Category: criticism

When I was writing up that halfway point post last weekend it struck me I haven’t really talked about drafts in a while. Obviously they come up here and there whenever I blather on about writing, but I haven’t gone over my process and what each step means for me.

Plus, this is kind of a perfect time to talk about it. There’s a lot of folks rushing to finish a first draft this month, or as much of one as they can (every amount is good!). I’m in the middle of a third draft, and I’m also batting a “finished” manuscript back and forth with my editor right now.

So let’s talk about the drafting process.

Right up front, though–”draft” means a lot of different things to different people. Technically it refers to the fact that, in ye olden times, you’d actually have to rewrite entire pages to fix a typo or adjust a line of dialogue because… typewriters. So you’d type up a page, mark it up by hand, and then type the whole thing up again. Possibly two or three times. Which was a lot of work and dedication when you’re talking about, y’know, 400 page books.

Today, thankfully, we don’t have to do that, so some people insist “draft” is an archaic term, or will flat out say they don’t do drafts but then explain their revision process. Because that’s really what we’re talking about. Revising and refining our manuscript again and again until it’s ready to show to folks.

Also, I’m going to try to cover a lot of things here, have a very open umbrella, all that, but the truth is I’m mostly going to be talking about my process. And there’s a really good chance my process won’t work for you. Not step-for-step, anyway. So take everything I’m about to throw at you with a grain of salt and don’t be scared to tweak any of it so it works better for you.

All that said…

I generally do five drafts of something before I send it off to my agent or an editor. That’s it. Each one’s a new document on my computer so I always have the last version to refer to if I want to check something or in case a cat walks across my keyboard and does something I cannot figure out how to undo. Ha ha haaaa but what are the odds of that happening? Again?

But it’s probably also worth mentioning that we all do—to steal a bit from Asimov—a zeroeth draft. We collect notes. We jot down ideas. Maybe we have a bunch of index cards we can move around or we do a full outline. And maybe that outline’s just a page or two but it could be twenty or thirty pages.

This early bit—the pre-draft—is very personal and we all have our own ways of doing it. And to be honest, it’s probably going to change a bit (or a lot) every time we start a new book. That first spark almost never hits the same way twice, so how we go from spark to fire is a slightly different process. And it might take weeks or months or even years. Again, different sparks, different fires.

But after that zeroeth draft, whatever form it takes, we’re ready to begin.

For me, first drafts are big, messy things. My only goal with a first draft is to get it done. Nothing else matters. Not punctuation, not spelling, not finding the exact right word or crafting the perfect cool line to end that chapter on. These things’ll matter eventually, but right now… I just want to finish this draft. Because I find it’s much easier to work on a completed draft, to fix existing problems, than it is to try to deal with all of it right up front before I start.

Worth nothing that I write a lot, but I also skip some things. I don’t want to lose momentum checking random facts or stopping to work out bits that turned out to be more complex than I first thought they’d be. If I know this chapter has to end with Ben getting a knife in the thigh, I might just put <BEN GETS STABBED> and come back to it later. I’ll probably have a better sense of things then, too.

Once I’ve got a solid first draft, I might take a day or two off (maybe poke at another project) and then start my second draft. For me, that’s saving draft one as a new document marked TITLE-2nd or something like that. Then I go through and start cleaning everything up. It’s time to actually stab Ben. Also to finalize Ben’s description, wherever it might come up. And look up some of those random facts, which will probably mean tweaking some sentences.

The real goal in my second drafts is to take the fast, messy thing and turn it into a solid, readable thing. All my plot and story bits should be worked out. I could hand this to anyone and they could read it, beginning to end, without hitting a weird gap or nonsense action scene or anything like that.

Doesn’t mean I am going to show it to anyone. But I could. It’s a finished story at this point.

My third draft is editing. Lots of editing. In On Writing Stephen King says his second draft is his first draft minus 20%. And while we don’t agree with the draft numbers, I do agree with the idea. Truth is, while we were enjoying all that forward-motion first draft freedom, we probably got excessive at points. Conversations ran on a little too long. Descriptions got a bit over-detailed. Action dragged out. I’m not saying it’s all bad—there’s a place for this sort of stuff. But that place probably shouldn’t be every page of my book.

