PSYCHIC DISTANCE

©2003-2010, Vicki Hinze

Psychic Distance is the amount of emotional space you put between the reader and the character.  Writers use psychic distance to manipulate the intensity of reader involvement in whatever event is occurring within a scene.

Largely, writers attempt to draw the reader in to experience the story firsthand.  But there are times when the author doesn't want the reader to experience an event firsthand, and yet the reader must know this information or this background in order for what is happening in the novel to make sense, or for the way a character is reacting to make sense.  (Motivation disclosure.)

An easy-to-grasp example:  Let's say you're writing a romance novel.  Now you know that the primary focus of the novel must be on the development of the relationship between the hero and heroine.  That's the novel focus.  But say your heroine had been a victim of rape at some time in the past.  The rape certainly influences her motivations and actions now, yet you're writing a love story.  You don't want the reader to be up close and experience the rape.  So you, the writer, generate psychic distance to buffer the reader, so to speak.  You make the reader aware of what happened and how it impacted (and continues to impact) the heroine, but you don't make the reader relive the rape.  Rape is not the novel focus.

Let me pull an actual psychic-distance shift from a published novel excerpt so you'll see exactly what I mean.  This excerpt is from Mary Higgins Clark's BEFORE I SAY GOOD-BYE, page 118:

       "Can I win?  Nell wondered as she walked up Madison Avenue.  Will you still feel that way when you find out Adam's former employers are trying to throw the blame for their own bid rigging and bribery on Adam and Winifred?

       It's so easy to blame two people who aren't around to defend themselves, she thought angrily.  And so convenient.

       Still, Nell realized that a persistent thought had been rattling around in her subconscious:  Was it possible that Adam and Winifred were dead because they knew too much..."

Note that you're inside Nell's head ("Can I win?"), then you're outside it, in the author's company when the author tells you that Nell is wondering and walking up Madison Avenue.  In paragraph three, ("Still, Nell realized"), the author again shifts the psychic distance.  We're not inside Nell's head anymore.  Now, we again have the author telling us what Nell is doing.   There's more figurative space, or psychic distance, between the reader and

the character.

I've been an avid fan of Ms. Clark's for many years, but in my humble opinion, in this particular book--where psychic-distance shifts are made continually--the story suffers for it.  The reason is that every time the reader attaches to the character, the author severs the attachment by shifting the psychic distance.  Each shift interrupts the fictional dream and reminds the reader that s/he's reading, which prohibits her/him from living the story.

So how do we eliminate the shifts, or narrow the psychic-distance focus?  By closing the gaps and getting rid of the filters.

These filters, which are also known as "author intrusion," (wondered, realized, and thought in the example) plant the author between the reader and character.  So let's ditch them, narrow the gap in the psychic distance, and see how it reads:      

     Can I win?  Nell walked up Madison Avenue.  Will I still feel that way when I find out Adam's former employers are trying to throw the blame for their own bid rigging and bribery on Adam and Winifred?

     It's so easy to blame two people who aren't around to defend themselves.  And so convenient.

     Still . . .  A persistent thought rattled around in her subconscious.   Was it possible that Adam and Winifred were dead because they knew too much..."

Now, let's use this same example and widen the psychic distance--without filtering Nell's thoughts through the author:

       Could she win?  Nell walked up Madison Avenue.  Would she still feel that way when she found out Adam's former employers were trying to throw the blame for their own bid rigging and bribery on Adam and Winifred?

       It was so easy to blame two people who weren't around to defend themselves.  And so convenient.

       Still . . .  A persistent thought rattled around in her subconscious.   Was it possible that Adam and Winifred were dead because they knew too much...?

Hopefully now you see (and feel) the difference in psychic distance in the examples.  Note too that when the distance remains constant, the reader isn't jarred or distracted.

This shift challenge is comparable to those created in "head-hopping" or constantly changing point of view (POV).  Like POV shifts, psychic-distance shifts hold diverse expert opinions on when shifting should and should not be done.  For that reason, I won't cite suggested rules.  (Any writing rule made can and has been broken.)

