How To Write Magical Words: A Writer's Companion Read online

  A. A young woman, mother of three has been murdered.

  B. There is a million-dollar insurance policy at stake.

  C. The husband has an ironclad alibi because he was sleeping with the chief of police at the time.

  D. No one knows the chief is gay. (C and D are the most important parts of the back-story, and have to be handled carefully.)

  E. The main character is a police investigator.

  There are several ways you can tell all of this:

  A. Prologue scene with the chief and his lover. (Get your minds out of the gutter. Not that kind of scene.) This only works if you are using multiple third-person POV. If first person, then it gets more difficult.

  B. Flashback and its sister, the flashback prologue. (Rule of thumb in mystery: flashbacks should only be used in second 1/3 of book, so it would be too late.)

  C. Dialogue that reveals the affair and the controversy and the problem with the insurance.

  D. And my personal favorite: break it up into little segments of dialogue, internal flashback (in the main character’s mind), and scenes scattered throughout the book. The reader who had been with you for several books knows what’s up and catches the clues and hints, and the new reader is intrigued but not overwhelmed.

  You can open any way you want, as long as it fits the POV and the story line. But! Yeah, you knew there was going to be one of those, didn’t you? Most long-time editors are pretty sick of the prologue scene and the flashback prologue. I know a couple of editors who say they’ll stop reading as soon as it becomes apparent that a new (unpublished) writer has opened a book that way. So what do you do? You give the reader (in this case that editor you so want to impress) the back-story in little bits and pieces in the story-line.

  I make a list of things the reader needs to know, and then I make sure the info is inserted in the first fifty pages, checking off the things as I go. No one gets bored, shocked with a new tone (taste) or pulled out of the story.

  Okay, now you know about lasagna and back-story info dumps.

  Happy cookin—! Uhhh . . . Happy writing!

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  Natalie Hatch

  So do you start a story in the middle of the action and then slowly reveal the backstory through dialogue/action/reaction type things? And when is enough enough? When does a writer know they’ve given the reader enough to work it out for themselves?

  Faith Hunter

  Good question, Natalie. And I doubt you’ll like my answer, because there isn’t one. Of course, that never stopped me before . . .

  Understanding when enough back-story is enough is the balancing act that all writers do in the creative process. I don’t really just write a book, I build it, like building a house. As I write, I go back and make sure the foundation is strong enough to support the bricks and mortar of the story, and that there are windows and doors enough for the reader to see what is going on inside without dumping a telling session on him. It can be a tricky process. Some things need to be said twice, in fact, to drive the point home to new readers, but that is why I make a check-off list to keep track, and a constantly updated outline handy, much like a builder refers to his house plans.

  The writing is there. Don’t get me wrong. I love love love the parts that are just that wild, totally creative, can’t-stop-to-take-a-breath writing, but a lot of it is more (less?) than that. It’s work.

  And like I said—rules-of-thumb are meant to be broken (rules, not thumbs). Catie’s book, The Queen’s Bastard, starts out with several flashback vignettes, and they worked well. But Catie didn’t have one of the old-time, crusty, outspoken, NYC editors or an aged agent like I am speaking about, and also, it wasn’t her first novel. Unpublished writers often have different standards to meet because they have a different vetting process. I say "often," not always, because there are always exceptions. It’s what makes this business so tricky, fascinating, entertaining, and nail-bitingly annoying.

  Conveying Background While Avoiding Info-Dumps

  David B. Coe

  One of the trickiest things a writer has to do in any work of fiction is provide background information, be it about a character, a pre-existing circumstance central to the plot, or a detail about worldbuilding. The last thing we want to do in telling our stories is to slow down narrative momentum with what is commonly referred to as an "info-dump." An info-dump is an extended exposi-tory section that serves no other purpose than to fill in background information. Sometimes info-dumps come in the form of narrative asides; other times they appear in highly contrived conversations. The classic instance of this is the "As you know, Bob . . ." approach, where in the guise of normal discussion a character gives an expansive description of a world’s political structure, or the land’s magic system, or some unique and no doubt highly creative quirk of planetary geology.

  The problem we face as authors of speculative fiction is that our stories are often dependent upon arcane points of magic or worldbuilding or alternative history that our readers absolutely HAVE to know. So the question becomes, how do we convey this information without resorting to the dreaded "info-dump," without slowing our narrative, and without offering it in a manner that comes off as totally contrived?

  Let’s begin with a couple of basic points that I like to keep in mind as I’m writing. (As always, please remember the Magical Words Mantra: There’s no single right way to do any of this.) First, as much as I would like to tell my readers everything about my worlds, my characters, my magic systems, etc. it’s neither necessary nor advisable to do so. And second, just as I try to pace my action and character development, I also pace myself when it comes to giving out background information.

