I go to a lot of conferences and talk to a lot of writers, and one of the most common things that these aspiring novelists don’t take advantage of is writing in the short form.

“But I write novels. Why should I write short stories?”

It’s a fair question, and I wouldn’t recommend writing shorts unless it helps you find success with your novel. It does, both from a technical and a business standpoint. Read on, Grasshopper.

When you break down a novel, each chapter should push the story forward, contributing to the overall arc. Ideally, it does this in a similar fashion to how a short story operates. It introduces or delves deeper into a character or plot element that faces rising tension and requires action in order to resolve or alter the current situation. In short fiction, each chapter has its own little arc. Writing short stories is an excellent way to practice creating the types of structures that will end up becoming the foundation of your novel. 

Another way that short stories act to improve your writing is their calling more attention to the language itself. In a commercial adult novel, you generally have around 70,000 to 90,000 words to tell your story. In the short form, you have less than 20,000. And if you distil even further and enter the realm of flash fiction, the definition varies from under 5,000 words to the mere hundreds and below. For the story to maintain all of the necessary elements of plot, character development, tension, etc., you as an author rely on your ability to choose only the most powerful words in the most skillful of combinations. You can’t meander around and hope something grabs the reader’s attention. This is training to become a literary ninja. You must get in, strike swift, strike hard, strike with purpose, and get out. Leave your reader out of breath and wanting more. Harness that kind of power and then deliver it in your novel.

As an agent, I’m always looking out for authors that have a mastery of the language and can elicit a strong response with the right combination of a few words. But the fact of the matter is, I can’t always know for sure whether or not you have that magical combination. I can’t read everything people want me to. I get so many submissions that it sometimes takes weeks for me to respond to a query letter. And well over 90% of the works that I reject are rejected from the query without me having read any of the manuscript. Though the story itself is the most important deciding factor for me in a query, being able to provide an impressive list of short fiction publication credits increases your chances by showing me that figures of literary authority have found your writing to be exceptional. I can then feel better about investing the time into requesting and reading your manuscript.

“Oh, man. This is like homework.”

Don’t let the need to come up with new material stress you out. It can be an important part of your writing process for your novel. If you look at the short stories F. Scott Fitzgerald was publishing in the early ’20s, you can see him working out the characters and situations that would eventually find their way into The Great Gatsby. And we all know the result of that.

On the other end of the spectrum, if you’ve already written your novel, you undoubtedly have scenes and characters that you’ve cut for the good of the overall piece. They don’t have to sit unused in an old Word .doc in an obscure folder. Bring them out and let them play around. You’ve done a lot of the writing already.

“Ok. I’ve written a dynamite short. Now what?”

Revise (read my previous post). Once you’ve revised and your short is truly dynamite, now you must search for the appropriate venue. Not just any venue will do. You must know who you are pitching to, how they accept submissions and when to submit. There are countless literary magazines and journals available. They will be your primary targets. Newspapers and large publishers don’t publish shorts from unknown authors anymore, but litmags do. The best place to start is www.duotrope.com or Writer’s Market. These update fairly regularly with information regarding what type of writing they specialize in and various requirements. I highly suggest you check out these resources, the magazines’ websites and the actual, physical publications before you submit. It will save you from a lot of general, “Not right for us” responses.

“Are online litmags reputable? Will anyone read it if I go digital?”

If you would’ve asked me this several years ago, my answer may have been different. But today, many reputable publishers have entire online divisions, like McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. There are also plenty of quality digital-only litmags, like Smokelong Quarterly. And if you’re wondering whether or not people actually read the digital stuff, you should ask the current owners of 4.19 million iPads and over 3 million Kindles.

“Sweet. I’m going to be rich.”

Slow down. Don’t expect your short stories to make you any money. True, you may have heard stories like Fitzgerald writing shorts to pay the bills while he worked on his novels. But there are two main reasons why you shouldn’t compare your own situation with his:

1. He was already a well-known writer at the time. His breakout success with This Side of Paradise had established him as a prominent literary figure and created a commercial demand for his work. It’s like Stephen King or Neil Gaiman writing short stories. People will pay to read their work, regardless of the format.
2. These days, litmags don’t make money. Since they don’t sell as many copies as, say Twilight, they usually can’t afford to pay their authors much more than a free contributor copy (and the all-important prestige of publication). They keep their costs low in order to encourage sales and sell ad space to cover some of the necessary costs of printing and shipping. The staff generally works for free, donating countless hours for the sake of the written word.

