This is the first “mystery.” It is the grand unifying theory that unlocks everything that follows.
The key to this mystery can be discovered in the answer to this question: which of the two pictures below most accurately defines lipstick?
Picture A
Picture B
Learn more in the writer’s section (okay, so the page is there, but where in the fricken ricken frack can you find it? I’m still learning this dang WordPress thing, so just go here)
You want to meet editors and agents. But how? Where?
Writing Excuses recently held a great podcast listing the types of events aspiring authors might want to attend–conventions, conferences, workshops, expos, etc. But knowing the types still doesn’t tell you which events to go to.
If you’re looking to meet editors and agents, here’s a way to figure out precisely which events you should attend.
1. Instead of taking a random scatter-shot approach, get some laser precision. Do this by first identifying the specific editors and agents you’re interested in. Then find out which events they’re going to attend. Forget all the other events–these are the ones you want to go to.
These folks will often post their schedule on their websites. The workshops, conferences, and conventions will also often post guest lists. You can also query the agency or publisher itself and ask which cons so-and-so will attend (just contact the receptionist, you don’t need or want to contact the editor or agent specifically).
Now even if you don’t know exactly who you’re interested in, you can still narrow down your focus. Event X might at least have some agents or editors attending (even if they’re not in your genre) while event Y does not. So go and see if you can’t get tips from those agents or editors
2. Research each of the events. Some provide meetings with editors, some provide pitch sessions, some will require you to track the person down. Select the events that look the most promising to you.
3. If you feel a bit nervous or shy, develop a short script for what you’ll say and how you’ll approach these folks. Or make a list of potential talking points. Run it by some friends and other writers to make sure you don’t sound robotic, dweebish, pushy, or pleading.
You have to remember that agents and editors are looking for new talent constantly. If they don’t find new talent, their income stream soon dies. They want and expect people to find them. They WANT to talk to YOU. They just want to be approached in a friendly and business like way.
So you have your script, talking points, and plans and will probably end up deviating from them. However, just having that in your head when you go to the con and approach the person you want to talk to (even if it’s only two sentences) can go a long way to calming your nerves.
4. Attend the con and make adjustments to your plan as necessary.
5. Don’t miss unplanned opportunities. Writing is sometimes a lonely business. When I go to cons I have folks I want to meet and catch up on. But I also make sure I engage other con goers. I smile, I say hello, I ask things like “so are you here as a writer or a fanboy?” or “what did you think about panel?” or “Your Klingon ridge is looking mighty today.” We chat.
I do it because I learn a lot from others and its just plain interesting. And sometimes you make an acquaintance that can develop into a working relationship. For example, I met Larry Correia (new author with Baen) at a local con I just attended. He had a fascinating story about his breaking in. We chatted for a while. There was no ulterior business/network motive. Just a great conversation. A month or so later a business opportunity arose and I thought of Larry. He’s now going on tour with me and Dave Farland this fall.
Be flexible. I’ve been invited and have invited others to go do lunch or dinner. And those have always been great chats. And sometimes business ops have arisen later because of them. But even if they hadn’t, it just makes the experience so much better. Good conversation is its own reward.
6. If all of this is too scary, bring back up. Get a friend or family member to go with you. 🙂
And if you stumble a bit, maybe stutter, maybe even feel like you’ve made a fool of yourself, do not stress. It’s to be expected the first few times. No big deal. Most poeple are shy and will either give you a break or be so worried themselves they won’t notice. With a few tries you’ll learn. If yo do make a fool of yourself, the good thing is that editors and agents meet so many people that your face will soon be forgotten, and you’ll be able to reboot and approach them next year with a clean slate (just remember to not wear the same belly dancing costume).
Of course, this doesn’t tell you what to do and not to do when approaching these folks. But as far as deciding where to go, this is one method that works.
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Added 7/31/09
SFWA has some great articles on conventions and networking by Diana Rowland.