So I go through the whole manuscript several times. I check all my spelling. I look for repetition and redundancy. Snip a lot of adjectives and adverbs. This involves a bunch of passes, which means I get to look at things again and again. And that’s when i realize i can cut even more words and sentences and paragraphs. Trim dialogue and beats and every now and then… whole chapters. And then there’s one last read-through to make sure all this random cutting and tweaking hasn’t created any new hiccups.

I’ve barely started this third draft of TOS –like, two days ago as I’m writing this—and I’ve already cut a few hundred words. And I’m only on my first pass through looking for excess words. I could do a whole post on that, if anyone’s interested, all the quick snips we can do to tighten things up. They add up fast.

At this point, I’ve got something fairly tight and solid. I’ve got a few folks I’ve known for many years, and now’s when I usually ask them if they’d be interested in looking through this new thing I’ve been working on. I think most folks have somebody like this. Maybe a few somebodies. Personally, I rarely want more than four or five opinions, and this is the only point I want them at. Believe me, there’ll never be a shortage of people willing to offer an opinion, and I don’t want to get buried in them right now because ultimately this is my story.

And during the month or so that they’re reading, I may do more notes on other projects, maybe outline something, or anything else that isn’t thinking about this book.

Once this small group’s gotten back to me with their thoughts and comments, it’s time for my fourth draft. This is another work-heavy one. Now I’m going through the manuscript line by line (again) with all their notes and taking a few notes of my own. How many people liked this? How many didn’t like that? Okay, nobody liked that bit.

Plus, I’m looking at it now after some serious time away, so I should have fresh eyes, too. In retrospect, wow, that’s some bad character-building. That dialogue is awful. What the heck was I thinking writing that?

Sometimes this goes fast. Other times… it’s really slow. The big thing here is me being open to what everyone else is saying. There will probably be some changes after this. I’ll also remind you of ye olde chestnut, if people are telling you something’s wrong, they’re probably right. If they’re telling you how to fix it, they’re probably wrong.

And when I’ve gone through and done all that, it’s time for my fifth draft. Now I read the whole thing again. Slowly. Carefully. I want to make sure the whole thing flows, that all of these tweaks and changes haven’t created any odd problems, or that I haven’t just left something incomplete. Like this paragraph, which was incomplete all the way up until my last read-through before I hit “publish.”

Worth noting at this point we’ve read through this thing at least five time, possibly many more with all those editing passes, and it’s very likely we’ve just become blind to some things. We’ve just looked at this page again and again and again, and we’re possibly seeing things that aren’t there and not seeing some things that are. Something I like to do here is switch everything to another font, because that change forces my brain to readjust. Now I’m much more likely to read each page than just look at it, if that makes sense?

And this is kind of it for me. Once I’ve hit save on this fifth draft, I’m done with the manuscript. Some people may find that a bit shocking—writing is rewriting, right?—but I find there’s a danger of ending up in an endless loop of rewrites-feedback-more rewrites-more feedback. Let’s be honest—there’s always something that could be tweaked and adjusted. If we don’t have a stopping point, we’re never going to start anything new.

Plus… I mean, there’s going to be more rewrites. My agent’s going to look at it, and he might have a few thoughts. If it gets bought, my publisher and editor will definitely have some thoughts. I’m going through that right now, like I mentioned up top.

And then hopefully, after all that… you get to read it.

Speaking of which, I need to get back to edits.

Next time… okay, look, we’re heading into the holidays. So there’s going to be the regular Black Friday post, probably a “cool things I read” post, something for the end of not-NaNoWriMo… and then maybe we could talk about cats and dogs.

Until then… go write.

There’s a recurring type of video or article or straight up ad that you’ve probably seen. They’re the ones that say something like “Three simple tricks to losing belly fat” or maybe “How I turned this pile of construction waste into raised vegetable beds in just four easy steps.” Or of course, “Four easy steps to get your novel written and published!”

