September 1, 2013 / 1 Comment

Transparency

            Is this pathetic or what?  Someone else offers to write a ranty blog post for me and I still can’t get it up on time.  It’s sad, really…
            Well, here’s Thom Brannan, author of Lords of Night and (with DL Snell) co-author of  Pavlov’s Dogs and their new book The Omega Dog, talking a bit about clarity.  I’ll be back later this week (hopefully on time) to talk about Easter eggs.
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            Hello is alright, again. On occasion, Pete has stuff to do; like, a lot of it, and he knows there are a lot of you who come to this blog for tips and tools.
            So this week, it’s me again. Thom Brannan. I’ll try to avoid disappointing you. Those of you who know who I am, congratulations! For those who don’t, here is a picture.
            Today, I’m here to talk to you about transparency. It’s a thing, a real thing, where you can read something an author wrote, and there’s a lot of the author in there, one way or another. Sometimes it’s political, sometimes it’s in the interests… most times, you’ll find it in the details.
            For your readers who are just like you, no doubt this will be a source of delight and entertainment. But not everybody is like you. For those readers, this will induce the effect known as “God, I’m skimming this part.” It happens.
            Let me hit you with an example. I recently finished reading something by Robert A. Heinlein. He’s one of my literary heroes, okay? I love his work and his verve and his ideas and just everything.
            Almost.
            I’m now catching up on works of his I’d missed previously, and it’s great joy. Except when he devotes entire paragraphs to doing math. Really, honestly, when I started reading his stuff, it made me want to run out and get a slide rule, just so I could keep up. True story. But that was a different me, back in high school. Math was one of my things. Now, when I get to a part where any of his hyper-competent characters go on about anything that remotely resembles figuring, I just skim over it.
            But that wasn’t enough to spark this blog entry. I’m also reading a WWII story about… well, about spooky stuff. (I don’t want to put too fine a point on what or who I’m reading.) So, there’s a passage where some dirty, nasty Krauts are in a plane with a creepy box which may or may not have something moving in it, and the author is clearly enamored with the plane. With the plane. There is a serious chunk of text dedicated to the plane and why it was chosen for this type of mission and the capabilities of the plane and how it got its nickname, et cetera.
This will cost you
extra with FedEx
            But what about the spooky box?
            The spooky box, if I’m reading the foreshadowing correctly, contains something (someone?!) which is going to be major later on, and next to no text is dedicated to it. It’s just kind of there, and the Nazis eye it, and the plane they’re in is endlessly fascinating.
            Now, in other places in this very blog, Pete has said things like have a reason to describe it, or to avoid being focused on the wrong thing. Sometimes, it’s hard to figure out when YOU’VE LOST YOUR GODDAMN… excuse me. Sometimes it’s hard to know when the thing you’re writing is what people need to read about the story. Or if people will even read it. Skimmers gonna skim.
            For an easy litmus test, corner someone your work with. Or someone you live with. Or someone in the grocery store. Whatever. Start telling them all this cool stuff you’ve unearthed about maybe Einstein being a plagiarist, or the use of Tesla technology to cripple other nations, or how the innards of a watch work, or how the Warthog got its nickname of the Warthog, or whatever stupidly addicting thing you’re bound and determined to include in your current or next work.
This is what it’s like…
            If at any point their eyes start to glaze over, cross that crap off your list.
            And since I didn’t say this from the get-go, this is what I’ve found works for me. I have a relatively diverse background, and I find a lot of things fascinating. But only a fraction of that stuff finds its way into my prose because I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes, that loss of focus when they’re not really listening to me anymore. It happens quite a bit, as I tend to ramble.
For instance, in my most recent work, The Omega Dog(with D.L. Snell) there’s a section where the protagonists travel in the Gulf of Mexico in a narco-sub. I’m a former submariner, and the intricacies of the works of subs, even the fiberglass jobs used to transport drugs, kind of trips my trigger. So I sat and wrote maybe two pages of all this, and then I stopped.
            There was also a drug lord, my protagonists, a person who may or may not have been human, a strapped-down zombie and a goddamn WEREWOLF, all in this tiny space… and here I was writing about navigation and whatnot. A little bit of submarine development history had made it in there, too. What the hell?
            I deleted all that before I sent it to Snell, because he would just delete it. He’d be nicer about it than I was to myself, but the end result would be the same.
            There are exceptions, of course. What’s his name, the legal writer guy? The one who wrote The Pelican Brief. He leaves a lot of that stuff in there because hey, that’s what his readers are reading him for. The same with gun porn. I mean, men’s adventure. My good friend Doug Wojtowicz knows a lot about guns, and that kind of detail is not only expected in The Executioner, but welcome. God help him if he leaves something out. Or gets it wrong, yikes.
            But I guess I’m starting to get long-winded. Shaddap. I guess my point is this: if you’re including something like that, be sure it moves the story along, or is at least an interesting tangent with some story elements to it. If at any point, your manuscript starts to read like a Wikipedia entry, you’re doing it wrong.
            So there. My two cents. Again, your mileage may vary.
            Go write something.