So how do writers use questions in their story development? Let’s hear first from Ian Creasey, whose short fiction has appeared in magazines such as Asimov’s, Realms of Fantasy and Weird Tales, and has been reprinted in several Year’s Best SF anthologies. His excellent collection Maps of the Edge was published last year.
by Ian Creasey
I’d like to begin by thanking John for the opportunity to write a guest post about the technique of using questions to help create stories. This is not a “where do you get your ideas?” post. Rather, it assumes that you already have a basic idea, which you want to develop into a complete story.
I’ll use one of my own stories to illustrate how the question technique works in practice. The questions themselves are sufficiently general that they can be applied across a whole range of stories. What tends to change is the order in which they are asked. I find that stories sometimes start from an idea for a specific detail, in which case the process involves working backwards to develop the appropriate context. In other cases, the initial idea is rather abstract, and the task is to flesh out the premise with sufficient detail.
My example story is “The Report of a Doubtful Creature”, which was published in Orson Scott Card’s InterGalactic Medicine Show (November 2009). I mention the publication date, because this was actually the seed for the story. The year 2009 marked the bicentenary of Charles Darwin’s birth, and also the 150th anniversary of the publication of Origin of Species. I live near the Yorkshire town of Ilkley, which Charles Darwin visited just before the first edition of Origin was published. I therefore decided to write a story about Darwin’s visit to Ilkley, with the aim of getting it published in November 2009, exactly 150 years after the first edition of Origin of Species in November 1859.
So I had a story I wanted to write, without any notion of what its plot might be. The technique of asking questions helped me to shape the story, and I’ll list some of those questions here.
For my particular story, the answer is already in the premise: it’s about Charles Darwin. But other times, it’s not immediately obvious who a story might be about — for instance, if the initial idea is to explore a technological or social development, then there is a wide range of people who might be affected. In this case the standard advice is to ask, “Who is the most hurt by this development? Who has the most to lose?” That person is often a suitable protagonist (or antagonist) for the story.
In this example, it’s fairly obvious that the story has to be about evolution. There’s not much point in writing a story targeted for the anniversary of the Origin of Species, if it’s not about evolution!
The Origin of Species is a famously controversial book, symbolising a clear conflict between science and faith.
Wow… so far it looks easy, doesn’t it? It may appear that I’ve cheated by starting with several questions to which I already know the answer. But in fact I’m illustrating the point that if you have the germ of an idea for a story, then there are already some questions and answers implicit in your premise, no matter how vague it may initially seem to be. It can be useful to state these answers explicitly, to help crystallise the starting position.
This is what John calls a “power question”, a key question that can be widely applied, and which cuts right through to the essentials. The question “what is the specific example?” can be asked in many contexts (e.g. in considering how to show characterisation), but I find it particularly useful when framed as, “How does the conflict manifest itself?”
This isn’t mathematics: there’s no right or wrong answer. But you need some kind of answer. It’s a classic beginner’s mistake to write a story entirely in abstract terms: telling the reader about the conflict, without showing it. Stories are made of scenes. There should be at least one scene which dramatises the overarching conflict by putting a specific example onstage.
A short story will typically hinge upon a single scene that illustrates the core of the conflict. A novella or novel may require more instances, e.g. a small-scale scene near the beginning, and a large-scale scene toward the end. But the principle of needing specific examples still applies.
If I say that I’m going to write a story about evolution, and the conflict between science and faith, I’m speaking in general terms. I need a specific example. The device I chose was to have Darwin encounter a strange creature, which might possibly be a fairy.
This is another “power question”. It’s a way of saying, “Why does this story matter? Why should the reader care?”
There are different ways of addressing the question, depending on whether you develop the story on a top-down or bottom-up basis. If you start from specific details, then you may need to establish that those details represent important issues. Conversely, if you start from the big issues, then you need to establish that your illustrative details are sufficiently representative.