And let’s be honest… we’ve probably all checked out at least one of these. Maybe even a few of them. And I don’t know about you, but for the vast majority of these “four easy steps” things there tends to be a few recurring issues…

F’r example…

First, they usually require lots of practice. Yeah, it’s easy to do this—on the nineteenth or twentieth try. All those first attempts are going to be messy and expensive and possibly painful, but by the twentieth I should be getting completely adequate results.

Second, they often require lots of other skills or equipment. Building miniature scenery is a snap once I’ve got an electric foam cutter, an X-Acto set, these eleven paints, four different drybrushes, and all these specialized raw materials. Making perfect carrot roses are no problem at all. Just get out your 1 3/4” mellonballer…

Third, as the previous two points implied, is they’re rarely simple. A lot of times each of these “easy steps” has four or five sub-steps, which means this is really a sixteen or twenty step “easy” process and the whole thing ends up sounding like that guy at Comic-Con who walks up the microphone and says “My question actually has six parts…”

Fourth and finally… they’re just usually not that effective. In the long run, most of these “four-or-five easy steps to accomplish something” methods just aren’t worth it. Yeah, there’s a chance I might learn a small trick, but in the end, all the time and effort (and maybe even money) spent trying to do something the easy way could’ve just been spent on learning… well, how to do it. If I really want to make good-looking miniature scenery, maybe I should just… y’know, learn how? Not try to figure out some trick that’ll let me skip the learning curve.

Also, I just now realized I’ve listed out four recurring issues, but those aren’t the four steps I was talking about. Please bear with me. It’s just a weird coincidence a better writer would’ve avoided.

Anyway…

“Skipping the learning curve” is something I’ve talked about before, and it ties back to a little maxim I came up with when I was still working in the film industry. It’s one of those things that immediately struck me just how true it was, and I could see it borne out in everyone I worked with and almost everything they did. And yes, I could see where i fit in it, too. I call it the Four Step rule. Whether we’re talking about a career or a hobby or almost any sort of endeavor, everybody goes through the same four stages.

1) Not knowing what I’m doing.
2) Thinking I know what I’m doing.
3) Realizing I don’t know what I’m doing.
4) Knowing what I’m doing.

Pretty simple and straightforward, yes? I can’t remember exactly how I stumbled onto this, but like I said… it just instantly made sense. I could see it with other people on movie sets, yeah, but also with the staff members for an online game I worked on for a while. I saw it in tabletop gaming (both the gaming and the artsy side of it). I’m currently experiencing it in photography. I’ve talked to friends in a bunch of different fields about this and they’ve all seen it, too.

Hopefully most of you can see it applies to writing, too. Personally, when I first sat down to write a story in third grade, every aspect of “writing” was a mystery to me. Character arcs, linear and narrative structure, dialogue descriptors—these terms meant nothing to me. I didn’t even know what I didn’t know.

Of course, once the words were typed out in front of me, it was clear I was a genius. I mean, look at them—they’re typed! Alas, many editors did not agree with my assessment of those pages, and I had a good sized stack of rejections before I had body hair. And that file folder of rejections got thicker and thicker for many years.

I think I was in college when I started to consider that maaaaaaybe every single editor I submitted to wasn’t the problem. Maybe my stories weren’t genius just because they were typed. Yeah, the ones I was writing at that point had a much more elaborate vocabulary than my old ones, but were they really any better than the ones I’d been writing at age eleven…?

I had dozens and dozens of rejections under my belt, but it turned out I still really didn’t know much about writing or storytelling. I’d spent eight or nine years ignoring advice and missing opportunities because I was convinced I was already great. And how could you improve on great?

Being able to acknowledge I still had a lot to learn was what let me finally improve. And improving was what let me get where I am today. Working with other professionals who treat me like a professional. Able to offer actual advice with experience backing it up. Even if some of that experience is, “wow, don’t screw up like I used to…”

Now, there’s an aspect of the four steps you’ve probably seen before. A sort of trap. I know I saw it in the film industry a lot. I fell into it for a while myself. I see it in writing, too.

There are folks out there who are pretty mediocre, sometimes even bad at their chosen career or hobby or what have you… but they’re convinced they’re fantastic. These people are stuck on step two—thinking they know what they’re doing—because they never had that slap down moment. They never bothered to improve because they never acknowledged a need to improve. They just stayed at those early, flawed levels.