 “But what if they turn me down? Will all of my work have been for naught?”

Of course not. It’s ninja training, remember? You will have improved as a writer and a novelist. And if you need to get your work out into the public, plenty of avenues are available for you to do so yourself. In fact, I recently finished editing a collection of shorts that the author is self publishing. They showed promise, and I hope he does well.

Questions? Comments? Have an opinion on DiCaprio being cast as Gatsby? Let’s talk.

GORDON—Read more about this editor

It’s a week into National Novel Writing Month, right about the time when a lot of participating writers hit a wall and start to see their word count slip behind pace. Suddenly, 50,000 words seems like a monumental undertaking, and certainly one that can wait until next year.

Though it might seem daunting at times, it’s ok. If you aren’t just a little scared when you’re writing, chances are you’re not doing it right. It’s that kind of concern that drives us writers to put so much of ourselves into what ends up on the page. If you don’t care about your text, it will show in the end. Embrace the emotions and let them run high.

However, you should never let the fear grow so great that it gets the best of you and stops your progress. And there are plenty of reasons why that shouldn’t happen with your NaNo novel. First of all, if you look over on your bookshelf and see Twilight (or Wuthering Heights, depending upon your taste), realize that you’re not expected to recreate that in a month. The word count alone is well over double what you’re being asked to produce. Depending upon how it is packaged, a book of around 50,000 words would end up about as thick as my index finger, not even the chunkiest of my thin, little bird fingers. It’s an attainable length.

But even more toxic of a misconception than the required end word count is the common belief that you are expected to churn out a market-ready novel in thirty days. Unless your name is Stephen King, that notion is absurd (and even with him, I kid). At this point, I must refer to one of the most useful books on writing in existence, Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. Within the first part of the book is a chapter that really sums up the NaNoWriMo experience: Shitty First Drafts. Lamott states that “All good writers write them. This is how they end up with good second drafts and terrific third drafts.” Sure, you’ll be working hard to get your 50,000 words out, but after that, you’ll be able to revise.

And this is where you breathe easily.

Just focus on getting the words out onto the page for now.

At the end of the month, you can go back and fix things. And you should. As an agent, I can always tell when something comes across my desk whether someone has spent a month on it or whether they’ve spent longer. And I highly recommend putting in the time. If you think about it, you’re putting forth way too much effort this month to ultimately try to rush your novel out into the publishing world when it’s just not ready.

There are several things you can do to get the most out of what you will create this month. I always recommend, when you’ve spent a good deal of time working intensely on one piece, to put it away for a month. Let it sit long enough for you to stop thinking about it. And then take it out and look at it again. Chances are, you will change so much once you look upon it with fresh eyes.

Even more important is the need to share your work. Share it with friends and family, yes. But you should be sure to share it with people who have no personal bias toward or against you. Honest feedback is key in moving your novel to the next level. And let’s face it, if your mother is anything like mine, you could fingerpaint something, call it a novel, and she would give you a glowing review.

You have to show it to someone who will give you honest, informed feedback. One way is to form a critique group. When the right writers get together to critique each others’ works in progress, the results can be phenomenal. When forming such a group, it is ideal to have talented writers who are familiar with your genre and gel with your personality.

If you want to go straight to the horse’s mouth, you can seek out coaching or a manuscript critique from a publishing professional. To really get your money’s worth there, make sure that you work with a qualified individual, such as an agent, a bestselling author or an acquisitions editor. You can generally find them at writers’ conferences. I have worked at a dozen of them this year, from DC to SF, and they are wonderful resources.

If you don’t want to pay several hundred dollars to attend a conference that will usually charge you an additional fee to meet with an agent or have your manuscript critiqued, you can find plenty of qualified professionals right here at EME. One thing I like about this group is that everyone utilizes their own specialty, rather than stretching into genres and formats that they aren’t really familiar with. If you write poetry, you will get a poetry editor. If you write memoir, you will get a memoir editor. And yes, if you’re writing a novel, you will get the assistance of someone who knows what it takes for a novel to succeed in today’s changing market. Our coaches and editors have worked in all facets of acquisitions and editing in Big Six publishers, top agencies and literary magazines. When the time comes, we can help you make sure your novel stands out from the 120,000+ NaNo novels currently being written.