  Put another way: I usually try to tell my readers what they absolutely NEED to know at any given moment in a book. If they need rudimentary information about, say, my magic system early on in order to keep up with the narrative, then that’s what I give them. If there are more arcane points that are central to the plot, but that don’t come into play until much later, then I save that information and slip it in elsewhere.

  Finally, I like to keep in mind my own experience as a reader of speculative fiction. I have found myself frustrated by a lack of understanding when authors are too slow or too obscure in giving out information. But I also like to discover things about a new world as I read. That process of discovery is fun, it’s one of the things I love about our genre. Give away too much too soon, and that sense of discovery is blunted somewhat, at least it is for me.

  All of this is not to say that you can’t give out information at all. Sometimes we have to, and just as it’s important to avoid info-dumps, it’s also important to remember that not every paragraph that gives background information should be considered an info-dump. Readers have to understand the world in which they find themselves. They need to know about the characters they encounter and the problems with which these characters grapple. Conversation can be a terrific way to pass on information while furthering plot. But it’s important to keep your characters speaking in natural believable ways. For instance, if you were writing a conversation about our current politics you probably wouldn’t do it like this:

  "So, Faith, how do you think Barack Obama, our first African American President, is doing?"

  "Well, David, as you know, he’s only had 100 days in office, and has had to deal with an economic crisis, wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, a swine flue epidemic, and other crises. Also, because he is African American, and because our nation has had a troubled racial history, he’s come under intense media scrutiny. So I think he’s doing pretty well on the whole, all things considered."

  People just don’t talk that way. They don’t in our world and they shouldn’t in imagined worlds either. Instead, you might take a more subtle approach, give your readers a bit less detail, but still convey the important points, knowing that you can fill in information as the story develops:

  "So, Faith, how do you think Obama’s doing?"

  "Not bad considering the l
oad of crap he’s had to deal with. He’s had what? Three months? But with the whole race thing, people are watching so closely. I can’t believe all the media hype this past week."

  That’s how people talk. And though the details are spare, we’ve still managed to convey a great deal. There are racial issues in this society, there is media scrutiny focused on this "Obama" character, times are tough, and this guy is pretty new to his office. Not a bad starting place, and we’ve done nothing to make the narrative or the conversation seem contrived.

  Another way to convey information is through flashbacks or internal monologues as long as these, too, maintain a natural feel and don’t detract from narrative flow. Here’s an example from Rules of Ascension, the first book in my Winds of the Forelands series. The entire series revolves around racial conflict between the Eandi, who are people like us, and the Qirsi, who are sorcerers. This is the first passage in which I mention the Qirsi:

  Since early morning he’d been restless and uneasy, the way he sometimes felt before a storm. Perhaps it’s only that. Morna knew they needed the water. But he knew better. Something was coming, something dark.

  Kara used to say that he had Qirsi blood in him, that he had the gleaning power, like the Qirsi sorcerers who traveled with Bohdan’s Revel. They always laughed about it, Pytor reminding her that he was much too fat to be Qirsi. Still, they both knew that he was usually right about these things.

  Two brief paragraphs, but again we’ve learned a fair amount. The Qirsi are sorcerers. Some or all of them can tell the future. They don’t look like Pytor’s people, at least in the sense that they’re slimmer (actually they’re frail, but that information comes later, building on this). We know that there’s this Revel thing that travels the land. A fair perhaps? We know that Pytor has a woman named Kara in his life, though the way it’s phrased, she might not be alive anymore (she’s not). And who’s this Morna person? A goddess, perhaps, from the way she’s invoked here? I haven’t answered all the questions, and in fact I’ve raised as many as I’ve answered, but sometimes knowing which questions to ask is a good start, and here I’ve at least begun the process of introducing my world and the people in it.

  The fact is, I’m not always very good at this, and I could give you plenty of examples of passages that border on info-dumps (for fans of Rules of Ascension, check out pp. 36-37 in the hardcover or pp. 23-24 of the paperback to see how poorly I handled my discussion of the actual rules of ascension).

  Again, it comes back to the points I raised early on: you don’t have to tell your readers everything, and you don’t have to tell them all they need to know in one passage. Give out information naturally, gradually. For those of you writing the second or third book of a series, this also pertains to the information about past books that you convey to your readers. When you reacquaint readers with characters or plot threads, you don’t have to review all that’s come before. Rather, hit the key points and move on with the new action. Ideally you should aim to make your book accessible to those who might not have read book I or book II, but as with other background information you don’t want to sacrifice the narrative integrity of this book to familiarize readers with the previous volumes.

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  Faith Hunter

  David, I am a big proponent of the tomato sauce method of info dispersal. Chop small, mix well, cook slow. (Or info drip! I like that too!) But in Bloodring my editor actually wanted all the world history in the first fifty pages. It blew me away!

