Author: peterclines

I’m planning out this massive book tour for God’s Junk Drawer at the end of the year and it’s kind of freaking me out in a few ways. Once or thrice now I’ve sort of stopped and quietly shifted my attention to… something else. Anything else. Because then I don’t have to think about how I’m doing all this traveling and signing and talking in just ha ha ha ha like two months. Holy crap, it’s seriously only two months away now.

So let’s talk about something else.

Well, no, hang on. Let’s talk about that. About being a little scared and freaked out. And how it can effect us.

I think a lot of time when people say they have writer’s block, what they really mean is they’re worried that the thing they want to write just isn’t good enough. That their take on it isn’t good enough. Heck, maybe they’re not even the person who should be writing it. It’s not worth doing, especially not with everything going on in the world! Is this page, that paragraph, this sentence as good as it could be? Is this the best way to describe this? Will my writing sell, win awards, or get me mocked on TikTok?

Most of us go through this at one point or another. We start over-analyzing our work and second-guessing everything we put down. And eventually… we don’t so anything. I’ve mentioned the term paralysis by analysis before, which sums this up perfectly. We get so scared at the thought of doing the wrong thing—something that isn’t perfect—that we don’t do anything.

And it’s kind of understandable, right? None of us want to waste time writing the wrong stuff. Putting down a lot of words that we know aren’t the right ones. That’s not how real artists do it.

We’ve talked about this before, though. Not getting it perfect the first time is pretty normal for writing. I need to get past this idea my work should be flawless out of the gate and just admit my first draft isn’t going to be perfect. Maybe not the second draft, either. It’s going to need editing. Maybe lots of editing. Possibly even major rewrites. That’s just the way this whole writing goes.

Once I can admit this to myself, I can get past that block—that fear—and my productivity will go through the roof.

Another cause of writer’s block is a voice issue, or possibly an empathy issue. A lot of us tend to write the way we speak, especially when we’re just starting out. Maybe a little cleaner or clearer, but it’s not unusual for our narrative voice and character voices to use all the same words and phrases and metaphors that we do in our day to day life. It’s normal because it comes naturally. It’s us telling stories about characters who also talk like us.

But at some point—maybe early on, after a few months, maybe a few years in some cases… things stop matching up. We realize that high elf ladies of court and interdimensional aliens probably shouldn’t talk like stagehands from San Diego. They’re not going to see the world the same way a retail clerks from Amherst would. They’re going to have different vocabularies and cadences. They’re not going to sound like me.

And suddenly I’m not writing “naturally” anymore. It’s not that easy gush of words. I need to put myself in a different headspace and look at the world—even this made-up fictional world—in different ways. It takes effort! It’s work.

For some folks this becomes writers block. It’s not that they can’t write, they just can’t understand why it’s become an effort. Because writing should be glorious and effortless, yes? And if it isn’t… well, I should probably wait for the muse to return and the words to flow.

There’s one other big thing that I think can cause writer’s block. And it’s a painful one.

Sometimes people have writer’s block because they don’t have anything to write.

There’s a lot of reasons people sit down and try to write. Could be I have a clever idea, but no real story. Perhaps I just think it’ll be an easy side-hustle to make some money. Maybe I want the adoration for a finished work more than I want to… well, write something.

I know this sounds harsh, but I also know most of us—one way or another—are acquainted with someone like this. Someone who likes the idea of being a writer more than the reality of being a writer. And these folks will talk about being blocked when the truth is they just have no real interest in the act of writing. But I mean if they’re blocked… I mean, that can’t be helped, right?

You may notice one thing I haven’t mentioned is “all this crap going on in my life.” And these days… yeah, there can be a lot of it. It can feel overwhelming and exhausting and oh sweet jebus how do some people find time to write? How is he getting so much done?!?

But that’s not being blocked. That’s just being tired. It’s a self care issue. A scheduling problem. It’s reality, and we’re all living in it (well, most of us). Sometimes, we all have to put the writing aside for a while and deal with, well, life. That’s just the way it goes.