What I will share is a reminder that every time you switch POV characters, the reader needs a little time to settle in and attach to the new POV character.  Too many shifts and you lose the reader, who no longer can attach and get emotionally involved in the story.  The same holds true for psychic shifts.  Too many continually jar the reader, remind her she's reading, and prohibit her from living the fictional dream you've created.

That said, don't be afraid to shift the psychic distance, (remember the case of the romance novel, where shifting is vital to the novel's focus), but be judicious and make the shifts for a specific reason that strengthens the story.❖

THE FICTIONAL DREAM

READ ARTICLE

CAN'T FAKE THE MAGIC

WARNING: This is a no-edit zone...

A writer asked me a question yesterday that I’ve been asked many times:

“Of everything you’ve learned about writing, what is the most important thing? What’s the secret?”

My response: “The magic.”

That answer was as simple to me as a new writer as it is now--though for very different reasons.

As a new writer, I knew that a story I wasn’t wholly invested in didn’t captivate me. I liked the story, I was interested in the story, but it didn’t keep me up at night or worm its way into totally unrelated conversations on topics that had nothing to do with the story.

That made the writing more work. It required more effort and discipline and I wasn’t as eager to get to my desk or wherever I was writing to get back to it.

I won’t say it was a drag to do; writing has never been that to me. But I didn’t feel the irresistible tug to write my heart out. And when I didn’t feel it writing it, I didn’t feel it reading the book. It didn’t evoke that bubble in the gut that insists you keep going.

So I quickly learned not to write those stories. And I tore the stories up trying to figure out why they were more difficult and less fun to write than the others.

What I discovered was that while I was interested in them, the difficult stories just didn’t have the magic.

What is the magic?

The magic is that x-factor in a story that ignites and captivates the storyteller in the writer.

For me, the work lacking it was competent. The story fair enough. But writing it, I got stirred, not shaken and tumbled and all tangled up.

That’s when I set the criteria on what I would write. I share that criteria as “I won’t write a book I don’t love.” But the more practical (to other writers) explanation of that is: Don’t write a story that doesn’t totally grab the storyteller in you and shake you like a dog shakes something by the scruff until you’re breathless.

If the story doesn’t intrude on your thoughts, if you’re not eager to get to the writing to see what happens or how things actually work out (versus the way the writer in you thinks they’re going to work out), if you aren’t awakened in the middle of the night with thoughts about some element or character in the book--if you don’t feel that bubble in your gut--then the story lacks the magic. So do something to infuse it, or write something different.

Instinctively, I got the importance of this early on. Now, there isn’t an atom in my body that doesn’t know that gut-bubble is critical.

You see, there is only one aspect of creative writing that can’t be taught. It’s storytelling. You either have it or you don’t. Everything else you need to do this can be learned--structure, mechanics, grammar... But just having the gift of being a storyteller doesn’t mean you should tell every story that comes to mind. No, be more selective. The time it takes it write is your life; be very selective.

Maybe you’re not prone to intuitive reactions, or you can’t relate to gut-bubbles, so let me try to explain a little differently.

In selecting/writing stories, you know you’re on the right track when...

