refine your prose.

First and foremost: Read. Personally, I dread reading fiction these days. Screenplays make my eyes bleed and short stories mostly make me retch. But my attitude is selfish and incorrect. By reading what other writers are doing, by actually seeing it on the page, how it works grammatically, perceptually and interpretively, we begin to form opinions about what styles and methods are effective and which are not.

Think of any bad movie. It’s easy to see what went wrong, right? So, red bad books too. Same thing applies. We learn more from errors than from success, so why not let those errors be someone else’s?

Second, try to read things you don’t like. I know, it’s easier said than done. But try not to read with disgust. Sit down and actually read a few pages. You’ll be immersed in whole new styles of presentation. You’ll begin to see formulae that work in all stories and themes become consistently identifiable. Further, you’ll have some exposure to the smoking love scene in the rare instance you need it with your glorious space-opera epic. Maybe as the hero’s ship disintegrates around them while plummeting into the gravity well of some unknown hostile world, he can… what? Well, if you read an Oprah Book Club, you’ll at least know what happens next.

Finally, don’t believe everything your writing teachers, instructors and professors say. Some dead on and their advice in invaluable – that’s why you’re paying for your expensive education. Others will not be correct, their advice perhaps confusing.

That all said, in reality, there is only one way to become a better writer – write.

*That ability to remember, retell, to modify and invent is what separates us from most other animals.

Glen Cook’s Passage At Arms came to be in my library by a rather circuitous route. Having read The Dragon Never Sleeps another of Glen Cook’s sci-fi novels, I had several times considered picking up Passage At Arms. Finally, I did.

I was not disappointed in the slightest. Passage At Arms is the tale of military journalist attached to a special unit called a Climber. The Climbers are long range patrol ships, seeking out the enemies of humanity in the vast, lonely reaches of space.

Cook’s eye-of-the-storm storytelling takes the reader by the collar and drags them into a claustrophobic world of nano-second violence and nerve crushing waiting.

The battles occur in milliseconds, with casualties far apart, little more than light blips on high tech sensors. The removal of the combatants from the horrors of war is near complete. The enemy then becomes themselves, their nerves and will power. As the ship molds and festers around them (bacteria grows in a sealed ship like a peatrei dish) and the crew itself becomes scurvy and filthy, the mental strain becomes unbearable. Glen Cook manages to convey this sense with split second timing and monotonous trials of patience. His ability to play with time makes events stream by or cause it to dilate to absurdity.

The characters become strangers to one another as they open to the reader, their inner-selves unfolding like neurotic origami. As the pressure of long-duration space battle build, we see man at his worst and his finest.

A sci-fi war novel, Passage At Arms sports only two or three actual battles, spanning (story-wise) less than three minutes. Regardless, the battles are intense and well planned, demonstrating the author’s knowledge of hard science and his ability to mitigate boring physics with actual story telling. A must read.

Upon further consideration, I feel compelled to comment on the author’s use of space. Not outer space, just space in general. In my first review of Ender’s Game, I wrote about the story and Orson Scott Card’s political and social views. He’s a little right of reasonable, but dodges the crux of the issue quite well. I felt that perhaps I was cheating readers by not discussing the actual writing of the book.

So the author’s use of space… is awkward. Each and every scene seems to occur in a vacuum, only the briefest attention given to the details of the location. Settings become rough layouts of rooms with noticeable obstacles. The fine details that we would expect our narrator to present to us through the magnificently observant eyes of young Ender Wiggan don’t occur.

It is possible the author intentionally left the settings sparse for mood and out of logical reason; space is cold and empty, extra clutter is dangerous and Ender lives in a cold and empty world. But that’s cheating.

Ender is not cold and empty, thus even though the world he lives in might be immaculate or sparse, Ender’s perceptions should have colored it a multitude of hues, from a tiny spittle of rust on a seldom used access hatch, to a flicker or twitch in the eyes of his arch-nemesis, Bonzo.

Further, Ender’s insight came from nowhere. The more I ponder this the more troubling it becomes. The character saved the world – but how? His magical intellect grew from what seem to be two very average parents. In the beginning of the book, some pretense is made towards the monitoring and selection of special children. This is fine in the beginning, but as the world’s hopes come to rest squarely on Ender, his abilities outstrip even the most senior of military commanders. As readers we need more. We need some assurance of plausibility; some reason that this is all possible. The author fails to deliver.