Y’see, Timmy, I don’t really believe in writer’s block. I think it’s just a big, catch-all name we throw over other problems. Fear. Inexperience. Lack of interest. It’s intimidating when it’s a vague concept, but once we break it down and actually identify it, we can address it. And deal with it.

And beat it.

<insert Rocky music here>

Oh, minor segue– if you’re in the San Diego area this Sunday, I’m filling in for Jonathan Maberry and hosting the Writers Coffeehouse at Mysterious Galaxy Bookstore, noon to three. It’s absolutely free, no requirements, no sign-ups, no minimums, no secret password needed. Just show up and talk about writing, publishing, and some of the weird spots where they overlap (or don’t talk and just lurk). Bring your questions and I’ll try to bring some answers. And if I don’t have them, someone else there probably will.

Next time… okay, I know people are still reading this thing, but I feel like I’m just throwing stuff out there. Much like the Coffeehouse, is there anything in particular anyone would like me to talk about or address? Just drop a comment down below. Otherwise I’ll… I don’t know, give you a top ten list or something.

Until then… go write.

This is going to be another one of those kind-of rambly ones.

Big shock, I follow a lot of other authors on social media. Some I’m a fan of, some I’m actually friends with, and there’s a pretty good-sized Venn diagram overlap there. Actually, I think it’d be a circle-within-a-circle.

Anyway…

It’s always neat to hear other writers talk about craft. Y’know, the nuts and bolts stuff I like to talk about here. Tips. Tricks. Common problems and uncommon solutions.

I bring this all up because Kameron Hurley was at a con a few weeks back and sort of live-posting things she heard from different panels. Not panels she was on, just different ones she decided to attend. So it was interesting takes on things and little snippets of advice.

Now, at one point an author on a panel brought up a certain story element and referred to it as XX. And Kameron Hurley noted that, huh, she generally called that element YY. Sad to say. this whole overall idea I’m talking about it what stuck with me and I didn’t make a note of the actual, specific element they were discussing. But we don’t really need it.

Once or thrice here I’ve talked about the idea of plot vs. story. But I’ve also mentioned that some more literature-minded folks out there might refer to these same ideas by fancy Russian names. And some folks might say what I’m calling story is just the character arc.

Writers are weird. The vast majority of us are more-or less self-taught at this, and sometimes we’re too creative for our own good. We each come up with our own unique ways to say similar things about how to tell stories in our chosen format. And once or thrice here I’ve talked about different college professors and the terms they come up with to describe those same things.

And that’s before we even get into different formats having their own terminology. Like, a scene in screenwriting is a very specific unit of storytelling, while in prose it’s a little more general. And an act is something very specific in television that’s kind of similar to an act in a play, but not at all the same thing as when we’re talking about three act structure. As I define it, anyway.

Yeah, even me. I say it here fairly often, but all the terms I use here on the ranty writing blog are just how I tend to describe these things. A couple of them I remember from college, some I picked up here or there, but a lot of the time… it’s just me. There’s a really good chance another author, an editor, a writing coach, or a random article on the web uses a different name for that exact same idea. Or maybe when they’re talking about XX on their social media or website, they mean something completely different.

Normally, no big deal. What does it matter what we call things, right? If I want to have my own special terms and phrases for that moment my hero does this or the specific challenge that causes that… so what? As I’ve mentioned here a few times it doesn’t matter how I write, all that matters is what I’ve written. What works for me won’t necessarily work for you and it definitely won’t work for him.

But…

I think sometimes we hit problems when these personal, unique terms get out into the wild and bounce off some of the more format-specific ones. People can start interpreting them in different ways. Weird ways. Because they see the same thing called by two different names—or maybe two different things called by very similar names—and then they try to distill these down to make “simplified” rules and definitions.

Like, okay, remember a while back and I was talking about structure, and how many different aspects of writing structure could refer to? And how often people would combine or confuse definitions and then spit that confusion back out as advice? Or, again, as rules that needed to be followed.

Heck, just a few weeks ago I talked about conflict, and all the different ways people define it. And then all the different ways people then try to judge conflict in a story based off all those random, personal definitions. It can get messy and confusing really fast.