Now, y’see, Timmy, we need that screw-up step. That early burst of overconfidence is important. It’s why we don’t give up on something the moment anything doesn’t turn out exactly like we planned. Well, most of us don’t.

But it’s even more important that we recognize it and move past it. That we admit how much we need to learn, accept some of that criticism of our work. And yeah, it’ll be frustrating as all hell and there’s a good chance I’ll find out I spent a lot of time on something that’s just going to go straight into a drawer or maybe the circular file. But if I’m open to learning from all that—to admitting I need to improve—that’ll ultimately move me through the whole process much faster.

We’re all going to fail at some point. And it’s okay to fail. The only problem is if I’m determined not to learn from it.

Next time– okay, look, I’ve got a minor procedure scheduled for next week that’s probably going to knock me out for a day or two, plus I’m about to start juggling edits on two different books. So next time might not be for another two weeks or so. I’ll probably still be getting the newsletter out, if you’re subscribed to that.

All that said… next time I’d like to tell you a fun and 100% true story about Harry Houdini and the lost city of Atlantis.

Until then, go write.

Before we dive fully into the gift-giving season, I thought it might be a good time to talk about something that it might be… well, a little rude to ask for. It can be forward under the best of circumstances, and even more so with someone you barely know. 

What? No, not that. Get you mind out of the gutter.

These days it’s easy to get in touch with people. Especially famous (and semi-famous) people. Social media.  DMs. Email. Appearances. And I think we’ve all had that moment when someone we like or admire has favored us with a like, a response, maybe even a follow. Yeah, it’s just social media, but I think most of us get a little thrill from these moments.

That said, we also need to be honest about what these relationships are. Joe Hill retweeted me once, but I don’t think we’re best friends or colleagues or anything like that. Leslie Jones, Diedrich Bader, and Tara Strong all follow me on Twitter, but I’m pretty sure it’s just because I’ve made each of them laugh once or thrice. That’s all it is and I know it. I shouldn’t expect anything from them. Or be asking for it.

And with that in mind, consider this. I’m just a higher-end-midlist author, but every two or three weeks, I’ll get contacted by a complete stranger or sort-of acquaintance, and asked if I can read a few chapters of their manuscript or maybe the final product for a blurb or, hey, who’s my editor at Random House or contact at Audible and is that Andy Weir in that picture with you? Do you have his email address? Many of these are polite. Some are… not as polite. A few are flat-out arrogant.

And it’s not just me. Other writers have told me tales of request (or demands) for help. Sometimes they’re quiet. Sometimes they’re awkwardly public.

Past of the problem here is the misunderstood idea that all writers must help less-successful ones. Under any circumstances. No matter what they’re being asked to do. Read a manuscript? Pass said manuscript on to your agent? Donate a kidney? This is your obligation as a writer once you’ve had any level of success. Countless guru-types push this idea, and spin it so the professional’s the one being rude or unreasonable if they don’t immediately leap to assist me (note that frequently, said guru is not the person who can help, even if I’m paying him). And because the internet makes it so easy, just spam every writer you can find contact info or a Twitter account for. Sure, I’ll annoy 999 people, but it’s all worth it if one might help me, right?

Right?

(Narrator–no, it is not)

This isn’t to say I—or any professional—won’t help other writers. I seriously love helping people. What do you think this blog is? I’ve got writer-friends who help me with projects and I’d gladly help any of them with theirs. I’ve done the Writer’s Coffeehouse for years now. A few folks have standing offers from me to read their hopefully-soon-to-be-finished manuscripts. I don’t think I’m out of the ordinary here, as writers go

But let’s put some of this in perspective. Writing is my full-time job. It’s how I pay for food, bills, the mortgage, everything. I work forty to fifty hours a week. Sometimes closer to sixty as deadlines (contractual and self-imposed) loom. I know a few professional writers who have unrelated full time jobs, and then they’re still putting in twenty or thirty hours writing on top of that. There’s also time on social media and *cough* writing blog posts. Plus, I already get sent stuff to read by editors, publicists, and my agent. That’s part of the job, too.

