Writing is nothing if not problem solving. These rules that hobble you now will ultimately strengthen your work.
The following is a quick diagnostic check. Find what seems to be your weakness, and consider the possible cause and solution.
Problem:
Your narrative voice is boring.
Consider:
Read it aloud. Do you vary sentence length and construction? Do you balance dialogue with physical action and gesture? Do you mix different textures of communication?
Problem:
You fail to build tension.
Consider:
Have you established a clock? Do you limit and revisit your story elements (settings, characters, objects)? Does introducing new elements force you to use passive verbs such as “is” and “has”?
Do you use tennis-match dialogue that instantly settles the tension raised by every question?
Do you make every series a series of three? For example, “planes, trains, and automobiles” or “the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit”? Instead, consider using two or four items in each series. Three items completes too much energy.
Do you stay within a scene, or do you fall into frequent flashbacks that jolt your reader out of the fictional moment?
Are you taking things too lightly? Remember, too many comedians and not enough strippers will continually negate any tension that might arise. Add more strippers. Cut back on your cleverness.
Problem:
Your stories ramble and meander without coming to a climax.
Consider:
Did you plant a gun? What unresolved expectation can you revisit?
What character can you kill in the second act in order to heighten the seriousness?
Can you send your characters on a brief road trip that will wreck their complacency?
Problem:
You lose interest in the work before it’s complete.
Consider:
Does it explore a deep, unresolved issue of yours?
Are you depicting a horizontal series of plot events that doesn’t deepen? Are you reintroducing objects and allowing them to morph as symbols?
Problem:
A scene runs on and on without contributing to the horizontal or the vertical of the story.
Consider:
Before writing the scene, did you plan its purpose? Does it establish or introduce something? Or does it deepen the risk and tension? Is it a lull to pace an upcoming reveal, or to suggest time passing? Or does it reveal something and resolve tension? Always, always have some inkling of your scene’s purpose before you begin to work on it.
Problem:
Your work fails to attract an agent, editor, or audience.
Consider:
Does that really matter? If writing is fun…if it exhausts your personal issues…if it puts you in the company of other people who enjoy it…if it allows you to attend parties and share your stories and enjoy the stories told by others…if you’re growing and experimenting with every draft…if you’d be happy writing for the rest of your life, does your work really need to be validated by others?
Problem:
Your fiction fails to engage the reader.
Consider:
Do you rely too much on big voice and abstract verbs? A reader can always be entranced by an object in motion within a setting. The eye moves in tiny jerks unless it’s tracking a moving object. Are you clearly depicting an object or person in motion?
Problem:
Your beginnings don’t hook readers.
Consider:
Do you begin with a thesis sentence that summarizes, or do you begin by raising a compelling question or possibility?
Problem:
You don’t have time to write.
Consider:
Do you listen to music while commuting, or can you allow yourself to daydream in silence? Do you keep a pad and pen in the bathroom? Beside your bed? In your car? Do you make the most of your writing time by compiling notes and ideas throughout the rest of your life?
Problem:
You don’t want to freak out your family.
Consider:
By telling the truth you allow others the same opportunity.
So long as you’re clearly writing fiction, you force other people to own the fact they might be the characters (and they might be dicks). If they take offense, you can simply deny that any characters are based on them.
Problem:
You can’t find a workshop.
Consider:
Start one. Enroll in a class. Find any social structure that will hold you accountable to produce work.
Problem:
Your workshop sucks.
Consider:
As Ken Kesey once told me, “All workshops suck at some point.” You will love and hate one another. Ultimately, does your workshop keep you producing work?
Ken Kesey
Problem:
Writers in your workshop demand major surgery on your work. They suggest useless revisions or state baseless opinions that offer no creative insight.
Consider:
Screenwriters I know must sit through marathon meetings with producers and actors, all of whom want reasonable and unreasonable changes to the script in question. A good writer knows what she can use and makes note of the helpful advice. And a professional knows not to push back, but just to smile and thank everyone for their contribution.
Problem:
Your audience isn’t surprised by your work.
Consider:
Are you? Do you withhold your best idea for the end, or can you use that strong idea near the beginning and trust that the story will naturally build to a stronger climax than you ever could’ve initially imagined?
Problem:
You write from an outline and lose interest partway to completion.
Consider:
How about writing from a partial outline? Know the mechanical breakdown at the end of the second act, and trust that the story will resolve itself better than you could ever anticipate. How can you surprise your reader if you can’t surprise yourself?
Problem:
Your work fails to break readers’ hearts.
Consider:
Are you being too clever? Have you established emotional heart authority? Does your work sound too much as if it’s being told by a writer instead of an actual person?
Problem:
Your main character is a shallow stereotype.
Consider:
Can you make her do something totally despicable but for a noble reason?
Problem:
Your work isn’t as good as Amy Hempel’s.
Consider:
No one’s is.
A Postcard from the Tour
About the time DVDs first appeared, but before the death of the