August 25, 2013

Hollywood Remakes

This isn’t so much a rant about Hollywood remakes as it is about the recurring idea that sequels, remakes, and adaptations are some awful, overwhelming blight that’s taken over Hollywood in the past few years.  Humphrey Bogart’s version of The Maltese Falcon was a remake of an adaptation.  So was John Carpenter’s The Thing.  Casino Royale was a remake, too.  Dracula is the most filmed fictional character in history.  Seriously.  How many remakes or adaptations are we talking about there?

Don’t get me wrong–there are some God-awful remakes out there. Nightmarishly bad ones.  But there’s a lot of God-awful original films, too.  And, hard as it may be to believe, they’re the majority.

Hollywood studios released just shy of 200 films in 2011.  I believe the exact number is 194, but I might be off by two or three (that’s based off Box Office Mojo‘s records, if you care).  This number does not include micro-releases that only played for a limited number of screenings or foreign films brought over by independent distributors.  If we were all inclusive, the number of films at the box office last year is closer to five hundred.

2011 had more sequels released than any other year to date.  There were 28–about one out of every seven films (14.2%) if we stick to that smaller number of studio releases.

If we’re extremely generous with the term “remake” (counting, for example, Captain America: The First Avenger  as a remake of the low-budget 1990 film and Rise of the Planet of the Apes as a remake of the old Conquest of the Planet of the Apes) , 2011 had 13 remakes.  Not even one in ten of the smaller studio number (6.66%, actually).  And before anyone asks, there are overlaps between the remakes and sequels.

Which means, conservatively, that 80% of the films released in 2011 were original or based off new, never-before-filmed material.  Probably a little more than that.  Definitely more if we use all the numbers and not just the studio releases.  This isn’t opinion, remember–these are cold, hard facts.  You can go to Boxoffice Mojo or The Numbers or even just IMDb, count up releases, and you’ll get the same results.

I think what drives people nuts is that over the past ten years or so the average person has access to tons of news and information about the internal workings of Hollywood.  But the film industry is a very weird business.  There is nothing else like it and nothing to compare it to (from many, many folks, the closest comparison is life in the military).  Having access to all that internal information doesn’t mean someone can understand Hollywood any more than having access to all the internal organs in someone’s torso can make you a heart surgeon.

So, anyway, people hear about movies going into development, don’t understand what that means, and assume these films are going to happen now.  In film terms, going into development means… nothing. Absolutely nothing. Dozens of remakes, reboots, sequels, and original scripts are considered for development every day because that’s how development people keep their jobs. They get nine or ten projects “in the works” and about 95% of them fizzle out and die. Some of them are remakes, a bigger bunch of them are original. But the vast majority of them don’t come out. This is business as usual. Disney has had all of their sixties and seventies live movies in development as remakes or reboots for over a decade now. We’ve seen one make it out– Race To Witch Mountain. One in over ten years.

It’s not really a problem.

Just saying…

August 22, 2013

Making It Count

I haven’t babbled on about dialogue in a bit, so I thought I’d toss out a quick idea about that.

And I thought I’d make it interesting by telling a story.

As some of you know, I worked in the film industry for several years. This let me work with a lot of storytellers of all different types—most notably (for this little rant) directors. If the screenwriter is the person who creates the story, the director’s the one who decides how to tell the story. Some of them were very good at this. Others were not.

A common flaw I saw in bad directors was an urge to make every single shot special. It didn’t matter if it was a wide shot, a close-up, a master, or coverage. Every shot required tons of set up and rehearsals and discussions and little tweaks and adjustments.

Now, I’m sure some of you are saying “Isn’t that the director’s job? To make it look good?” Well, yes and no. That is one element of the job, yes. Another one is sticking to a schedule so material gets delivered on time (very important in television and the lower-budget realms), and another one is making sure the material that gets delivered is usable and cuts together well.

So what I’d see again and again is unskilled directors who would spend hours on their first scene or two of the day, then come back from lunch and discover they still had 85% of the day’s schedule to film. And they’d do this again and again. I worked with some directors who’d do this on every day of a shoot.