Y’see, Timmy, we shouldn’t immediately take writing advice at face value when we stumble across it, no matter how simple or straightforward it sounds. I’m not saying it’s wrong, but pay attention to what being described more than what it’s being called. Someone might be giving you advice about conflict, but they’re really talking about action. They might keep referring to plot when they’re describing three act structure. It’s up to us to parse out what they actually mean and where this thread of advice fits in that big process -spiderweb of rules and tips and advice we each create

Yeah, the process-spiderweb. Doesn’t everyone call it that?

Random other thing—some of you may have noticed I didn’t post the August newsletter here on the last of the month as I usually do. I’m not doing that anymore. It’s making a few things feel a bit cluttered and redundant. From here on I’ll just add a link to the newsletter archive in the last post of the month. Like this. And of course, you can always just sign up for the newsletter and then this all becomes moot.

Oh, and if you’re in the San Diego area, this Saturday at 2:00 I’ll be at Mysterious Galaxy for the launch of the Dread Coast anthology. Come get books and get them scribbled in! Hear me read aloud in my squeaky, supposedly-accented voice.

Next time—unless I get a request from one of you—I’d like to go for a walk around the block.

Until then, go write.

This is one of those posts where I’ve sort of come up with a new way to look at something I’ve blathered on about before. A different way to think about things, if you will. And it kind of ties into a few different things I’ve talked about recently, which may be what sparked it in my mind.

Stick with me, okay.

A while back (a long while, really), I had a couple posts that talked about the whole “starting with action” thing. And as we broke it down, one of the issues that came up was that a lot of things are technically actions. Getting a drink from the kitchen. Doing laundry. Taking a shower. Sleeping. Breathing. Heck, sitting here at my desk typing this out is me performing actions.

But we understand none of these actions really count as the big Actions we mean when we’re talking about “starting with action.” I hope most of us do, anyway. I also hope we know better than to take “starting with action” too literally. I just linked to a couple of other posts about that, just in case.

Anyway…

One of the major things that separates these actions (and often conflicts) from more notable ones is consequences. Or, as we sometimes call them in the literary world, the stakes. What happens if I do (or don’t do) this thing. If I ask the cheerleader out, what happens? If I don’t enter the six numbers into the computer every two hours, what happens? If I make a sandwich for lunch because my beloved ate the last of the leftover pizza, what happens?

Now I can toss out these hypotheticals all day, and I’m sure any of you reading this could fill the comments with clever ways me not getting pizza for lunch is the worst thing ever. You’re a creative bunch. There’s probably a dozen possible ways we could come up with where not getting pizza could mean the end of my life—or the end of all life as we know it!

But we don’t want to talk about random potential stories. We want to talk about this story. This one right here. The one I wrote. Or you wrote. Or maybe the one we’re reading or watching.

So in broad terms, let’s talk about a few ways things could play out and the possible consequences we could be facing…

One— nothing happens. My character does (or doesn’t do) the thing and… that’s it. No fallout. No notable changes. We can’t even really tell the thing happened (or again, didn’t happen).

Y’know what, just for all our combined sanity, from here on I’m just going to say “do the thing” because you all understand that not doing the thing/ the thing not happening is also part of that decision/action process. You all get that right? Okay, cool.

If nothing happens or changes, then this particular choice or action probably isn’t really important within my story. Plot-wise or story-wise. And if it’s not important to my plot or my story, well…

Two–something happens, but it doesn’t effect me or anyone else in any way. It’s a “consequence” in the sense of cause and effect, but in a narrative/ plot/ story sense it’s still nothing. My character goes too fast while they’re trying to fix up the Surf Shop and gets paint on one of the windows! So they have to sponge it off! And then they keep going!

A while back I mentioned the idea of episodic storytelling structure, where every action or conflict gets resolved and puts us… right back where we were before. There’s no real evidence of forward motion or character development or.. anything. Really, this is the same thing as my last point, it’s just that I’m trying to make it look like something has happened in that breathing-counts-as-action way. There was a “consequence” from my actions, but effectively nothing’s happened.