1. You’re shopping for food and see a jar of pickles. The first thought that comes to mind isn’t how the pickle tastes, it’s that the brine it’s in would make a wicked brew to die for--or to die from. (Right track? Absolutely. Your mind is wide open and in receive mode. That’s a very good sign.)
2.You’re getting your car repaired and while it’s up on the rack and you’re staring at its underbelly, you don’t ask the mechanic about the car or bill. You ask him how you can screw up the steering without ditching the fluid--so there’s no trace of tampering. (Um, be sure to tell the mechanic you’re a writer. Otherwise, expect a visit from your local police. [Yes, been there, done that.])
3.You’re in with your doctor having a checkup and you brush right past your condition and ask him if you were to kill someone using a specific method how long would it take them to die. Will they be lethargic--if so, how soon--or shouting? And on a pain scale of one to ten, how would he rate this method? (Be sure to tell the doc you’re a writer. Otherwise... you know what happens. And, yes, really have been there and done that, too, though I honestly thought he knew it before I started asking questions. And another tip, if you bring people like this a copy of your books, it spares you from this type of thing.)
4.You’re in the shower and the perfect--I mean, the perfect--solution to a problem with a plot element strikes you... If you have to get out, wrap in a towel and run to look for a pen, you’re probably new at writing. If you write it on the wall with a bead of shampoo or conditioner or shaving cream, then you’re learning. You know ideas flittering through your mind can be lost forever if not immediately captured. If you’ve got a pen stashed within reach, you’ve been at this a long time. And if you discover you’re out of paper and write on the shower stall wall, you’re a pro and don’t need to be reading this. :)
5.You attend a party with people you really like and you still sneak into the bathroom to write. You’re definitely on the right track.
6.Your need to know outweighs your reluctance to ask. Never been to the place your book’s set? Snag a phone book, call a stranger and ask. (Do mention you’re a writer, and do remember to thank them in your book’s acknowledgements.)
7.You’re in create-mode, one of your beloved children interrupts, and the first thing that goes through your mind is someone had better be bleeding.
8.You’re in create-mode, the phone rings, and your beloved spouse/significant other answers, takes a peek at you, and without a word tells the caller, you’re not there. You’re in la-la land. Extra points if the person phoning doesn’t require an explanation and knows what “la-la land” means.
9.You forget to eat, to run important errands, to pay taxes on the due date. Or if you so much as consider writing on your novel and fake taking notes while sitting on jury duty. (Please don’t do the jury duty thing. That you’d think about it is the “right track” sign.)
10. You’re so caught up in the work you agree to do something you’d never do if you weren’t. (Writers beware: your loved ones will catch on to this quick--and they’ll use it!)

There are tons more indicators that let a writer know s/he’s on the right track. Most of them, writers tune into instinctively. A few are learned as we go. Regardless of how you tag them, when you lump them together they translate to the work having the magic.

It fires the imagination and fuels the creativity in you, the storyteller. You feel it, are eager to express it, and few things will inhibit you from doing so.

So get selective, storytellers. Don’t settle for stirred when shaken and tumbled and tangled up is there just waiting. The difference for you is remarkable.

The difference for your reader is immeasurable.

Capture the magic, and then write.

Blessings,

Vicki

TAGS:CREATIVITY, authors, CREATIVE WRITING, psychic distance, storytelling, Vicki Hinze, writer's library, writing craft,

PACING

I've been getting a lot of questions focused on pacing lately, so I thought I'd share my article on it in the blog forum... It addresses the questions asked, and more. Hope it helps!

PACING
©2000-2008, Vicki Hinze

For a moment, let's pretend that the words we write on the page are sounds. If all the sounds are the same, then we have monotone. Monotone puts us to sleep, bores us to tears, turns us off--and if it goes on for any length of time--ticks us off.

We can't get emotionally involved with monotone because every single word

holds equal emphasis to every other single word. No sentence, paragraph, scene, or chapter bears more weight or is more intense than any other sentence, paragraph, scene, or chapter. The result is that the work is flat, dull, and boring. When writing it, we aren't actively engaged or enthused; we're writing on autopilot. That means when the reader reads, they're not going to be actively engaged or enthused, and they'll be reading it on autopilot. The reader can't get out of a book what the author doesn't put into the book. It's that simple. Autopilot translates to catching zzzs, snoozing.

Why? Because nothing is different. Nothing grabs us, insisting that we pay

attention and get involved. Nothing commands us, dares us to look away, or challenges us to keep reading to see what happens.

Our book is a victim of lousy pacing.

Words on a page don't create audible sounds, but they do create rhythms, and

those rhythms are active in the reader's mind. This is why the writer must learn to effectively manipulate the story's pacing--so that we writers invite and encourage and allow the reader to get emotionally involved in the story.

Every novel has a natural rhythm. A sweeping saga set in the South might be

slow and easy. But there will be times during the course of the novel that the pacing must speed up and move like the wind. Otherwise, the reader is going to become anesthetized and doze through the book. We don't want that. So let's begin at the beginning and learn how to prevent it.

