So Barnes & Noble today announced this little feature called PubIt! that’s directly tied into their Nook e-readers. Here’s the short version from their site:
PubIt! utilizes a self-service Web portal for publishers to independently set up their accounts, upload their eBooks, set the list price, and track their sales and payments. Publishing an eBook through PubIt! makes the content available via our Read In Store program which gives bookstore customers the ability to browse the complete contents of eBooks at no cost. In addition, all eBooks offered via PubIt! will be lendable, giving the customer the opportunity to share the book once with any friend for up to 14 days.
I’m not sure how to feel about this.
On the one hand, it seems that PubIt! is designed to allow new writers to break into the realm of the published without the long waits, repeated rejection and labyrinthine contracts of the established publishing industry. The notion of complete creative control and bypassing payment due to extra people such as publishing staff and agents appeals to the small writer just starting out. It might be a way to get a little cash flow going to fund bigger projects. Or one might even launch a whole career using this system.
On the other hand, I can see a lot of bad things pouring into B&N’s system through this portal. A glut of bad writing will make good writing even harder to spot. Also, the small number of Nook users relative to the general reading audience makes me wary. I know there are e-reader apps for the various iWhatevers, but still there seems to be fewer people with thin plastic platforms than there are folks with access to traditional bookstores. Maybe that’s just me.
I’m undecided on this. Do I look into this further, as a way to get smaller works into the hands of readers for audience-building, or do I ignore it as another trend and continue slaving on my traditional editing/querying/flagellation cycle?
The novel rattles along towards its end. You’ve been with these characters for hundreds of pages, followed their stories for thousands of words. Now, at last, you’re in the final chapter. The drama and action are at their peak. The conclusion rushes up on the last page of the chapter, and…
What’s this? There’s more? I thought the story was over!
Epilogues are interesting creatures. On the one hand, they allow a “where are they now” recap of the stories of your characters, the opportunity to tie up loose ends. On the other, they take place after the principle action of the narrative, perhaps in an arbitrary or artificial fashion. Let’s take a look at these specimens in more detail, to see if there’s a right or wrong way to implement them or if they’re even necessary at all.
Epilogues Are Not Bad
Once you get to the end of the story’s major plot, there may be minor ones that still need to be resolved. And that resolution might not come right away. The major plot may require cleanup, say if the evil overlord’s exploding hideout set the nearby forest on fire or the police need to take statements and make a case that the hero was actually breaking the law and needs to serve time. The protagonist may need to disappear in the wake of that explosion, or maybe they won’t see their significant other until they get out of the slammer on good behavior. Yet you still want to resolve some things for them after that time period. Epilogues let you do that.
Putting these story points in an epilogue instead of an additional chapter indicates that this final part of the narrative is occurring outside of the timeline of the main plot. Readers spend a bit more time with characters, see the resolution of certain situations and get the opportunity to decompress after the experiences within the climax. If nothing else, it allows the writer to tie up loose ends.
Epilogues Are Not Good
Then again, if you have a lot of loose ends to tie up, maybe you need to rethink where those threads came from in the first place. Why tack on additional words after you resolve all the action? End on a high note, as they say. Less is more. Resolve what needs to be resolved and no more. Let the reader fill in the blanks themselves.
Also, epilogues can be arbitrary or even artificial. If you’re writing a novel, it’s already a long work. Do you really need to make it longer? Epilogues are also breeding grounds for things like sappy reconciliation, forced relationship resolution and groundwork for a sequel that may never come. At worst, they’re vestigial growths that operate like the human appendix: unnecessary and possibly poisonous to your creation.
Epilogues Are Both. Or Neither!
I think it might be a case-by-case basis. I see both the merits and flaws in an epilogue. I can understand cases where they might be necessary and cases where they serve no purpose other than lengthening the story or providing setup for future works. And as far as my own work is concerned — Citizen in the Wilds in this case — I’m on the fence.
What do my fellow writers think? Are epilogues good things from time to time? Or do all of them need to die in a fire?
Phillip Pullman has published an article expressing his dislike of stories in the present tense. He makes some good points about some of the limitations of present tense, which I feel extend to some of the limitations of first person perspective. But that’s a subject for another post. What came to mind even as I read the article was that this is coming from a man who called the Chronicles of Narnia “religious propaganda.”