So—even on the very low end—we’re looking at a 55-60 hour work week. I don’t think that’s out of the ordinary for a professional writer. Heck, it might be even a bit sub-par, by the standards of some folks I know.

And when, as a more-or-less-stranger, I ask someone to just look at my manuscript, I’m asking them to cut into that time. To cut into the “this is how I make a living” time. Or to cut into their free time, instead. If I ask them to pass something on to my agent or editor, I’m telling them they’re nothing more than a conduit to me.

If I’m going to be that person asking you to give up some of your free time or expertise or experience… here’s a few tips on how to improve my odds. I’m not saying they’ll guarantee success, but—and I bet this is true for most writers—the more of these that apply to me the better.

I’m not asking for something I could find out on my own
When I started out, to get any writing information you had to dig through magazines, make phone calls, send request letters, then go dig through more magazines, make different phone calls, and send different letters. These days all of this information (and more) is available with a few keystrokes and a bit of thought.  Honestly, the fact that we can all see this post means we all have access to Google, yes? If I want to make writing my career, part of the work is… well, doing the work.

I think a lot of time when this happens, people are looking for the “real” answers. They don’t want to know how to select an agent—they want to know the agent who has a direct line to Simon & Schuster and takes unsolicited submissions and always gets six figure advances and movies deals. Because there has to be one, right?  All those big authors didn’t spend time in the junior leagues. They went straight to six-figure incomes and movie deals… just like I want to do.

I’m not putting them on the spot
With social media (and in the olden times, signings and cons and other such gatherings) it’s easy to speak with pros. It’s also easy to call them out and ask them something very publicly in front of a large audience. So it’s tempting to just ask for blurbs or reads right out in the open, giving them the chance to help me out and look good in front of everyone.

The catch is, this messes with a power dynamic. Said writers very rarely can say yes (for the reasons above and others), but being published and even semi-successful puts said writer “above” me. And now I’ve put them in the position of looking like they’re punching down when they say no to me. It’s a lose-lose that just makes everybody annoyed, so I just shouldn’t do it.

I’m literate 
We’d probably have serious second thoughts about a doctor who thinks viruses are caused by aliens, a mechanic who says gremlins are why your car won’t start, or a  lawyer who doesn’t seem to understand any aspect of the law. If someone’s trying to convince us they’re a professional, we expect them to show a basic understanding of their field. We definitely don’t want them displaying ignorance of it.

If I send a DM to pro-writer Phoebe full of weird references or txtspk or just tins of spooling mistakes and typos, I’m showing her I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know the basics of writing.  And if I’m telling her I don’t know the basics right up front, why should I expect her to spend several hours wading through my manuscript? Or even part of it?

I’ve known them for several years  
Just to be clear, if I’ve followed someone for two years on Twitter or Instagram, this doesn’t really mean I’ve known them for two years. This also holds true for being a regular podcast listener, a longtime fan, or saying hi and shaking hands three years ago at a convention. Sorry. Do you remember that guy you met at a con three years ago and then never spoke with again? No? Wouldn’t it be weird if he got in touch tomorrow and asked you to take a day or two off from work…?

We communicate on a regular basis
The key thing I need to remember here is we. Communication is a two-way street.  Me spamming Phoebe with messages and responses through multiple channels does not count as communicating. Neither does elbowing into another conversation. Or just following someone on Twitter, Instagram, or TikTok.

Communication is talking. Back and forth. Conversations. Discussions. Usually about a multitude of topics that have nothing to do with writing. If I’ve never done that with someone, asking them to read 450 pages is a rough icebreaker.

I’ve lived with them
This should be self-explanatory. Not in the sense of “on the planet at the same time” or even “crashed on the couch for a week,” but more in the “sharing rent and chores around the kitchen for several months” way. After our months together in the same house/ apartment/ hostel, I shouldn’t feel too weird about asking Phoebe to take a quick look at something I wrote. 

Unless… I really screwed her over on the last month’s rent or the security deposit. Or punched holes in the walls. Or was really loud while they were trying to sleep. If I’m not aware I was the nightmare roommate, that’s another whole issue I need to deal with.