First, let's talk about what pacing is.

Pacing is the rhythm of the novel, of the chapters and scenes and paragraphs

and sentences. It's also the rate at which the reader reads, the speed at which novel events occur and unfold. It's using specific word choices and sentence structure--scene, chapter, and novel structure--to tap the emotions of the reader so that the reader feels what the writer wants the reader to feel at any given time during the story.

In the movie, The American President, the female protagonist meets with a senator for dinner. It is her job to get his vote on a fuel fossil bill her employer wants passed. The senator comments that, if she's successful, she'll success herself right out of a job. She shoots back with a swift, "On election day, the voters think what I tell them to think. That's why I have a job."

In essence, that's the writer's perspective on pacing. You work the words,

the scenes, the chapters, until the reader thinks and feels what you want them to think and feel about events occurring in the novel.

Now, just as a novel's rhythm can't be monotone, neither can a chapter, nor a

scene, nor sentences within a scene. Take a look at the structure in one short paragraph:

Subject/predicate. Subject/predicate. Subject/predicate.

Reminds us a little of the drone of a jungle drum, doesn't it? No variance

in the rhythm whatsoever. How long do you think it would take a reader to hear that drone before going on autopilot? Not long. But make a slight variation:

Subject/predicate. Predicate/subject. Subject/predicate.

Now, you've got a different rhythm going. The drone disappears. The reader

might not consciously note the change of rhythm, but it won't subconsciously put him to sleep.

In manipulating the pacing, there are times when the writer wants to slow

things down or to speed them up. But when do you do which?

Let's start with slowing down the pacing.

SLOW THE PACING:

* When you want to place emphasis on something. For example, in a book I just finished, the protagonist makes her Uncle Lou's spaghetti sauce whenever she's upset. When this is introduced, I slow the pacing down by showing her actually making the sauce and by adding details. Spices, the smell of the sweet basil, that she bakes the meatballs before putting them into the sauce.

The reader senses that the protagonist making this sauce is important due to the treatment (attention) given it. The hero senses it, too. He realizes that, contrary to his belief that she's calm and unaffected by events, she needs comfort. Her Uncle Lou's sauce is her comfort food. (Knowing this--that she needs comfort—relieves and comforts the hero, helping to alleviate some of his doubts about her.)

Later in the book, when the protagonist says she's going to the kitchen, the hero intuits that she's upset and asks, "To make Uncle Lou's sauce?" When she says yes, the hero and the reader knows this is significant--a bond of trust in the admission.

And later still in the book, in keeping with the Rule of Three, the heroine and hero make Uncle Lou's sauce for a child who has been traumatized and needs comfort.

The emphasis given the act of making the sauce initially cues the reader that this event is significant. The later scenes don't require that reinforcement, only the mention, because both the characters and the reader is aware and attuned to the significance. By layering in details, you lend emphasis and significance to a novel incident. You also slow the pacing.

* After a dramatic, active scene. A reader can't sustain intense emotion indefinitely. No human being can. To feel intensely, we also have to not feel intensely. It's the old "you don't know you're on a hill unless you've trudged through the valley" phenomenon.

Likewise, if the writer keeps the suspense taut for too long at a time, then the reader gets worn out. Emotionally, her natural defense mechanisms engage and she shuts down. It's important for the writer to understand that when those defense mechanisms engage, they act like a safety shield, giving the reader a safe haven in which to recover. Hidden behind that shield, the reader no longer feels immediacy or intensity. She no longer feels anything.

Give your reader those moments of spiked intensity. But also give her a chance to catch her breath. We need hills and valleys, and you control which is which in your pacing.

* When you want to expand the emotional impact.

A good example of a time when a writer wants to expand the emotional impact is in a romance novel during a love scene. Here, the writer wants to slow the pacing down, to be generous with descriptive writing.

Another example is in extremely intense situations.

Have you ever been in a car accident? The moment arrives when you know you're about to be hit. Time slows down. Seconds seem hours long. You wait, and wait, and wait, and finally . . . impact.