Three – something happens, but it don’t effect me, or anyone else in a way that anyone could see as a negative. I have to ask the cheerleader out in front of her friends, but if she says no I get a million dollars and a date with a swimsuit model. Why? Who knows. Just how these things work sometimes. Our investigation did reveal toxic waste dumping all through our neighborhood, but somehow it acted like airborne chemotherapy and cured everyone’s cancer!

Yeah, I know, this all sounds silly. And I wouldn’t bring it up except I’ve seen it so many times. Someone’s forced to make a “tough choice” except every possible outcome is… well, a positive. It’s like if I’m disarming a bomb and if I cut the red wire it deactivates instantly but if I cut the blue wire it deactivates and tells me the mad bomber’s name. And, for some reason, a date with a different swimsuit model. So there are “consequences” and they do move the story along, but they only move it in one way. There’s no downside or risk to taking these actions. There’s no “or else…” Characters may try to act like one option’s a negative, but it’s clear to the reader that nothing bad’s happened.

Four – something happens, and it’s going to leave a mark. Physically. Emotionally. Maybe both. Yakko’s finally going to ask the cheerleader out and she’s either going to say yes or no. Or possible say no in a way that humiliates him in front of the entire school. Except, crap, this is during a game so there’s actually two schools here today. Maybe… maybe it’s not worth asking her? I mean, he’s only been pining after her since sixth grade. Or heck, maybe he was going to finally ask her out but that’s when the space ninjas attacked! Is he going after them or not? That teleportation arch isn’t going to stay open forever…

Weird how this fourth option is the only one that seems to have anything compelling about it…

I’ve talked once or thrice before about how making choices is how characters work their way through a plot. The decisions they make—or refuse to make—shape their story. But if there’s no pressure for my characters to make any of these choices, one way or another—no real consequences to face—we all sort of instinctively understand they’re just not that meaningful. They’re not going to make my characters rethink their strategies, conquer their fears, or change their priorities.

Y’see Timmy, we all understand that if the characters aren’t going to face any consequences for the choices they make—if there are no stakes—it doesn’t matter if they make those choices or not. Their decisions are irrelevant in the big scheme of things.

To be clear, I’m not saying every single thing a character does should have world-shaking ramifications, for them or the world. People need to eat sandwiches and take showers and, well, breathe. But I should be aware of which decisions do and don’t have real stakes, and give them the appropriate weight in my story.

Because if my characters aren’t making any relevant decisions in my story… well… there’s probably going to be consequences for that.

Next time, I’d like to talk about what we call that thing. No, the other thing. Yeah, that one.

Until then, go write.

I mentioned revisiting older topics last week and so now, rising out of the past—just when you were sure it was gone for good and there’s no way it was ever coming back…

I’d like to talk about revenge stories.

I think most folks love a good revenge story. Emphasis on most. Emphasis on good. When they’re done right they’re tons of fun, I think because we get a certain vicarious thrill from seeing someone get what they deserve. It could be a career-ending demotion. Maybe it’s getting embarrassed in front of the whole school. Perhaps it’s learning they’ve been left penniless by someone pulling a phenomenal heist.

And, yes, sometimes it’s them getting hunted across the tundra by somebody with a truly impressive collection of swords and pistols.

Now, this is just my opinion as a consumer of stories and occasional dabbler in the craft, but I think a good revenge story is a balancing act. Not too much of that. Just enough of those. A really solid foundation that can support all of it. If one of these things is off, my whole story can, well, become unbalanced. And once I’m off balance, it doesn’t take much for me fall over.

And we’ve all seen those, right? The revenge story that just seems kind of flat? Or maybe a bit… excessive? Possibly even a bit confusing?

So let’s go over four points I think a good revenge tale needs if it’s going to work. Again, just my own observations, and it’s always possible to find some exceptions, but I feel like these are four pretty solid points and I’ve yet to see them proven wrong since I came up with them.

With all that said… shall we embark on our path of vengeance against those who wronged us?

