IN ABSENTIA: WRITING in the PLAGUE TIMES

By Shaun McCoy

I found some scant comfort, when watching armed protesters storm a state house without appropriate PPE, knowing that human beings have behaved in much more egregious ways in previous plagues. Who could forget the mobs of infected, tearing about the streets of medieval Europe, tossing rags of pus through the broken windows of the healthy.

Comparatively, you could say we’ve grown up. Our temper-tantrums as a species have, in some cases at least, become fairly mild—and as a writer, I find that kind of growth insanely interesting. Much of fiction is finding new and interesting backdrops to highlight human nature—and let’s not forget that there is little a writer likes more than a well-developed character arc.

I think then of the silver linings the inestimably dark cloud of the plague times has brought me personally. I’m extremely lucky in that I get to work peacefully from my couch. I speak to my family now, more than I ever have, in a series of Sunday conference calls. I’ve even gotten to reconnect with my favorite writing group in the entire world, even though I’m in another state. Though my personal interactions with people have decreased, in a weird way I feel more connected to my friends and family, to my global community, than ever before. It’s those connections which I think are key to humanity’s plot arc.

But have we really grown? In times past we thought evil spirits brought disease. We thought that breathing incense or drinking alcohol or saying bless you might save us. Is that any different than blaming the disease on Bill Gates or 5G? Is that any different than the televangelist who promises to blow the plague away? Are we just the same old dog with a few new tricks and free Zoom calls?

Well that’s the thing about storytelling isn’t it. If one were to write this novel, it would be the writer who would decide if we’ve grown.

In reality there is no grand arbiter, no writer, to decide for us whether the story of the last thousand years is a grand arc of growth or the exploration of our tragic inability to learn from our experiences. In the place of an author, we just have those among us writing different narratives. Rather than share mine, I’ll simply ask for yours. Are we the same? Have we grown? What I can say is that in either event, whether we’ve grown or failed to, I find the story deeply compelling. I think this humanity character is one we can keep working with in our stories for many centuries to come.

STANDALONE OR SERIES?

By Raegan Teller

At some point, every author must decide if their book is going to be a standalone book or the beginning of a series. Either option has long-term consequences and rewards. You might be tempted to ask, “What do my readers want?” Some readers prefer a standalone book because they don’t want to commit to a series, and they like to explore various authors. But there are also readers who prefer a series and are extremely loyal to those writers. These readers become attached to the characters and anxiously await the next volume.

However, the standalone vs. series decision is more about the characters themselves than trying to anticipate reading habits. At the end of the first book, do the characters have more stories to tell? Are they interesting enough that readers want to know more about them? Is the main story, or any of the subplots, left unresolved at the end? If so, perhaps a series is the best choice.

Let’s say you decide to write a series that tells a “sweeping story” across multiple volumes. In doing so, you’re asking readers to commit to the entire series to learn the whole story. Not all readers want to read every book. And some readers may be upset when they realize the main plot isn’t resolved at the end. Another way to handle a series is to have the protagonist and some or all of the minor characters continue across multiple books, as Sue Grafton did in her twenty-five-volume alphabet series. With this approach, each book resolves its main plot, although some of the subplots may carry forward to the next volume. You must then decide how much backstory to give readers who may start in the middle or at the end of the series. What will readers need to know to understand what’s going on? How much information from the previous volumes are you willing to disclose? Whether you decide to write one big story across a series or a series of discrete stories with repeat characters, it’s wise to do your research and be aware of the pitfalls and rewards of each approach.

Consider also that while each book has a story arc, a series must also arc. J.K. Rowling plotted and wrote the entire seven-book Harry Potter series before she published the first book. I didn’t appreciate her wisdom until I was writing the second volume of my series and had to step back and plan the overall series.