Now, the moments before the actual crash are no longer or shorter than any other moment, and yet they seem to go on forever. The reason why is because you are so intently focused on waiting for the impact.

Conversely, during these intense moments, you can't think. I mention this because I'm still getting contest entries to judge where the character is in the middle of a crisis and pauses to think back to some event that occurred years ago. Human beings, just don't do that. When in crisis, the crisis consumes our thoughts. That's what we focus on. Rarely does any human being think deep thoughts in the middle of a crisis.

But we do note specific, concrete details that seem larger than life. Let’s use the car accident to illustrate. We know we can't escape being hit. During the wait, we might slam on the brakes and note the tires squealing. We might note smoke churning from them. We might smell the tires burning rubber. But we don't think about someone else's accident that occurred ten years ago.

I want to remark that I disagree with the next "slow down the pacing when" concept, and I'll deviate to explain why. But in researching for this, I did come across this recommendation by several different experts, so I'm including it.

* When you want to shift time, distance, or space.

Authors Robie Macauley and George Lanning say that writers function under "special laws of relativity" which allow them to make shifts in time and space. Writers can "condense, compress, or expand" time and space to best suit the needs of their stories. They can also use these special laws to determine what emphasis they place on specific scenes within the story, or specific incidents within the scenes.

It's said that if, in the story, a writer intends to:

1. Reveal dominate character traits
2. Heighten the dramatic impact of a scene
3. Introduce events that are pivotal (either in character or motivation)

then those scenes should be "shown" versus "told." What isn't essential to "show" the reader, the writer can incorporate into the novel in the form of lively narrative.

Narrative slows the pacing.

Now actively showing an event doesn't mean the writer should show every action in every active scene. To do so would be like using "real" conversation versus dialogue. Much of real conversation is inane and unessential to moving the plot forward, so writers edit it out. Same holds true for "every action" writing in active scenes. The writer must, through craft skills and instincts, select which actions and details are significant to the story--to establish tone, setting; plant symbolic articles--and to show them. Insignificant actions, edit out.

For every rule there is an exception, so I state no rules. But I do state this suggestion, which opposes the concept of slowing the pacing when shifting time, distance, or space: When you encounter mundane stretches of time or distance, use a transition to move past them quickly. If nothing important to the story happens during these times or travels, why show it?

Why give novel space to something that misleads the reader into thinking this information is important?

Result? The reader remembers the character driving from Point A to Point B. Nothing happened during that drive, but it must be significant or it wouldn't have been there. So the reader reads on, waiting for the significance to become apparent. But it never does. The reader thinks the writer forgot to tie up that loose thread. Or, s/he might not specifically pinpoint the reason, but feels a dissatisfaction with the book. This is why I disagree with slowing the pacing during shifts. Transition, and then move on.

There has to be a balance between narrative and active scenes in the novel.

Too much narrative and the pacing drags. Too little and the active scenes lose authority because an abundance of inconsequential details are included and the reader gets mired in them.

How much of each—narrative and active scenes—should go into the novel depends on the individual book. What balance might be right for a mystery won't be right for a saga, a romance, a thriller. Even within genre, the novel's natural rhythm and pacing must be respected. Some stories demand that they unfold at breakneck speed. Others require a slower disclosure.

The novel itself dictates.

Regardless, within the novel, it is the writer's job to vary the pacing, placing emphasis on that which is of consequence to the characters, the story, and the reader.

* Flashbacks slow down the pacing. Actually, flashbacks bring the forward momentum of the novel to a dead halt. The reason why is, we transition from the present into the past, and the present then ceases to exist until we return to it.

Flashbacks carry danger. The writer runs the risks of:

+ The flashback lasting too long
+ The flashback breaking the forward momentum of the present plot for such a time that the reader can't reconnect to it
+ The flashback’s past story becoming more interesting to the reader than the present story.

Often writers include flashbacks that do nothing to enhance or reinforce the present story. Obviously, those flashbacks are useless and should be cut during editing. Any flashback allowed to remain in the novel should fit the present story like glove to hand, adding some insight, something significant.

What are some techniques for slowing down the pacing?