I can’t express my difficulty with this any better than Confused Matthew did, so I’m going to quote his mini-rant on the subject from his review of The Golden Compass:
The Narnia books do not mention any of the following things: God, prayer, Jesus, religion, the bible, the pope, the church, atheism, Satan, mass, the eucharist or anything directly having to do with to any actual faith. Yes, many of stories are directly inspired by Bible stories, but this is perfectly understandable. Lewis had become interested in Christianity at the time he wrote the series — he was recently converted in fact, if I’m not mistaken — and as a writer, you write what you know. THAT’S NOT WHAT PROPAGANDA IS. […]
PULLMAN, on the other hand, has no problem whatsoever putting things in his books like: “For all of [the Church’s] history… it’s tried to suppress and control every natural impulse. And when it can’t control them, it cuts them out” — “That’s what the Church does, and every church is the same: control, destroy, obliterate every good feeling” — “The Christian religion is a very powerful and convincing mistake.” Now please, please, do not take this to mean that I am either defending or denouncing these lines in the book. […] My only point is this: Phillip Pullman, you are a hypocrite. You don’t accuse someone of writing propaganda, especially when they haven’t, and then turn around and write your own propaganda in response.
This is a very particular and irksome example of one of the biggest problems I have with some authors out there, and one I take pains to avoid when I can — the problem of author insertion.
In Pullman’s case, the themes and story elements of His Dark Materials are rooted in this denouncement of the church, every church, as an evil, soul-crushing monolithic organization that exists to serve itself first and foremost. While there are some churches out there that fall into this category, there are also political parties, so-called ‘news’ organizations, businesses, social groups and gaming companies that are just as guilty of existing solely for their own sake rather than working or seeking harmony with the community at large. When these things are brought to light in a work of non-fiction, an expose or a historical account, it’s fascinating stuff that lays foundations for thoughtful debate, or at least an entertaining argument. When inserted into fiction, it’s propaganda.
Now, as Matthew pointed out, we write what we know. Some of us don’t like certain political, religious, philosophical or sociological points of view, and like it or not it’s going to come out in your work. That’s okay. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about making a deliberate and concerted effort to push certain views through the mouths of your characters to the expense of moving the story along or allowing those characters to grow in their own ways. I’m talking sacrificing interesting character-building conversational dialog for overt preaching to the reader. I’m talking about making sure your characters don’t turn into Brian the dog from Family Guy.
Remember when Brian was just the intelligent, sarcastic foil to Peter’s oafish blundering? Those were the days…
These are casing of taking “You write what you know” to the extreme. But some authors go further than that. Some go so far as to write not just what they know, but who they are. And since this is fiction we’re talking about, you can be certain they’re writing who they want to be.
You know where I’m going with this, right? As if the image I slapped up top wasn’t a big giveaway. I’m going to quickly touch on three particularly egregious examples of author insertion, starting with what I feel is the least and working my way up to what really pisses me off.
A lot has been said about the style and substance of Dan Brown. But one thing that sticks out for some is the mere presence of protagonist Robert Langdon. Smart, reasonably attractive, athletic, able to succeed regardless of odds with only a minimum of personal investiture, risk and negative consequences — I can’t think of an art or history major who wouldn’t mind being in the situations he’s thrust into with that sort of setup and their vast acumen of knowledge. And more often than not, coupled with a love interest who is head over heels for them at first sight. Now, to be fair, Langdon’s perfection is somewhat downplayed in the films and the first novel, Angels & Demons. But from what I understand, it’s pretty common for Brown to cast his heroes in this same mold.
From a character standpoint, Bella Swan is also smart, reasonably attractive, athletic and able to succeed regardless of odds with only a minimum of personal investiture, risk and negative consequences. She’s also existing in a series of stories inspired by a dream experienced by author Stephenie Meyer. Now, in this dream world, being stalked by a killer is the basis of a life-long desirable relationship. Killers sparkle in the sunlight. The heroine onto whom many of the young readers project themselves is pursuing (and pursued by) a character who has all of the personality of an empty can of Coke and all the trappings of an abusive boyfriend or husband. A lot has already been said about the unforunate implications of this series, like this excellent essay by Cleolinda Jones.
As disturbingly close to the author as Bella might be, though, let me bring to your attention one of the biggest examples of this phenomenon: Rhonin, a character from Warcraft created by Richard A. Knaak. Nowhere else in that universe is there a character who is not only an archmage but also a skilled swordsman and handy with a crossbow to boot. Friend to gods, admired and respected by villains, married to a hot elf chick and father to half-elf twins who are, according to Knaak, the only two in existence despite the fact other half-elves have been in the game since Burning Crusade — the list goes on. And when Knaak can’t come up with adequate explanations as to why this character is so singular, powerful, well-respected and devastatingly handsome, he creates other characters to prop that character up who are just as inexplicably perfect as Rhonin.
I hope I’m making my point. This is bad writing. These are bad characters. They’ve come to life as a result of an author putting too much of themselves into their work. If you want your work to succeed, in my humble opinion, you need to make some effort to keep yourself out of it.