Until then, keep your fingers flying and your word count growing. NaNoWriMo makes me giddy as an agent and editor because so many good stories are being created. I hope to soon have the pleasure of reading yours.  

GORDON—Read more about this editor

Having trouble deciding whether to outline your whole novel in advance or to let the story (and characters) take you where they will? In this article, one of our novelists tells you how he arrived at a hybrid approach that gave him the perfect combination of freedom and structure.

NO “ONE-SIZE-FITS-ALL” APPROACH TO PLANNING

When it comes to writing your novel, how you choose to map out the plot is a lot like how you say “potato” (i.e., po-tae-to or po-tah-to)—there really is no one-size-fits-all right answer (though I am partial to po-tae-to, myself). At one end of the spectrum, there are the writers who outline all of the major plot points of their stories before ever writing a single word of text. And at the other end of the spectrum, there are the writers who forego an outline altogether, opting to let the ideas and plot points flow naturally as they go from prologue to epilogue. If one of these options works for you, who am I to argue? Good job! But in my own writing, I have found that a hybrid approach—combining the two techniques—works best for me.

DISCOVERING A HYBRID APPROACH

With Sunshine’s Darkness (my first novel), the idea for the story came to me as part of an assignment in a writing course that I was taking. To be honest, at the time of the assignment, I really didn’t think the seeds of this story would ever mature to a finished product. Realizing that, I sat down at my keyboard and just started typing out content to fulfill the course requirement. Ideas weren’t fully considered, and even the characters weren’t fleshed out (nor do they necessarily have to be when you first start writing your novel). As I typed out the first ten chapters, I realized how much FUN it was to see ‘where the day took me.’ Since I hadn’t outlined anything, I was free to let the ideas that flowed forth take me in any direction. This was great!

That meant I never had to worry how new twists and turns would affect my end game (because at that time, let’s face it, there was no end game; just a grade). I was free to be creative—and what could be more fun than that?

Two months later, the class ended. But by then, I was so engrossed in writing my novel that I realized it was a project I just had to finish. I was nearing the halfway point. I was also starting to get knots in my stomach, and at first I didn’t know why. It seemed every time I sat down to write, I had the dreaded ‘block.’ Up until then it had been fun to just sit down and let plot twists flow forth as they came to me. Now suddenly I was tensing up every time I sat down to write. Worse, my characters were starting to stress me out because I didn’t know which direction to take them in, nor did I know the answers to two important questions that kept nagging me: “Who lives in my story?” and “Who’s going to die?”

For several days, I focused on mapping out the second half of the book, writing down explicit scenes that each of my main characters would experience, all the way to the final chapter. In many ways, my novel was finished—insofar as the plot was concerned. Now all I had to do was fill in those scenes with prose and I would be done.

What started out as free-flow writing for the first half of my novel blended into a near-rigid outline for the latter half. If someone had told me to outline this novel from the beginning, I don’t think I could have done it. After all, it was the process of discovering who my characters were and what my story was really about that solidified where I would ultimately go with the second half of Sunshine’s Darkness. That freedom to let the plot—and the characters—develop was vital to my story. Likewise, if I had continued a free-flow style of writing, it would have been impossible for me to calculate the exact moments when major plot twists needed to occur in order for certain characters to end up where they needed to be. Put another way:

By adopting the use of the outline for the second half, I was able to weave together the story that had developed freely in the first half, bringing the story to a satisfying and logical conclusion.

FINDING YOUR OWN APPROACH

If you decide to follow my method, you need not follow it to a tee. For example, you might choose to outline in the beginning a few key scenes that you want to take place, while still allowing your characters and plot to develop freely around those scenes. I didn’t do this for Sunshine’s Darkness, but with my second novel I did: I began the novel by outlining three key scenes—and the order I needed to tell about them in order to move the plot along. Likewise, you don’t need to slavishly follow your structured outline in the second half of your book if you come up with some amazing plot twist or new ending that will blow your readers away. For Sunshine’s Darkness, I thought I knew exactly what the last couple of chapters were going to be; but when I got there and it came time to write them, I found several of my characters were still left hanging. So I created a whole new ending that would weave together the characters who still had these loose threads. When something like this develops, you toss your outline aside and wrap up your book with what works best.