And this was bad for the final product, too. All this effort was put into those first scenes no matter what they were, and then later scenes had to be rushed through and skimmed—no matter what they were. So the final film was uneven. It had too much punch were it didn’t need it, not enough where it did. These guys were so focused on making each individual shot look amazing—no matter what that particular shot was—that they didn’t stop to think of the film as a whole.

Enter… Krishna. I worked with him on a Sci-Fi Channel show (yes, it was Sci-Fi back then) called The Chronicle and he was wonderful. Krishna started out as a lowly crew guy (one of his first film credits is John Carpenter’s Halloween) and worked his way up, learning the whole way. He had kind of an unwritten rule—I’m not even sure he ever put it into words. “One pretty shot a day.” Once a day we’d have an elaborate shot with the camera dolly or a crane (if we had one), or an elaborate one-er that involved lots of rehearsal. Everything else would just be master-overs-coverage-done.

I’m sure there’s a few film students reading this who might be muttering about the lack of art in television or making some snide comments about “real” directors, but keep these things in mind. Krishna made his schedule pretty much every day. The cast and crew loved working with him and worked twice as hard because of it. Because he didn’t overload himself trying to do too much, he had time to make sure all his material fit together just how he wanted. And he still had (on an average television schedule) seven pretty shots in a forty-odd minute episode. That’s a great shot every six minutes, which meant he could use them to punctuate the moments where he wanted to have visual impact.

And, like any rule, sometimes he’d bend it a bit. There were days we’d do two pretty shots, or maybe we’d have an elaborate stunt or effects sequence on top of the regular pretty shot. But these were always the exception, not the rule. And his episodes looked fantastic.

Many of you are probably wondering what this has to do with dialogue, yes?

I’ve mentioned the word said a few times before. Said is the workhorse of dialogue descriptors. It does the job without being showy or flashy, and it’s quick and simple to use.

I used to avoid said like the plague. I went out of my way to make sure all my dialogue descriptors were special and pretty. I’d actually spend time making sure I never used the same one more than once on a page. And I never used said. Said was for pedestrian writers with no skill. No art.

As some of you may recall, one of the very first critiques I ever received from a professional editor was to stop using so many flowery descriptors and start using said. It’s advice I took to heart, and still follow today.  Hell, it’s number three on the late, great Elmore Leonard’s rules of writing.

That doesn’t mean I don’t use whispered or shouted or chuckledor any of those other colorful descriptors. I just use them less often. A lot less. I save them for when it really counts rather than wasting them. I want my words to have the most impact, and that means saving the good ones for the moments that count.

So when your characters have something to say… just have them say it.

Next time, author Thom Brannan’s going to step in here for a guest post so I can get some work done on a new project. But I’ll be back the week after that to talk about Easter eggs.

Until then, go write.