For my story, the question of evolution (i.e. science vs. faith) is already a high-stakes issue. So the crucial task was to establish that my specific example adequately represented the issue. Basically, if fairies exist — so what? Why would that affect evolution?
Here is the answer from the story, in Darwin’s words:
“My theory of natural selection requires that life proceeds by common descent. All creatures are related, however distantly. So any particular creature must possess living relatives, of some kind; and ancestral forms should be preserved as fossils. Any beast, however unprecedented to man’s eyes, must fit somewhere within the Linnaean taxonomy.
“If fairies exist as material creatures, what genus do they occupy? Where are their fossils? (The fossiliferous strata contain an imperfect sample of past organisms, yet surely we could hope for one example to be retained from the entire fairy lineage.) If the traditional description be correct — like a small man with wings — it is clear that fairies cannot fit anywhere within the existing genera of Mammalia. We could only accommodate them within Animalia by supposing an entirely separate line of descent, one which has left no close relatives, no intermediate forms, and no fossils. The evidence does not support it.
“It would be simpler, therefore, to suppose that fairies were a separate creation. After all, why should we require all creatures to be related?
“We indeed require it, for if we allow that any creature may be a separate creation, then we must allow the possibility to all creatures. How could I argue that a wolf must have descended from canid predecessors, if I cannot argue likewise for a fairy? Any opponent could simply say, ‘The wolf was independently created in its current form, just like a fairy.’ I would have no refutation for such a critique. Even those who accepted the Wolf might balk at the descent of Man from simpler progenitors, if given the excuse of the Fairy.
“My hypothesis must explain all creatures, or it explains none. Everything, or nothing. The thought burned in my mind: If this fairy truly exists, it will destroy my whole Theory.”
This is another “power question”. A story tends to feel more meaningful if the protagonist faces a genuine choice — a difficult decision. The nature of the choice obviously depends upon the overall conflict, but its onstage manifestation is determined by the specific example that illustrates the conflict. So when deciding upon an example, it’s helpful to bear in mind the choice that the example implies.
In my story, what choice did Darwin face when he encountered the fairy?
“A thought struck me that it would be simple to let the creature escape, thus avoiding the revelation of what it might be, and what it might imply. The temptation seemed to hang in the air before me, needing but a single step to reach out and grasp.”
Once the specific example has been selected, and its importance has been established, our questions move to the realm of practicalities. We must decide how the example is “staged”.
Stories are made of scenes. The scene begins when the protagonist encounters the situation, whatever the situation is. So the author’s task is to decide where and when that encounter takes place.
For my story, I needed Darwin to see a fairy. How could that happen? Maybe he goes out for a walk, and simply happens to see one. But that feels rather coincidental: too obviously contrived by the author. Also, at the time the story takes place, Darwin is ill: he’s in Ilkley to take the “water cure”. So he’s not likely to be wandering very far.
I decided to introduce a secondary character: a woman who had captured the fairy. She knew that Darwin was a famous naturalist, so she asked him to come and see it.
It’s important for a short story to remain focused, and not become cluttered with too many characters. It’s dangerous to answer every question by introducing a new character. But in this particular case, it was a useful solution. I started off with only a protagonist, Darwin. He didn’t have anyone to interact with. By introducing a secondary character, I allowed myself scope for dialogue, interaction, and contrast.
I’ve deliberately ended this post on an anti-climactic note, because although stories conclude with a climax, this doesn’t mean that the climax is the last thing you work out when writing it. Personally I find it easier to begin by shaping the overall structure of a story, including the ending, before I work out all the nitty-gritty staging details.
The questions that I’ve listed here are, obviously, not exhaustive. But I hope they give an indication of how an abstract idea can be turned into a detailed narrative. In my opinion the most important thing to remember is this: Stories are made of scenes. The most useful questions are those which help you envisage a particular scene. Once you can imagine the scene in your head, half the task of writing it is already done.