I haven’t asked before
I think we’re all familiar with the idea of spam. Getting hit with ads and requests and offers again and again and again and again. I don’t want to come across that way, as the guy asking for favors again and again and again. Gets annoying quick, doesn’t it? I don’t want to be the guy pestering Phoebe until she says yes. Again, a bunch of other issues there I need to work on.

Also, with all the conditions and time limits I’ve mentioned above, it’s kind of arrogant to assume I’m going to get a second chance at this. I definitely don’t want to send off a manuscript with three mistakes in the first two pages. To quote a semi-famous musical, I don’t want to waste my shot, so I don’t want to take it until I’m sure I’m going to hit. 

I actually want to hear what they have to say 
This is the big one, and I’d guess it’s the reason a lot of writers end up reluctant to respond to these requests. If you’ve been following this little collection of rants for any amount of time you’re probably heard me talk about it before.

Lots of folks say they want feedback, but what they’re reallylooking for is to get back wild praise and promises their manuscript will be passed on and up to agents, editors, publishers, and whoever makes the big Hollywood movie deals.  In my experience, not a lot of folks actually want to hear criticism of their work (even if it’s constructive).  They just want to skip to the next step.  

Reading takes time. Writing up notes and thoughts takes time. Honestly, if all I want is praise and a handoff, I’m wasting Phoebe’s time asking for feedback. And she’s a pro, so her time is worth money.
 

Y’see, Timmy, if a lot of these apply to me, I’m probably in a good place. Feel free to drop Phoebe a note. I’d be fine with someone who ticked a lot of these boxes contacting me. I’m sure most professionals would feel the same way.

If not… maybe I should reconsider that email or DM before hitting send. I don’t want to look bad or put someone in an awkward position. It’s just not worth it in the long run.

Next time, I’d like to talk about starting points.

Until then, go write.

Enough holiday stuff for now. Let’s get back to what you’re all really here for—the thing you specifically came here for. Half-assed writing commentary! That’s the deal, right? You keep showing up, I prattle on for far too long and maybe make one or two useful points.

Which is, ho ho ho, what I wanted to talk about.

The act of telling a story is sort of an unspoken agreement between two people. Kristi Charish has called it “the invisible handshake.” As audience members, we expect certain things from our story. As storytellers, we expect certain things from our audience. When we sit down together, even if we’re separated by a few months and a printed page, we’re both assuming the other half of this experience is going to follow certain conventions.

So let’s talk about this contract between writer and reader. Or storytellers and audience, if you’d like to keep it a little broader. I think this agreement is kind of universal in that regard.

As the writer, what am I promising you?

This Is Readable
I think we can all agree books come with different levels of reading difficulty. They get aimed at different age groups or demographics. So it’s not impossible to believe we could stumble across a book that seems too simple or too difficult for us.

But this should never be my goal as a writer. Nobody should struggle to get through a book, fighting through convoluted, never-ending sentences filled with obscure words that describe dozens of irrelevant characters. And if I’m writing specifically to exclude people (“Only the people who really understand art will enjoy this…”) I’m doing this wrong. If you pick up one of my books, I want you to feel welcome, and to actually enjoy the act of reading it.

This Makes Sense
It doesn’t matter if my book’s set on a cruise ship, in a Victorian mansion, or on a space station—it has to have an internal logic. Characters need to make decisions and take actions that fit within their world and their personal experience.

A simple test I always try to give myself is “would this book be enjoyable to read again?” If twists aren’t earned, if betrayals aren’t set up, if explanations don’t line up with what I’ve said before this… my story probably doesn’t make sense. And you deserve better than that as a reader.

This Finishes Arcs
Nobody likes getting to the end of a book and finding out ha ha maybe everything will get answered in the next book. If we’re going to get immersed in a story, one thing we’re inherently expecting is some kind of resolution at the end. That sense of closure is a natural part of storytelling. We expect the heroes to have a final showdown with the villains, for this year’s Hunger Games to end, or for them to perform the last exorcism. And when they don’t and everything’s left unresolved… it just doesn’t sit right.