Some of my favorite stories have been ruined because they’ve gone on too long. Even stories I’ve been lukewarm about have taken a turn for the abysmal when more story has been tacked on when it wasn’t needed. It’s so common that it’s been dubbed “Sequelitis” by the Tropers.
It’s informed some of the decisions I’ve made as a writer. I’ve envisioned Acradea as a trilogy, and while I have ideas for extending the cycle beyond three books, I wouldn’t want to do so unless the story is good. If Pendragon gets picked up, I have ideas for a story arc with a solid conclusion. The modern supernatural fantasy/horror novel idea kicking around in my head is a standalone product. Suffice it to say, I’ve learned to go into my storytelling with a plan in mind.
Lately, I’ve been wondering why World of Warcraft is different.
Now, on-going interactive storytelling is a different kettle of fish entirely from your standard-issue long-form fiction-writing. Any Dungeon Master worth their salt can tell you that. Would the epic D&D games played by the guys from Penny Arcade be anywhere near as interesting and fun without poor, poor Aeofel? It’s a collaborative effort, and roleplayers, good ones at least, do not exist in a vacuum.
That said, I’ve been thinking about what to do with my main World of Warcraft character.
I’ve been playing a blood elf hunter since the race was introduced to players in the Burning Crusade expansion. I’m fond of him. Playing an outdoors-oriented, inclusive member of a race known for being arrogant and isolationist has lead to a lot of interesting anecdotes. He’s had highs and lows, triumphs and tragedies – a pretty full life considering he’s only a couple years old in real-life terms.
With the next expansion coming, I’m wondering where he’s going to fit in. Or, more to the point, if he’s going to fit in at all. The story of Gilrandur Dawnstalker feels like it’s come to something of a conclusion. Do I take him on a “coming out of retirement” track when the Cataclysm hits, or is it time to start a new story instead of continuing the old?
The inspiration for this thought came from the pre-Cataclysm event, Zalazane’s Fall. Warcraft’s trolls have always been one of my favorite races in that universe. They have fantastic lore, interesting relationships with the other Horde races and are poised to have a big role to play in the expansion. Of course, their accents and aesthetic don’t hurt either.
As writers, I have to ask. Do you know it’s time to end a story? If so, how?
Let me take you back to elementary school. Junior high or middle school, maybe. Going back a ways for some of us, I know. Just when we were getting started in writing, putting words together in ways that made sense, our teachers told us something that was meant to help us.
“Said is dead.”
All you have to do is look at some of the more laughably horrendous works of fan fiction out there, such as “My Immortal” or “Half-Life Full Life Consequences”, to see why our instructors tried to get us hating “said.” If you use it all the time in your dialog, it becomes repetitive. Boring. You could be relaying the blow-by-blow proceedings of an intense debate on the existence of God and the potential place of a deity in the theory of evolution, but if you use ‘said’ the way you use periods to punctuate the back-and-forth it’ll be about as exciting as waiting for the bus.
As an alternative to said, we were encouraged to use alternatives found in a thesaurus. Lists like this one popped up all over the place, pounding into us the notion of said being dead. This worked to take writing out of the pure beginner stages and help define the characters as they spoke. At worst, we just swapped said for a different word. At best, he used the different verbs to inform other actions in the plot and keep it moving. Nothing wrong with that, other than the fact it doesn’t go quite far enough.
Think about conversations you’ve had. It’s very rare to sit across from someone or stand next to them while nothing else is happening but talking. Are you looking out the window? Twirling a pen? Loading a gun? Are they? These actions convey emotion — restlessness, anger, thoughtfulness, etc. — much better than any replacement for “said”. Not only do writing these actions out as a preface to a line of dialog communicate which character is speaking, they also say something about that character in a way that shows, rather than tells. Win/win.
Of course, too many actions may clutter up the flow of the dialog. Sometimes you just need to say who’s talking. And for that purpose, “said” works just fine.
But just because said lives doesn’t mean you can’t kill it dead.
Our teachers had a point. The overuse of “said” will destroy your work. Even only using it a few times in the same exchange can put the attention of your reader in jeopardy. Think of “said” as a bit of duct tape keeping the flow and coherence of the dialog together until you reach the next action, or an instance of a character actually addressing the person to whom their speaking directly. People do that for emphasis, or to indicate another party present. As strong as duct tape is, if you use too much of it to patch your dialog together, chances are you’re doing something wrong.
Think about the flow of conversation. Weave actions into it to keep the direction clear, the energy high. Use said as sparingly as possible, and find ways to avoid using it if you already have once or twice. Step back from the dialog, turn it upside down, see what shakes loose and patch it up so it holds together. In other words, don’t just tell us about it — write it.
Our characters, after all, are not just what they say or what they feel. They are what they do. But that, I feel, is a subject for another post. For now, let it be known throughout the land and shouted from the rooftops — said LIVES!