Should you decide to write a series, I respectfully offer a word of caution. Don’t allow yourself to get lazy due to familiarity with the characters or to assume your readers will continue to be loyal no matter what. It’s inevitable that within a series, some volumes will be better than others. However, we’ve all read series that started out good but fizzled and should have ended earlier—or never been a series at all. But a well-done series is brilliant.  

TRYING TOO HARD

By Bonnie Stanard 

Any one of my poems has been through hundreds of changes and revisions. Sometimes I’ll change one word, sometimes an entire verse. Am I trying too hard to find the exact words or expressions to put forward a thought or feeling? Probably.

When submitting to journals, I have spotted sentences written by editors trying too hard.

— We want poems that press and push and ache and recede.

— I will be looking for verse that sets my skin on fire.

— send cutting, strange, and daring work

With guidelines such as these, it’s no wonder writers get the idea they should produce heart-stopping poems. Here are more guidelines to give writers a reason to either try too hard or quit.

— We want stunning and unusual imagery and language that compels.

— We seek to publish the innovative works of the greatest minds writing poetry today.

— We want dark and disquieting, fanciful and funny, surreal and surprising.

Let me see... what can I write that is dark, disquieting, fanciful, funny, surreal and/or surprising? Mmmm. It was a lonely, moonlit night with buzzards flying over the pizza kitchen where an ogre sprinkled parmesan on a poisonous crust. Does that fit the bill?

One submissions requirement reads like this: “We don’t want your problematic/hateful garbage.” So they only want unproblematic/loving garbage? Or they want problematic/hateful pearls of wisdom? Obviously the editors of this publication have read some really crappy poems and I’d better not add to their crap pile. Avoiding crap can spiral into trying too hard.

We hope to attract publishers with our work, but trying too hard to figure out what they’re looking for is a dead-end street. I have enough trouble figuring out what I want to say. This may be a leap into a taboo subject, but I fear that life is meaningless. In some weird way, I suppose I can prevent meaninglessness (is that a word?) by writing. The greater the fear, the harder I try. When I convince myself I’ve found meaning, I excel in doggerel.

Okay, so I Googled “meaning of life.” Julian Baggini wrote in an article in The Guardian: “the only sense we can make of the idea that life has meaning is that there are some reasons to live rather than to die, and those reasons are to be found in the living of life itself.”

However, in our search for meaning, some of us are trying too hard at “the living of life itself.” It’s a vicious cycle. I tell myself that I’m not going to figure it out, but that doesn’t stop the questions. Either my life means something or it doesn’t. The moment that I’m writing this is momentous to me. I think it has meaning. But does it?

Poetry tells us life is a mystery with no solution. It tells us to stop trying to find one. It tells us to settle for moments, for feelings, for epiphanies. I’m trying to do that, but I’ll have to try harder.

Good poems can scratch the surface and reveal substance. I scratch for substance and too often end on the surface. I hope some day to be able to write a poem like this one by Dan Collins.

LEAVING WEST TEXAS

Water may bless
this desert someday. Trees may spring
from this dusty soil; birds
may shelter in the branches—
and they will sing sweetly, maybe,
of terrible choices
they have made. But right now,
the only thing that matters
is this stop light
and this yellow line in the road.

THE FINE LINE

By Sharon May

Feedback is the goal for attending a writer’s workshop. We want to know what is effective and not effective in our drafts. After a couple of sessions in a workshop, the writer can begin to predict what aspects of craft most matter to their particular readers. One reader may look at structure of the plot, another word choice, and another character development, etc.

Does that knowledge then lead the author to write to the idiosyncrasies of the group? I will admit that a few times, I’ve thought that X will not like this, or Z would go crazy if I didn’t change that. Is that a detriment or a benefit to the work? Could go either way.

We don’t have to change anything readers suggest or complain about. We are in control of the work. How do we determine which suggestions we use? Are we partial to the critiques of certain readers? Or, do we use the “let’s see how many agree” method of selection?