So are you curious about his story yet? If so, “The Report of a Doubtful Creature” is available to IGMS subscribers at http://www.intergalacticmedicineshow.com/cgi-bin/mag.cgi?do=issue&vol=i15&article=_003 . You can also learn more about Ian and his work at www.iancreasey.com.
I’d like to thank Ian for taking the time to write up his process on this story. I though he made a number of interesing points. Did you notice what he said about envisioning scenes? Did you see that at least one of his questions is particular to this story and might not be used on any other?
Understand the core principles. Get a list of core questions. But then realize you’ll need to use creative Q&A as you go with all sorts of questions, large and small.
For more in this series, see How to Get and Develop Story Ideas
Inequity and deservingness are two of the main factors that keep readers reading. If we want to write killer stories, we need to know how they affect readers. A few years ago I wrote an essay on this and thought it probably too technical for most folks’ taste. But I passed it on to a recent attendee of the killer workshop and he found it helpful. In fact, when he watched Pride & Prejudice shortly after reading the essay, he saw how these factors dramatically affected his rooting interest. So I’m thinking others will find it useful as well.
In order to understand it you must first read George Saunders’ short story “The Bohemians.” You’ll find it here in The New Yorker, January 19, 2004. It would probably be rated PG for some profanity.
Now if the story doesn’t pull you in, stop reading. Because the essay probably won’t make any sense to you. You’ll only be able to understand it if the story works for you. But if it does, then ask yourself what the main character’s problem was and what drew your interest? Then read my essay, “How Inequity Evokes Reader Interest.”
Please note “The Bohemians” does present a character with a problem, and the story cycle applies, but not in the straight-forward manner it does with most stories. BTW, if you’ve ever read Patrick Rothfuss’s excellent Name of the Wind, you’ll see inequity is what shapes the story there as well. If you haven’t read it, I recommend you give it a go.
I’ll be interested to see your responses to Saunders’ story, my essay, and/or Rothfuss’s novel.
The annual Life, The Universe, and Everything writer’s conference is being held this year February 11-13. It’s chock full of panels and presentations from working authors. And this year you don’t have to live within driving distance of Provo, Utah to go because they’re doing it all online (thank you, Covid).
I will be delivering two hour-long presentations. The first is about plot, where you learn the John Brown Story Framework that makes plotting so much easier. Heck, it makes story much easier. The second is for folks new to self-publishing and is called Indie Publishing 101.
If you’re a new writer or looking to hone your craft, you will want to check it out.
An avid reader friend of mine began reading through the books in a list called “100 books you must read before you die.”
She got to Jack Kerouac’s On The Road and went to Facebook and posted the following: “I don’t get the appeal. It’s about a group of boys/men who are irresponsible, drunks, whoring around taking advantage of others and being enabled by their women. Why is this a classic and why should I have wasted my time on it? Can some of my literary friends explain? I hated a brave new world and the handmaid’s tale too.”
Is the book a classic?
Should she read it before she dies?
Is it really that important?
Let me share an edited version of my response and then provide my list of 30 books you should read before you die.
*
Annette, the unfortunate truth is that these lists of “classics” are a sham because there is no objective criteria for determining literary excellence.
Or maybe I should say that measuring quality in the arts isn’t like measuring the unambiguous, objective score of a baseball game. After books exhibit a certain level of proficiency, it becomes increasingly difficult to distinguish the quality of one book from another, especially because much of this depends on a reader’s interests and subjective experience of the story.
When it becomes hard to rank performances, people rely on other measures. One of the most powerful is social networks.
So if two readers find two different books that blow them away, one of the books might get all the attention because the one book gets picked up by a news service (The New York Times) or a platform (the Oprah Book Club effect) or some other social network of influence. A lot of the so-called literary classics only appear on various lists because they tapped into the academic network, which kept them alive far longer than they would have lasted otherwise.
On The Road is simply a book that made a stir among some circles in the 1950s. That’s it.