But whichever you choose, the one thing to keep in mind is this: It’s the end result that matters. Whichever style you ultimately choose for writing your novel, as long as it gets you to a satisfying, publishable, and FINISHED end-result, then you’ve done your job. Bravo!

So what works for you? Do you map it all out? Do you let it flow freely? Do you have a hybrid approach of your own? Leave a COMMENT to share your own techniques for developing your characters and your stories.

GREG—Read more about this editor

What Do We Mean By “Voice”?

One of the most elusive terms when discussing fiction is Voice (especially when it is capitalized). You will hear the word get thrown around in so many different directions and meaning so many different things to so many different people that it often becomes useless when trying to critique a work-in-progress in a workshop setting or within the editor/writer give-and-take. As both a teacher and editor, one of the first things that I try to do with my writers is to settle on a critical vocabulary that we can both understand and agree upon, so that when we get to the nitty-gritty of evaluating and critiquing manuscripts, there are no misunderstandings.

Voice, because of its expansive definition, is one of the most important terms to define and agree upon. Often we hear the term in its more sweeping usage—when, for instance, we speak of a young writer “finding her voice”; or of the “voice of a Dickens, or a García Márquez,” so distinctive on the page that a reader can choose a passage from among many and recognize it as the specific writer’s. On the opposite end of the spectrum, in a much narrower definition, we often hear readers speak of the voice of an individual character—one of the many particulars that differentiate him from other characters. As an editor, I use the term in its more direct relationship to the text or narration, often qualifying it as the narrative voice.

Voice is one of the craft elements that the reader experiences most directly and immediately. There is no story without the narrative voice, whether it is a very familiar first-person narrator or a distant omniscient one. Voice is the lens, the vehicle, through which the reader experiences all the other elements that make up the story. As an editor, therefore, it is important to define this term as precisely as possible, without any of the mythical baggage that comes when speaking about Voice in its capitalized and more mythical form.

Three Modes of Voice

I break the narrative voice into three distinctive categories, which guide the reader through the external world of the story, and through two levels of the internal world of characters. Contemporary fiction depends on these three modes almost exclusively. And as a writer, especially when engaged in the process of middle or late revision, it is important to know the modes the story relies on and the dramatic rationale for such reliance.

• The first mode is the descriptive voice. This is the part of the narrative responsible for relating to the reader most of the external world of the story, including the concrete world, the action, the spoken dialogue, the smells, textures, tastes and so on—essentially anything that can be perceived with the five senses. Very few stories can survive without the descriptive voice, since the world of the senses is the stage where most of our stories take place. 
• The second mode is the reflective voice. This is when the narrative begins to delve into the inner landscape of specific characters. The reflective voice is one of interpretation, processing and judgment on what the descriptive voice has laid out for the reader, whether on an action, a place or another character’s physical quality. Unlike the descriptive voice, which can often belong only to an impersonal third-person narrator, the reflective voice often occurs as a sort of duet, being at once the voice of the narrator and of the specific character whose ruminations we inhabit. Very few examples in contemporary fiction exist without a healthy dose of the reflective voice. In fact, the best of contemporary fiction seems to strike a powerful balance between these first two modes, often weaving them together in the same sentence.
• The third major mode is the direct internal voice, otherwise known in literature courses as stream-of-consciousness. It is an internal mode like the reflective voice, but it often attempts something much more radical: to directly transcribe the thoughts of an individual character as they occur. Some writers, like Proust, argue that such a task is impossible—that, since thoughts occur in the evanescent present, they are therefore not verbal or subject to the linear laws of language. Other writers, like Joyce, spend their whole lives proving that indeed the pattern of thoughts could be replicated on the page.  In contemporary fiction, however, this remains the least deployed of the three modes, but it is nevertheless a very powerful way to approach certain characterizations.

It is through establishing these clear definitions of some of the most difficult terms in the jargon of workshops and editing that I can more confidently approach each manuscript as a coach and editor.

Do you struggle with the issue of voice in your fiction writing? Or perhaps have a question for our novel expert? Or some techniques of your own that you’d like to share? Leave us a COMMENT.

MATEO—Read more about this editor