August 15, 2013

Admissions Board

             This is going to be one of those posts that sounds a bit harsh at first, but hopefully you’ll stick through ‘till the end before posting those angry responses.  If you’re feeling a bit thin-skinned, maybe you should come back next week.
            Writing is tough.  It’s hard work.  I know this, because I do it for a living.  When someone tells me how easy and wonderful and fun writing is, I’m often tempted to point out that they’re probably doing something wrong.
            Instead, I bite my tongue and scribble notes for a ranty blog post or two.
            There was a point when I thought writing was easy and fun.  To be blunt, that was back when I wasn’t taking it seriously.  My plots were either contrived or derivative (some might say that hasn’t changed).  My characterization was weak and my motives were… well, whatever they needed to be at the moment to make that weak plot move along.  I rarely edited. 
            Perhaps most important of all… I thought I was a literary genius.  My stories didn’t just deserve Stokers and Hugos, mind you.  Once I got around to finishing them and sending them out, they were going to get Pulitzers and Nobels.
            Needless to say, my writing made huge leaps when I was able to admit a few things to myself.  I think that’s true of most people in most fields—if we can’t be honest about where we are, it’s hard to improve.
            That being said…
My writing sucks—This sounds harsh, yeah, but it needs to be.  Too many beginning writers just can’t get past the idea that something they wrote isn’t good.  I know I couldn’t.  It’s just against human nature to spend hours on something and then tell yourself you just wasted a bunch of time.  Why would I write something I couldn’t sell?  Obviously I wouldn’t, so my latest project must deserve a six-figure advance.
            The problem here is the learning curve.  None of us like to be the inexperienced rookie, but the fact is it’s where everyone starts.  Surgeons, chefs, pilots, astronomers, mechanics… and writers.  Oh, there are a few gifted amateurs out there, yeah—very, very few—but the vast majority of us have to work at something to get good at it. 
            You noticed I said “us,” right?  Lots of people think of Ex-Heroes as my first novel, but it wasn’t.  There was Lizard Men from the Center of the Earth (two versions), a God-awful sci-fi novel called A Piece of Eternity, some Star Wars and Doctor Who fan fic, a puberty-fuelled fantasy novel (which I haven’t admitted to in twenty years or so), The Werewolf Detective of Newbury Street, The Trinity, The Suffering Map, about half of a novel called Mouth… and thenEx-Heroes.  And I can tell you without question that most of those really sucked.  It doesn’t mean I didn’t try to sell some of them (we’ll get to that in a minute), but I couldn’t improve as a writer until I accepted that I needed to improve.
My first draft is going to suck—There was a point where I would fret over my writing.  I’d spend time laboring over individual words, each sentence, every paragraph.  I’d get halfway down the page and then go back to try to fix things.  It meant my productivity was slowed to a crawl because I kept worrying about what had happened in my story instead of what was going to happen.
            The freeing moment was when I realized my first draft was always going to suck, and that’s okay.  Everyone’s first draft sucks.  Everyone has to go back and rework stuff.  It’s the nature of the beast.  With those expectations gone, it became much easier for me to finish a first draft, which is essential if I ever wanted to get to a second draft, and a third draft, and maybe even a sale.
My writing needs editing.  Lots of editing—So, as I just mentioned, I’ve been doing this for a while.  Arguably thirty-five years.  Surely by now I’ve hit the point where my stuff rolls onto the page (or screen) pretty much ready to go, yes?  I mean, at this point I must qualify as a good writer and I don’t need to obsess so much over those beginner-things, right?
            Alas, no.  We all take the easy path now and then.  We all have things slip past us.  We all misjudge how some things are going to be read.  And I’m fortunate to have a circle of friends and a really good editor at my publisher who all call me out when I make these mistakes or just take the easy route when I’m capable of doing something better.
            Also, as I mentioned above, part of this is the ability to accept these notes and criticisms.  I’m not saying they’re all going to be right (and I’ve been given a few really idiotic notes over the years), but if my default position is that any criticism is wrong then my work is never going to improve past the first draft. 
            Which, as I also mentioned above, sucks.
My writing needs cuts—Sticking to the theme, if I believe my writing is perfect, it stands to reason all of it is perfect.  It’s not 90% perfect with those two odd blocks that should be cut.  When I first started to edit, one of my big problems was that everythingneeded to be there.  It was all part of the story.  Each subplot, every action detail and character moment, all of the in-jokes and clever references.
            The Suffering Map was where I first started to realize things need to be cut.  I’d overwritten—which is fine in a first draft as long as you admit it in later drafts.  I had too many characters, too much detail, subplots that had grown too big, character arcs that became too complex.  It took a while, but I made huge cuts to the book.  It had to be done.  Heck, with one of my more recent ones, 14, I needed to cut over 20,000 words.  That’s a hundred pages in standard manuscript format.  All cut.
My writing is going to be rejected –You know what I’ve got that most of you reading this will never have?  Rejection letters.  Actual paper letters that were mailed to me by editors.  I’ve got lots of them.  Heck, I’ve probably got a dozen from Marvel Comics alone.  And since then I’ve got them from magazines, big publishers, journals, magazines, ezines.
            But when that first one came from Jim Shooter at Marvel… I was crushed.  Devastated.  How could he not like my story?  It was a full page!  It was typed!  I even included a rendering of a cover suggestion in brilliant colored pencil.  It took me weeks—whole weeks, plural—to work up my courage to try again, and then he shot that one down, too.
            Granted, I was about eleven, and those stories were really awful.  But even good stuff gets rejected.  Heck, even with the list of credits I’ve got now, the last two short stories I sent out were rejected.  Editors and publishers are people too, and not everything is going to appeal to everyone.  I came to accept being rejected once I realized it wasn’t some personal attack (okay, once it was…), just a person who didn’t connect with my story for some reason.
            And, sometimes, because my stories sucked.
            If I can admit some of these things to myself, it can only make me a better, stronger writer.  It’s not a flaw or a weakness.  In fact, if I look at the above statements and immediately think “Well, yeah, but I don’t…,” it’s probably a good sign I’m in denial about some things.
            And that won’t get me anywhere.
            Next time, I’d like to say a few clever words about saying the word said.
            Until then, go write.

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