Was it more important or of higher quality than Exodus? The Chronicles of Narnia? Lord of the Rings? A Town Like Alice? All published in the 1950s as well.
It depends.
If you’re wanting to understand the 1950s beat culture, it would be an important book.
But if you’re wanting to understand fantasy writing of the time, it wouldn’t.
If you’re wanting to read a book that’s had a huge impact on popular culture, well, LOTR beats On The Road like a dog.
Some people have the feeling that the so-called classics have some inherent medicinal value because someone put them on a list and called them classics.
Nope. They’re just stories. Some of which can shed light on the issues and interests of a part of the culture in a given period. But if you’re not interested in that specific sub-culture, who cares?
And if you’re reading to be entertained, moved, uplifted, or educated—which ones do that best for Annette is for you to decide.
So all that to say I wouldn’t devalue your reaction to the book 
*
I’m now going to give you my list.
But it’s not going to be a list of titles. Nor will it focus on a book’s impact on some sub-culture of a given period.
It’s going to be a real list. One that focuses on what so many of us go to stories for.
We could do more than 30, couldn’t we?
Like the one that makes you think people from a different time period are just like us. And the one that makes you think people from that same period are completely alien.
But I think we’ll stop. That there above is a list.
Those are 30 books I think everyone will want to read before they die.
How do writers juggle writing and family?
One of my heroes is Mary Higgins Clark who, as a single mom, started a career. She got up very early, wrote for 1-2 hours in the morning, and became a mega-seller.
I have four girls. And a full-time job. When the first two were little my wife was working and I was Mr. Mom going to school. Then we switched.
Here’s my experience. While I love writing, my stories do not run to me and give me wonderful strangling hugs after school like my youngest. While I laugh at the humor I come up with in my stories and enjoy it, it cannot replace the uncontrollable giggling I experience when I go on dates with my second. While writing lifts me, it does not fill my office with notes and wallpapers of love like my oldest. And writing never drags me out to play ghosts in the graveyard or hide and seek–daughter #3. Nor will my stories and novels be there for me when I’m old.
While writing is incredibly fulfilling, my wife, kids, and other relationships are a joy it cannot replace.
What all this means is that I try to recognize that I can’t let family and writing compete. They can’t be equal priorities. Family comes first. But this doesn’t mean I don’t write. I block out times to write. These are my writing times. I get up early to make time for this. I don’t watch a lot of TV. I don’t read a million blogs, nor, alas, can I read fiction at the level I used to. I make time. But I also make blocks when I just forget writing (even though it can be hard).
Specifically, here’s my average work week.
5:00 AM rise, wake and get centered for the day
6:00 AM work (“work” is my day job and writing)
6:30 AM family and breakfast
7:30 AM go to work (at home). Try to get in 7-8 hours at day job and 2 hours writing. When I did commute I wrote for 1 hour during lunch and 1 hour in the morning before I went to work. Then I’d take a 2 hour block on Thursdays.
5:30 PM family etc.
9:30 PM bed
On Saturdays I get a few more hours writing. Sunday I forget everything but family.
With the new book contract I have to become a bit more creative. But if it ever comes down to sacrifice the last 2 years of my oldest being at home and writing, well, the books will go.
When my writing plans meet reality, I try to adjust and find other slots for writing. It wasn’t easy in the beginning, but it’s become much easier. And I don’t worry about what I might have accomplished in writing if I’d just had the extra time. Such what-if’s, I’ve found, are almost always poisonous. And who the heck cares? Because while I want to write wonderful stories, I think the greatest loss I think I might experience at the end of my life (believing in an after life or not) is looking back and seeing that I traded the opportunity for wonderful relationships for a rapidly mouldering spot on the shelves.
Washington Irving wrote a funny and wonderful piece on this mouldering in his “The Mutability of Literature” in THE SKETCHBOOK OF GEOFFERY CRAYON. I recommend every writer read this to put life and writing into perspective.