The blog has become the most often overlooked and perhaps the single most powerful online method for sharing your message with a larger audience. While social networking like LinkedIn, Facebook and Twitter can have a huge impact on your message delivery strategy, they assume the monitoring of your stream by the audience. Whereas a blog , like wine, can age and even increase in value (if not taste). Google factors “longevity” into its search pattern. A long established blog with well planned and accurate content will help push your online presence to the forefront of the digital mob.

In the past, I’ve seen businesses of all sizes ponder and waffle over the idea of a blog. The concerns are valid of course. You’re better off not having a blog if you’re not comfortable with writing, or if you can’t afford to hire a specialist. A poorly written blog will not only hinder your SEO opportunities, but will affect the credibility of your online presence and even damage your brand. Further, with larger organizations, timing becomes a factor. Most large corporations, even those with finely honed communications teams (ahem)are simply not agile enough to make good use of daily blogging efforts (let alone real-time feeds like Twitter of Facebook). Since corporate communications are ultimately beholden to the “brand image” that a battery of nameless executive want to create/project/manage, the timeliness and impact of real-time communications is blunted significantly.

The small business has an advantage when it comes to communications with clients and customers. The layers of bureaucracy are removed and the blog author can look the owner in the eye and help prepare the message.

That said, blogs must be used wisely. The internet grants the power of communication to all who dare take up the pen (or keyboard). The power must be used concisely and honestly. But refrain from bashing your opponents or competition out right. Comparisons and analyses are obviously the more mature and effective method to employ if you feel compelled to fence with your opponent.

Libel is the written defamation of a person or entity (oddly, corporations have the same rights as a human being in the United States – who’da thunk?). In my humble opinion, a good juicy blog rides the line of libel and slander, like a surfer stuck in the tube of truth knowing that he’s going to have to “jump the shark” before the episode is over.

Of course, that’s got nothing to do with any sort of professional or corporate/product blog. Remember, blogging is a straight dialogue between you and your customers and clients. It’s a chance to build your brand, but don’t get hung up on those BS marketing terms. Your blog is essentially a calling card, a first impression, a reference point and a lifeline for you and your customers. Think out your blog updates. Take the time make them consistent and relevant. Don’t just cut and paste your brochure garbage. Give it some personality – make it real, make the human connection.

One last tip – answer all the comments you get. It’s worth your time to show your customers and clients that you care about their thoughts and opinions. Your blog generates goodwill by being entertaining and useful.

The moon was spying on me, watching me through my little window. The sky was blue and the winter moon was a clear three-quarter full. The only other thing visible from my high window was a massive pine. It was like and angry watcher, its branches fracturing the afternoon blue of the sky.

The moon watched as I devoured a Nutroll, the nuts cracking and shattering as I chomped, crumbs piling around me, landing on the slick surface of my grim obsidian desk.

I hunkered down and she crept up higher in the sky to keep eyes on what I was doing. I devoured the candy.  The salt from the Nutroll was making me lick my lips. The goo in the center of the candy bar was sticking in my teeth and I was moving my mouth and cheeks in an effort to dislodge the tooth decayer. But I couldn’t give up the salt, so both efforts, the salt removal and the sticky candy-goo removal took twice as long.

The moon watched while I feasted like a dog.

As a writer, you hate to bash another writer’s work. You always want to try to find something positive to say about it. In college, when doing peer readings, hyper-critical as I am, I found myself not saying much. One of my favorite professors said “You’ve a great integrity about you when comment…”

I think she meant that I didn’t just spout off for a grade like the other students. The truth was, I seldom had anything good to say.

Tim Waggoner’s Thieves of Blood: Blade of the Flame read’s like an introductory page from a Dungeons and Dragon’s Gaming book. The exposition nearly bowls a person over, and the character archetypes offer nothing new to readers.

That said, if this book is classed as young adult fiction, or used as the marketing piece it was obviously intended to be, it’s a total success. Those not familiar with the Eberron campaign setting will find the book enlightening. Another refreshing aspect of Waggoner’s approach is his general lack of an “origins” story. He simply starts in with two pre-existing characters and allows their histories, though somewhat two-dimensional they may be, to unfold naturally for the reader.

Another thing the writer’s done here, which I appreciate greatly, is create a literary adventure, a time filler for young adults, that needs neither electricity or software.

B+

…Or the Delicate Art of the Human Spectacle

Back in the primordial mist of self-indulgent web-publishing, blogs were a sort of anonymous, online journal, where someone could write their terrible secrets, post their gruesome thoughts, rant about their hatreds, gush about their crushes, wax vitriolic about their employers, politicians and auto-mechanics.