Generally, I follow the advice of readers because they usually are “spot-on.” Not to say there haven’t been a few times I have tried something to see how it fits, and then decided the suggestion didn’t work with my writing goals.

If we do alter our work based on the critic, is it really the writer’s work or a collaboration? I don’t mean criticism on grammar and mechanics, nor simply changing a word or phrase here and there. I mean changes that alter structure, character, plot, setting, etc.

Recently, a writer friend asked I ever considered having Henry Olsen tell the story of his brother’s Frank’s death in the novel I am revising. That question stoked my imagination, and the more I thought about it the more I liked it, particularly when I realized that change would allow me to introduce a sub-plot I had been considering. I decided to draft the idea though I was already half-way through this revision. Now, whose novel is it? Mine or ours?

We read each other’s work willingly and with pure intentions of just helping. Changing, yes, but not owning. Probably the critic/reader just triggered something inside the writer’s unconscious or subconscious which caused her to look at the work in a new way? I know I struggled with other narrators telling the story of Frank’s death in the barroom fight. I wasn’t satisfied until I let Henry narrate.

Some writers avoid workshopping because they are afraid of losing control – of the work, and thus, their own identity. Does communicating with a beta reader make me a sellout to art? I don’t think so. The craft and art of writing lies in my skills. A suggestion can be taken or left on the table. But if something strikes my fancy, I am certainly not going to ignore it because it didn’t originate with me. I will make it mine as I integrate it into the work I’m creating.

IN DEFENSE of the FIRST-PERSON NARRATOR and DOG VIDEOS

By Kasie Whitener

My favorite quarantine video has been the BBC’s rugby announcer narrating his dogs. The voice is familiar to watchers of the sport, the cadence is familiar to anyone who watches any sports at all, and the actions of the dogs are exaggerated and made into a story by the narrator lending his voice. If you haven’t watched it, click here.

Several things are true about this video. First, quarantine has rendered many of us “nonessential” in the workforce. Sports broadcasters join the ranks of waiters, actors, and retailers when we are all forced to stay in our homes.

Second, pets are a fantastic source of entertainment. Some of the best memes, videos, and social posts have been the Secret Life of Pets revealed. One has a woman’s voice narrating for her own dog who says something to the effect of, “If these people don’t go back to work soon, I swear, I’ll do something unforgiveable.”

And that brings me to the third truth about our BBC announcer’s video: Great narration is underrated.

In writers’ circles, we talk extensively about point-of-view as an extension of the narration conversation. First-person narrators have the advantage of telling the innermost thoughts of the character to whom we’re the closest in the story. Even if that person isn’t the protagonist (Nick Carraway), the first-person narrator makes that character the most important contributor to the story.

The second person narrator and a collective first-person narrator make the reader essential to the story. You Choose Your Own Adventure in those classic 80’s kids’ books, or you become one of the neighborhood boys (we) watching The Virgin Suicides unfold. The second person relies too heavily upon the reader’s interpretation of the work.

The third person narrator perches on the shoulders of characters, trying to see from their point of view but not so close as to exhaust the reader with the mental gymnastics of the first person POV. The third person narrator is the dullest of all. It removes entirely the editorial, the judgement, and the messy reality of being a person. It reflects and reports, like a journalist.

The first-person narrator, while limited to just what the narrator sees, nevertheless delivers a rich vocabulary, the neuroticism of internal monologue, and the skewed and unreliable interpretation of the actions of characters who are not the narrator.

The first-person narrator is powerful. It is (one of) the author’s alter ego(s) springing forth and frolicking through the story. It is untamed. Natural. Authentic. And risky. Because when readers don’t like your first-person narrator, they don’t like your book.

Narrators make the story. They turn nothing into something. They infuse the drama, they raise the stakes, and they drag the reader through the pages. Like the rugby commentator animating his dogs with well-placed vocabulary and inflection, the narrator conducts the story. Without a good one, the story is just lifeless words on the page.

Or dogs lying about on their living room floor.