And sure, there might be dangling threads or even an overall arc that needs to continue. But when we get to the end of this story we expect, well, an ending. Some aspect of this story has to be done and wrapped up in a satisfying way (to the reader if not the characters)

This Was Worth It
This is a twofold thing. One ties back to an idea I’ve mentioned before—we want our hero to win, even if it’s a pyrrhic victory. We need to see them have some level of success, because if not we’ve just read a book where the hero, the person we’re supposed to relate to and empathize with… loses.  Or doesn’t do anything. Or just has a textbook ending we’ve seen dozens of times before. After three hundred or so pages, these things can really make a book feel like it wasn’t worth reading.

Two is that, well, we want to feel like it was worth it financially. Nobody likes shelling out ten or fifteen bucks for a book that just wasn’t their thing, but shelling out that much for a book that’s incoherent, filled with typos, and half-copied from an old Doctor Whoplot? And then has a bad ending? I mean, even a buck can feel like too much for something like that. If I’m trying to get you to give me money for this story, this story should be worth money.

In my opinion, that’s all the big promises we’re expecting on the writer side of things. Yeah, there might be more expectations depending on the genre, the author, the intended audience, but I think this is probably a good contractual boilerplate. From this direction.

Coming from the other side of the negotiating table, what should I expect from my storytelling audience? If someone’s willing to engage with the story, there should be a few basic things they’re promising me, the storyteller. Things like…

The Benefit of the Doubt
If I’m going to pick up a book, I should at least begin with the basic assumption the writer knows what they’re doing. They meant to use this word or that term, and yeah, there’s a reason these people have a collection of HD-DVDs and not Blu-rays. If something isn’t clear on page two, I should be assuming there’s a reason things aren’t clear on page two, not that the writer has somehow screwed up telling their story.

This doesn’t mean there can’t be problems in those first few pages or minutes. But if I see something I don’t understand I shouldn’t be immediately labeling it as a mistake or a problem and using that to guide my ongoing interpretation of things. There’s a term for that—it’s called hatewatching.

The Time to Tell Their Story
Related to the above, if I pick up a murder mystery, I shouldn’t be complaining that we still don’t know who the murderer is in chapter three. Those two cute folks may not have kissed by page forty-two. There’s a good chance the aliens’ true motives could still be unclear a third of the way in. 

Stories take time to unfold. We need build-up. We need to establish things. Some narrative devices just won’t work at certain parts of a story. If I’m reading a book, I need to be willing to accept that not everything’s going to be given to me in the first hundred pages—and that’s okay.

Judging It for What It Is, Not What I Want It to Be
It’s not uncommon to pick up a book not being 100% sure of what it is. What I thought was a sci-fi story might be more of a horror novel. This romance might involve a lot of historical drama. This superhero book might really be more of a superpowers thing. And sometimes this shift of genres and/or perspectives might be really annoying for us as readers.

But that doesn’t make the story wrong. Maybe it was poorly marketed or maybe I just don’t like horror novels. Maybe I wanted Dot to find true love or Yakko to go on a revenge-fuelled killing spree, and neither of these things happened in the book. But these things aren’t inherently flaws in the story. The writer told story A, it isn’t wrong because I wanted story B.

That’s what I think we should be expecting from the other half of the contract. And again, we could probably add other things depending on the book, the genre, the author. That’s why contracts get adjusted. This is, as I mentioned before, the basic starting form that you get for free on the internet.

And I’m sure some of you think this has just been some silly, meta-writing thing that you skimmed over. But y’see, Timmy, when this doesn’t happen—when one side or the other breaks the contract—we get frustrated. As audience members, we hate it when we need to struggle through a story, not getting the relevant details or getting buried in irrelevant ones. As authors, we grind our teeth when someone gives negative criticism because “I didn’t know this was a horror novel” or “I quit reading after three chapters” or “Amazon delivered this with a folded cover.”

Okay, that last one has nothing to do with our storytelling contract, but we all still grind our teeth when we get a one star review for that kind of nonsense.

So remember the contract. Make sure you’re holding up your end of it. Because nobody wants to be known as the person who breaks it. That’s just not a good look from either side.

Next time… well, I want to talk about what you’re not getting for the holidays.

Until then, go write.