Somewhere along the way, a very clever person (we have no proof they were really a person – it might have been a pixie, nixie, sprite, faerie, gremlin, goblin, bugbear or imp) figured out that Google rates web-sites on content, relevance and authority.

Then, as if over night, blogging became big business, professional whiners (of which I occasionally classify myself) burst onto the scene, and became experts.

While it’s true, my fifty-plus credits in story, plot, characterization, pacing, method and writing craft, screenwriting and all the rest of it may make me more of an authority than the Fat-beard at the Comic Shop whose most insightful criticism is akin to “Best  Van Damme film ever.” I’m no more an expert than the next guy.*

As I peruse the blogosphere (which the Micro$oft dictionary considers a word apparently) I’m finding thousands of experts, all shouting their opinions on film, politics, literature, poetry, religion, tacos.

This isn’t what blogs are about. Blogs should be about fun – reading some else’s dirty laundry, the voyeuristic rush of peeking into the lives of others, what I call the “Delicate Art of the Human Spectacle.”

No sane person hits up a blog to learn how to re-wire their home! Or how to fix the plumbing from their septic tank to the new guest toilet! Imagine, some greasy handed plumber, sitting down with his morning Chai tea and powering up his Mac Awesomebook and composing a step by step instructional blog for his website (cleverly titled something like Betweenthecrack.com) on how to install proper piping for your pooper. He might order a bagel with lox (gag) while his fat, sausage-like fingers hammer away, struggling to hit the proper keys,  wondering when to use Ergo, Id Est and Exempli Gratia in his rather terse prose.

Yeah. Right.

Not only would said plumber be putting himself out of business by sharing his hard earned knowledge and trade secrets with his eager readers,  but typically, plumbers tend not to be literati.**

I say let’s bring back the spectacle. let’s get some of that Gutspill.com, visceral, reality-show, blogging going on. Let’s hear about your vicious aunt or your drunk cousin, or your mother-in-law who just knows you’re a bad mom… come on folks the holidays are the most psychologically trying times our culture has manufactures. Let’s see some spectacle…

*Okay, that’s not entirely true, I went college to become an expert on those things, but I think my point is valid.

**Obviously, this is a generalization not meant to offend any intelligentsia plumbers who might be reading.

***Second post with Micro$oft Writer, I’m not possessed nor indentured, yet.

I think like any savvy computer user, I’m hesitant to install anything on my computer that comes from Micro$oft. I began my career as we a web designer cursing and swearing at the cheap employers who insisted we use Frontpage because it was “already installed.”

That attitude is/was such a violation of logic and free enterprise and healthy competition and everything else the internet promised or stood for, it was enough to drive designers and developers mad. Not to mention the browser wars and the vicious disinformation campaigns against non-Micro$oft products.

When I worked in advertising, one of our main clients used a bubble-gum and prayer NT system for their multi-million dollar e-commerce rig. They measured up time (on their test environment) in hours. Our duplicate test environment measured up time in months – the only difference being that ours was a Unix server.

But enough about this wretched history of Micro$oft. I’m talking about their wretched future. This new Blogging app, Writer,  hasn’t crashed yet. But upon clicking that fateful download button, my VIAO lurched into a wild seizure of downloads and installs, updates and god knows what else. When the dust settled, I was being asked to set up a Windows Live profile – something I didn’t want to do, didn’t set out to do.

But credit where do, Writer is still so far, a pretty nifty little app. It’s not much different than any other bloggers apps, except that you get the added comfort of knowing it’s a quality Micro$oft product riding wild through your trusty computer’s electrons.

post-script -

Write in Writer, send it up to my website, my LiveJournal and to a few other selected blog outlets as well. Is this a good thing? Probably not, but we all love convenience.

I get a lot of searching on my website for the “steeple chase.” Admittedly, by the time I was taking advanced fiction or advanced ii, I was so jaded that the very idea of the steeple chase seemed like a cop out- rather than practice follow through with plots and themes, rather than begin training for that trial of endurance that is necessary for all novelists, the steeple-chase was a cheap way to get burgeoning authors to move their dreadful plots forward.

So many times in classes I heard “When does the story end?” or “When should I begin a new chapter?” Signing inwardly, I always listened patiently to the answer – invariably – “when you feel it.”

I think a more accurate answer would have been “when there is nothing more to say.” This, in my opinion is the heart of the steeple-chase technique. As writers we all get stuck, write ourselves into a corner, or just get blocked. The steeple-chase, named for god knows what, allows an author to easily leap forward or backward in time, across geographic boundaries or into the head of a new character.