Use long, flowing sentences, soft-sounding verbs, descriptions that are steeped in sensory input and rich in texture and sound. This evokes an appropriate emotional response in the reader. One of quiet, calm, serenity—great for those resting times in sequels!

Layering details, one upon the other, places emphasis on what is being described and slows down the pacing.

Long blocks of narrative or description—even those engagingly written with positively sparkling prose—slow down the pacing. Personally, I advise against long blocks of narrative. They aren't visually appealing to the reader, and they stop the forward movement of the plot.

Instead, break that long block into small chunks of two or three sentences each. Then insert those chunks at points in the story when the reader needs the information contained in the chunk in order for what is happening in the novel at that time to make sense. By the time the reader notes the forward movement has stopped (at the insert of the two-or-three-sentence chunks), she's read them and the plot is moving forward again. Not so with long, uninterrupted blocks of narrative.

SPEED UP THE PACING

* Dialogue speeds up the pacing. It gives the illusion of action, and that illusion moves the reader forward more quickly than does narrative.

* Lean writing. The lack of embellishment (adjectives, adverbs) causes the reading speed to increase, which moves the story along at a good clip.

* When writing dramatic or action-packed scenes. In dramatic situations, or intently active ones, the pacing must be brisk to help carry the right emotional impact. Here, long sentences or paragraphs won’t work. They’ll bog down the action, negate any compelling sensation from the drama you’re trying to build, and destroy compatibility between the tone conveyed and the one you intended to convey--all of which weaken the potency of the work.

What are some Techniques for speeding up the pacing?

Speed up the pacing by using short paragraphs. Spare sentences; no wasted words.

Use crisp, sharp verbs that sound hard. Think, short and punchy.

Use sentence fragments. The reader reads fragments faster. That imparts a sense of urgency the reader senses at gut-level, which evokes an emotional response—a quickening pulse, a worried gasp, a shiver.

Pacing can be manipulated and it should be--to best serve the story. If you looked at the story’s pacing on a graph, it would resemble an askew EKG. The rhythms wouldn’t be uniform. But there would be definite rhythms.

As a story progresses, the intensity should grow stronger. The obstacles become more difficult, the setbacks and consequences of the characters failure to fulfill their novel goals are harder to overcome.

This constantly growing "intensity" is why so often you’ll see books published where the early chapters are longer and more dense, and later chapters are shorter and more dramatic.



As the characters/readers move through the novel, they pitch and roll. Take two steps forward, and one back. Climb a little higher, and then stumble again. And on each successive attempt, it’s harder to climb and they meet with more resistance—inside and out (internal and external conflicts). But they keep going and, at the moment when it seems they (which has become "we" because the author has succeeded in accomplishing reader identification by using our emotions and we now feel "we" are the characters) can’t succeed—we’re body-slammed—and then the unthinkable happens. We find the key to the forgotten door that was foreshadowed earlier in the novel. We use the key, and struggle . . . and struggle . . . and, finally, we taste success.

A writer relies on skill to develop the right pacing for each individual project. But also relies on instinct. On the author’s inner ear that tests the rhythm to make sure the flow has the right sound and intuitive feel.

At times, instinct and learned skills will be at odds. Go with your instincts.

There isn’t a writing rule that hasn’t been successfully broken. The trick is in knowing them, and knowing when to break them. Knowing when to shift and speed up or slow down your novel’s pacing.*

FYI NOTE: Earlier, I mentioned Uncle Lou's spaghetti sauce in All Due Respect and the significance of it to the heroine's character and referenced "The Rule of Three." If you’re not familiar with this rule and would like to be, there’s an article on it in my website Library (www.vickihinze.com).

Tags: pacing, authors, novelists, writing craft, writers, writer's library, writer's blogs, thriller novelists, story structure, romance writer, psychic distance, novel elements, novels

IMMEDIACY

WARNING: This is a no-edit zone...

Now that income taxes are done (THANK YOU!!!!), two things are on my mind this morning. Well, actually, three things, but two apply to writing so I’ll chat about those.