  The only way I could get it all in was to have it be the anniversary of the day the world changed and show it on TV. Looking back, I still don’t like it. It still feels like a cheap way to do it. But hey—the editor wanted what she wanted and it was my job to make her happy. It goes back to the comment we make here so often: there’s no single right way to write a book.

  Word Choice and Pacing

  Faith Hunter

  The question has been asked (paraphrased here) "How does word choice and sentence structure affect the reader, and how can we do our job as writers better?"

  It’s a big subject and I could teach on that for days at a con. As with any topic about writing, there are the macro devices and effects and the micro devices and effects. And I think it comes back to pace. When a writer is doing a good job pacing story arcs, character-development arcs, scene anchoring, and stays in character voice, then the macro and micro parts of word choice all fall together. Pace on the macro level can be described as the speed of the conflict development, or the speed at which the story develops. Or, simpler: Macro pace is the events per page or chapter. Micro pace is the pace by line and word.

  For the purpose of this essay, I’ll concentrate on Macro pace and Micro pace as they relate to voice, story, and the emotional reaction of the reader.

  Just a rule of thumb about sentence structure: To increase the pace, use shorter sentences and sentence fragments; to decrease the pace, use longer, more descriptive sentences. The reader hears the increased or decreased pace as well as feels it. A well-crafted scene can and will affect the breathing and heart rate of a reader. But, as with anything, it can be overdone. When a writer tosses in nothing but short sentences and fragments to speed up the pace, the reader has no time to reflect or pull it all together. Longer, more complex sentences in the midst of the shorter ones become necessary to allow the reader to regroup.

  Awful sentence structure:

  His dark blue eyes and pinpoint pupils touched me where I stood, trapped and shivering in the corner, dripping wet and wrapped in my floral towel. He took a single, long step toward me and wrapped his fist into my hair as he pulled me close. I noticed the strong smell of cheap wine on his breath as he smiled.

  Breakdown of what is wrong with this example:

  His dark blue eyes and pinpoint pupils (There are two items, when the reader should focus on one) touched me (Just touched? Where is the menace?) where I stood, trapped and shivering in the corner, dripping wet and wrapped in my floral (who cares that it’s floral? If I had paced the scene properly, I’d have mentioned the towels earlier, before the menace started.) towel. (Are we waltzing here? I’m trying to write a scene that should grab and slap the reader emotionally. And this sentence does not do that.) He took a single, long step toward me and wrapped his fist into my hair as he pulled me close. (Ditto) I noticed (passive word choice in an action scene slows every thing down.) the strong smell of cheap wine on his breath as he smiled.

  It just didn’t work. A better version:

  Pinpoint pupils in dark blue eyes speared me. Trapped, I backed into the corner. Pulled the towel closer to my dripping body. With a single step, he reached me. Twisted his hand into my wet hair. Pulled me close. The scent of cheap wine rolled over me, a wave of fear. And he smiled.

  Broken down:

  Pinpoint pupils in dark blue eyes speared (menacing word choice, and one thing the reader actually sees—eyes) me. (The previous sentence is not broken, but it leads into shorter structures.) Trapped, I backed into the corner. (Action and reaction is predator/prey response. It resonates in our primitive hindbrains.) Pulled the towel closer to my dripping body. (Fragments can increase tension.) With a single step, he reached me. Twisted his hand into my wet hair. Pulled me close. The scent of cheap wine rolled over me, a wave of fear. (Longer sentence, now, the reader gets to regroup, and active word choice, despite the fact that it’s about the character’s reaction.) And he smiled.

  Notice the difference in rhythms: example #1 is waltz-like and thoughtful; example #2 is more like a machine gun. The word choice is emotionally cleaner and sharper. If you want to take the bad example, or even the better one, and make it even better, go for it!

  If you don’t own a really good thesaurus, one that offers and explains the emotional nuances of individual words, then I suggest you get one. It can make all the difference in the world to your writing.

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  David B. Coe

  You are just so good at the writing samples thing. Much
better than I could ever be. This is a great way to introduce the topic. Word choice and pacing are so important to conveying mood, emotion, as well as character and narrative. You and I write differently, so my example 2 would differ from yours, but the effect would be similar I think. Wonderful stuff, Faith.

  Stuart Jaffe

  Sentence structure is key to pacing and your examples illustrate this admirably.

  Regarding the "pinpoint pupils," in the final version they connect with the word "speared" so well. Pinpoints spearing is perfect—it’s sharp, dangerous, and sets up the rest of the paragraph. Sometimes we have to go for the emotional weight of our word choices over the more practicality of the choice.

  Faith Hunter

  Full sentences are the product of, and stimulate, intelligence. Re-searchers tell us that being exposed to varied, complex language in our early years can stimulate intelligence in human young. And those young people then grow up to speak and write in full, complex sentences, a bit like the snake eating its own tail.