In essence, a new paragraph or chapter need not follow in sequential, logical time. Using the “what happens next” method and literally, tossing it into the air, to see how it lands – that’s the Steeple-chase.

Personally, I skinked through my junior and senior years and advanced fiction courses without ever turning in a steeple chase – I think the professor was feeling the apathetic burn out from a room full of graduating seniors – and just didn’t give a damn.

Since then, however, I’ve used the technique many times. Not only does it help advance your plot, but it frees the author of the mundane goings on in a characters life and advances the story to the next critical moment. No need to write about how when Molly got home from the hospital she made some tea. No need to point out how she was so exhausted she rummaged through her tea box, a wooden container with intricate designed carved into the wood, a gift from her grandmother when she first moved out on her own, and couldn’t decide between Chamomile and Earl Grey.

Unless, it advances the plot. It might be argued that that little blurb of fluff is “characterization,” but again, that characterization should be linked intrinsically to the story you’re trying to tell.

The tea-box takes on significance if it was Molly’s grandmother in the hospital.

Then, steeple-chase it right to the funeral – since we all know Molly Grandmother is doomed, otherwise why the momentary reflection on the tea-box – move the plot forward.

It was perhaps, because she was so cold, that he found her charming. He surely suspected that to her, he was just another sub-routine. A program, she would start up and run, when her other programs told her central processor that it was appropriate to do so. He glanced at her eyes.

She smiled, demurely and reached out to touch his hand. Her hand moved slow, her long delicate fingers seemed to absorb light. They reached his hand and wrapped around it slowly, then, squeezed, ever so gently. Her hand then retreated, to rest once again in her own lap.

Simon marveled at the warmth of her skin, the almost too human face. She blinked and smiled up to him.

“Why do you stare at me Simon?”

“Because you are a marvel.” He smiled. “Do you love me, Symphony?”

“Of course Simon.”

“Are you just saying that because you know that it’s what I want to hear?”

“No.”

“Are you just saying that because you are programmed to?”

“No.”

“How do you know what love is?”

Symphony cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, an all too human expression of puzzlement.

“Because you make me happy.”

“Yes, but how do you know that?” He persisted. He looked away from her and stared out into the cold night. His eyes caught the thruster flare of a ship, far off, preparing to leave orbit. “Aren’t you programmed to love me?”

“Aren’t you programmed to laugh when something is funny?” She countered,

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I don’t have programming.”

“That is debatable.”

He sighed. “But how do you know it’s not just a series of complex instructions?”

“I know it because I smile involuntarily when you are near. I know it because I derive pleasure from your happiness. I know it, because I do.”

“But that could be programming! Subtle, yes, and genius, yes, but it still could be programming.”

“Does it make it less real for you knowing that you are supposed to feel a thing when certain stimuli occur?”

He turned and looked at her. Her womanly shape relaxed in the contoured co-pilots chair, her skin glittering somewhere between rosey-pink and flickering stars. He almost believed her. Then she looked out into space and her eyes flicked, her irises constricted and her pupils flared, micro-miniature circuitry was pulsing to life just behind the curve of her blue eyes. She’d seen that engine flare as well.

“Simon. It’s a pursuit craft. We need to leave.” Symphony announced non-chalantly as she began to buckle herself into her seat.

“We’re in the que, we’ll get our chance soon.”

“Negative, Simon. We’re in danger.”

“What!?”

Symphony’s fingers flew over the ships controls and the darkened bridge lit up with hundreds of displays and lights and switches. She moved with frightening speed and grace. She continued to speak.

“Please, Love, strap yourself in. Prepare for dimension fold.”

“Right here?”

“I’m afraid so.” Her voice was low, soothing.

“Don’t worry love. I won’t let them hurt you.” And as she spoke, she coded in the incredibly complex figures for their impending leap through time and space. Figures, that would take most normal computers hours to crunch, a human perhaps days. This was why he didn’t believe she loved him, but it was certainly why he loved her.

And then they jumped through space and left time to sort itself out.

The world became solid and time took up its vigil again as the small shuttle materialized from its dimension fold. Simon blinked and turned to Symphony. Symphony moved from her seat and swept her hand over the ship’s control, gracefully putting it to sleep.

“Where are we?” Simon asked, rising from his own seat and moving up beside Symphony. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her close. He grinned as she playfully struggled, wriggling gently in a feigned attempt to escape his embrace.

“We are nowhere, my Love.” She pointed to the star charts.

“Why?”

“It was the only place I knew that no one was.” She smiled at him.

“They’ll be coming for us, for you.”

“And you.”

“Yes.”

“What shall we do Simon?”