The first thing came from a phone conversation I had with an editor friend this morning. She read me a bit from a work that was a gem. The first thing that went through my mind was that this story has serious potential. The second thing was wondering if it’d be realized. I hope that it will.

What spurred the first thought was a knowing from line one that something horrific and significant was about to happen. The second thought came from the mechanical challenge in the area of psychic distance.

I’ve done an article on psychic distance for anyone interested. It’s in my writer’s library on the writing website (www.vickihinze.com).

Why was it a challenge? What was happening was intense and yet we, the readers, were viewing it from a distant point versus up close and personal. This was definitely a scene for deep point of view. Intense situation, high stakes, incredible obstacles and horrendously important consequences. Being somewhat removed, the work was good. But if the author closed that psychic distance, the work would be great.

When the psychic distance is broad, immediacy suffers. And this was and required immediacy. What happened had all the elements required for elevated reader identity and it was darned captivating. But it suffered the handicap of that distance.

So double-checking psychic distance is on my mind. It matters. A lot. It makes the difference between good and great. It makes the difference in snagging the reader and giving them a license to set a book down.

Ask yourself, why is this happening now? Must it happen now? What impact will it happening have? Who suffers, gains or loses most?

If it doesn’t have to happen now, there’s not a significant impact if it doesn’t happen, and no one suffers the fallout, gains or loses, then you don’t need it. Doesn’t matter how well written it is, how exciting or thrilling or chilling. Immediacy is required or it’s out of there.

The second thing on my mind came from a phone conversation I had with another author last night. It was about author voice and established genres. Actually, she had read a story I’ve been writing called TENDING GRAVES and shared two observations with me:
1. There’s something in my first person voice that adds an extra element to the work. That’s a plus and something I’ll be remembering. I haven’t explored first person voice a great deal in my work, but I’m going to spend some time doing so. It’s natural, comfortable and adds immediacy--and it lends itself well to her second observation...

2. “You’re creating a new genre again,” she said. I seem prone to do that--and I find it extremely exciting, so I’m going for it.

Is this an easy way to build a career? Absolutely not.

It’d be wiser, I suppose, to write within the confines of an established genre. For marketing purposes, it’d be wise.

But writing to fit has never been my goal or my mission. Writing what I feel driven to write, writing with purpose and for purpose is what motivates me. The stories I can’t wait to get to the computer to write, the ones that awaken me in the middle of the night--or interrupt with thoughts in the middle of other conversations--stories that captivate me. That’s my path.

Many writers get story ideas that fit into established genres and traditional slots, if you will. Others don’t. I’m not sure who is lucky and who has the chore. Opinions on that will vary from writer to writer. What I can say is that it’s essential to be true to your nature to respect your gift. If your gift fits into a defined slot, that’s wonderful. You’re blessed.

But if it doesn’t, don’t despair, because you’re blessed, too. You might not get a lot perks that others do, but you’ll get ones they don’t. Yours.

Blazing trails gets you some scratches and dents and bruises and sometimes you get banged up a little. But you also get immense satisfaction. And when you watch those behind you get excited and join you, well, that’s a pretty special thing.

I can’t speak to it being easier or harder to sell. I will say that when I first blazed a trail, I had to explain what the book was before I could pitch what the story was actually about. And I can say that I got mixed reactions. Some were “Ewe, that’s weird.” Some had light dancing in their eyes, as excited by the prospect as I was excited. And I’ll never forget the editor who literally got so enthused she bounced in her seat.

You know, when it came to that sale, she didn’t offer the most money. She didn’t offer the best contract. But she offered her enthusiasm. She was invested. And I chose her for those books. It was a good choice.

Money’s nice, guys, and I like it as much as anyone else. But I’ll take a fair deal and enthusiasm--an editor with vision who trusts me over more money any day of the week. It’s by far the better bargain.

How do these things relate? Immediacy. One is in the work. One is in the author and the editor selected for the project.

See, I just seem to have scattered thoughts today. Actually, I’m very focused. Well, considering I just spent two days working on income tax... ☺

Blessings,

Vicki

Tags: authors, writers, novelists, psychic distance, point of view, writer's library, vicki hinze, writing