Well, actually, that’s a great lead-in to my first point. Has something happened that calls for revenge? I mean, there’s lots of bad things in the world but do they require me dedicating myself to balancing the scales of justice? A restaurant got my chimichanga order wrong once—does that require revenge? What about the person back in LA who broke into my car (well, jimmied the lock without causing any damage) but ultimately just stole a handful of change from the center tray. Maybe sixty cents, tops. Is that vendetta-worthy? Hunting that guy down doesn’t really seem worth it, right?

Some things absolutely call for revenge, but a lot of stuff just… doesn’t. A revenge story is a bit like a redemption arc this way. I need to have a sense of how my readers are going to see that initial incident. Will they agree it’s something that requires vengeance? Or are they going to think my characters are overreacting?

Which leads nicely to my second point. Is the character heading out to get revenge the one who should be getting revenge? It’s not unusual for one family member to avenge another, or for someone to avenge their dear friend or beloved. But as the relationships grow more tenuous, the motivation for my revenge story gets murkier. I may be a good customer, but I don’t expect the folks at my local sushi place to swear vengeance if something happened to me. I’ve chatted with the mail carrier a few times and she seems nice, but I’m probably not going to be carrying out a blood oath in her name.

Heck, I’m not even sure I know her name. Should I be the guy making that blood oath? I mean, if I should, it seems like a lot of other people should too…

Revenge is a personal thing. In its own way, it’s intimate. Personally, I’d say it needs to be a family thing. And yes, this can take the broader definition where my characters consider their best friends or teammates as family.

My third point is, to me, one of the most important parts of a revenge story. Simply put, the people my character’s getting revenge against must know why this is happening. If the team that killed my character’s family is being hunted down and killed one by one, but they don’t know why this is happening or who’s doing it… I mean, from their point of view how’s that different from a random killing spree? It might as well be Jason Voorhees out there.

I feel that a big part of a good revenge story is that it’s kind of symbiotic. It’s a relationship between the revenger and the revengee, so to speak, and relationships need to go both way (we can all agree one sided relationships are really weird, right?). So yes, we want Dot to get her revenge, but we also want Wakko to know why she’s doing all this. Why she’s coming after him. Why she’s been ruining his life. He needs that moment of understanding, one way or another—even if he just laughs it off (“…You’re the girl! And you’ve been looking for me all these years just to screw up now? Hah!”).

The reason for this is we understand—as readers and writers, consciously or not—that if Yakko doesn’t know why this is happening, he’s just a victim. He’s not an innocent victim, sure, but he’s still just a victim. He’s someone things are happening to for no reason. It’s the difference between someone seeing their house burn down and someone knowing why their house was set on fire.

Which leads nicely to my fourth and final point. Revenge can be a messy business. Very messy. Often reputations are shattered, blood is spilled, property is destroyed. And we’re all cool with that. We like seeing people getting what’s coming to them. Maybe even with a little interest.

And that’s where it gets tricky. In a revenge story, it’s easy to go a little too far with the reputation shattering and the blood spilling and the property damage. And when I do, that’s when my characters stop being the hero and becomes monsters in their own right. Yes, Phoebe embarrassed Yakko in front of his friends and deserves to be taken down a notch, but holy crap now she’s naked in front of the whole school. And they’re all taking photos! That’s going to cause years of emotional trauma. And okay, Wakko’s getting revenge on the drunk driver who killed his daughter by… wait, he’s killing all the guy’s pets and children right in front of him? WTAF?

This shift is something I’ve talked about before. When those scales tip the other way, our mood’s going to shift, too. We stop feeling good about the revenge and we start feeling sympathy for the people getting revenge exacted on them. Suddenly they’re the victim and my hero’s become, well, the villain. Which, understandably, alters everything. The whole tone of my story will change, and a lot of things will be questioned. Not in a good way. Which, I mean, if that’s my intent, cool (digging two graves and all that). But if it’s not…

Y’see Timmy, a revenge story should be all about the characters. That’s how I see it, anyway. Why are they seeking revenge? How are they doing it? Are they managing to walk that fine line between being a hero and being a monster? Or have they fallen off it…?

Speaking of which, next time, I’d like to talk about the consequences of my actions.

Until then… go write.