Just finished up an online workshop — it’s like teaching with a paper bag over your head. You want to see your student’s eyes, to see if they’re getting it, but you have to go by emails (always a tricky medium to use). There are times I feel as if I’m too harsh, but then it’s compressed teaching (lots over info over 8 posts), and that’s always harsh.
And workshops always lead me back to wondering if there are some things about writing, about story telling, that can’t be taught.
I’ve heard some writers say there’s a certain something that a writer has or does not have–a talent–and if this lacking that person is never going to write a book that will sell.
On the other hand, I’m a great believer in technique and structure, and that if you have those two things, well, you may never hit the best seller list (that also requires not just talent, but luck), you can at least write a decent story that could sell.
But is there a certain something beyond technique, something that perhaps stirs a writer to write in the first place? A quirk of mind perhaps that goes beyond the talent of putting words together? Is there an innate skill with words that hits one person, but skips another? An inner-ear perhaps for the rhythm in words, so that someone might well be language-deaf the same way that someone can be tone-deaf, so that while structure and technique can be taught, that inner-ear will always be missing?
Years ago, I had the luck to take a riding clinic from George Morris who went on to coach the Olympic team. Brilliant rider–a classical rider. Harsh teacher. He never gave praise unless it was more than earned, and often could reduce someone to tears–but he was right. And you came out of his clinics a better rider.
He said that he’d rather have a solid technical rider over a brilliant natural rider. Because the technical rider always has those skills to fall back on–technique will never fail you. But the brilliant rider will be brilliant one day, and then, the next day that brilliance may not shine–and there’s nothing then to save that rider from crashing and burning.
That’s stuck with me, and seems applicable to writing.
A writer with solid techniques–an understanding of grammar, story structure, scene structures, and how to build a character, show that character in action, and craft emotion into a scene–will be a solid writer. That writer may never be more than solid–but those techniques will never fail that writer. There won’t be brilliance that shines one day, and is dull the next (and that’s got to be a kind of hell in its own unreliable fashion).
So I think that maybe technique is enough–along with the burning desire to keep telling stories.
And I refuse to think that there’s anyone in this world lacking in imagination–that’s got to be hard-wired in our heads.
So perhaps there is a certain something that cannot be taught. There’s a gift that some folks have and it makes that person more than an average writer.
But there’s a place, thank god, for craftsmen in this world–for capable writers who can produce a good product on demand and on schedules. And it’s not a bad place to be if it leaves you still writing.
I’m doing the Show & Tellworkshop online again for OCC–not sure it’s good that this seems to be a perennial favorite. However, I took a year off from giving this workshop, and that was good–time always gives perspective (and new things to say).
The interesting thing about this workshop is that most folks get how to “tell” a story, but don’t get that good “telling” takes as much work to craft beautiful prose as does good “showing” (or action). In fact, I sometimes think a beautiful narrative passage is even more work. This is a difficult concept to teach, because, it’s like music–you have an ear for it (language or music) or you don’t. If you don’t there’s no teaching it.
It’s also interesting in that so many writers are hung up on having been told to show more that that’s all they want to focus on. And the real trick to learn is not just to show, but to show the RIGHT things. It’s not the details, the actions, that make a character–it’s the right actions.
The other interesting thing will be to see what mix is in the workshop. There are always more than a few lurkers, which is cool, but it’s not like a classroom where you can look at the quiet ones and know which ones get it and which ones are struggling. There are a few teacher’s pets who do every assignment and ask tons of questions but I sometimes have the feeling they’re too focused on doing it ‘right’ and that can defeat the point of learning. There are the difficult ones, because email as a form of communication can leave much to be desired, and sometimes I wonder why these folks signed up for anything since they just seem to want to do things their ways. And then there are the surprises. That’s the best part of any workshop. We’ll see what this one brings.
I’ve heard some writers will say, “I’m so bad at plotting.” This baffles me, and I’m not sure that it’s true–not when those writers are selling books (good books). So maybe it’s more that they plot by instinct, or just aren’t aware of their own process. (Or don’t want to be aware–that awareness can bring its own issues of freezing and change to the process.) Because saying ‘I can’t plot a story’ is a lot like saying, ‘I can’t tell a story’ — and if that’s the case, that work is not going to sell.
So it got me thinking and looking up definitions.
Elements of Fiction’s definition is a strong, clear one: “Plot refers to the series of events that give a story its meaning and effect… these events arise out of conflict experienced by the main character. The conflict may come from something external…or it may stem from an internal issue. As the character makes choices and tries to resolve the problem, the story’s action is shaped and plot is generated.”
Elements goes on to talk about rising action, complications, climax, as in:
“conflict: The basic tension, predicament, or challenge that propels a story’s plot.
“complications: Plot events that plunge the protagonist further into conflict rising action: The part of a plot in which the drama intensifies, rising toward the climax.
“climax: The plot’s most dramatic and revealing moment, usually the (main) turning point of the story falling action: The part of the plot after the climax, when the drama subsides and the conflict is resolved.”
In other words, that’s the basics of story telling. So now I’m wondering if it’s just that we don’t really teach story telling. And is this an issue for folks who may lack story telling instincts, but who still have the desire to write?
Aristotle’s elements used to be around in school, with the whole plot (or mythos) as the source and soul of what he defined as “tragedy” and what we call drama. He then put in as priorities, in this order, character (ethe), thought (dianonia) or ideas behind or within the story, and language (lexis–and, no, that’s not the car). Then there’s music and stagecraft, since he was talking about plays.
There’s more from Ari about how the plot has to be part of the entire story, with a clear beginning, middle, and end. Good plots should “neither begin nor end haphazardly.” You know it’s a good plot if you cannot take anything out without causing major problems.
All of this seems so basic as to not even need to be covered, but I wonder if that’s the problem. If basics are not taught, then stories will have fundamental, basic mistakes, and this–more even than poor writing–is at the heart of most stories that are rejected. At least, it’s the biggest issue in the writing I’ve seen of late, where the writing is good, but the story telling–the plot–is so weak that it couldn’t hold up a tissue.
Or maybe it’s due to so many folks wanting to be writers, but not being good readers? And by ‘good’ I mean someone who reads with an eye towards story and plot and character (and taking apart another writer’s craft to see how they pulled off their magic).
But books can get by with implausibe or even dumb plots if the characters are really, really great. And I do think a lot of writers let the characters do the plotting, since as noted above, plot comes out of presenting characters with choices (perferably tough ones), and the choices those characters make. But too many novice writers seem to make the mistake of forcing a choice onto a character to get the plot they want–and that never works.
Or compelling action can trick a reader into not noticing until later any whopping plot holes–lord knows, movies do that all the time these days with the distraction of cool, and even cooler, special effects.
But I still think any writer is betting off knowing when you’re making basic mistakes–meaning knowing about plot, and being aware of the process of creating a plot. Awareness can change a process, but that means it can also make it better. On the other hand, if your writing process works, no matter what it is, why tinker with success? It’s the stuff that’s not working that needs to be fixed.
There is such a thing as teaching burn-out. I’ve taught folks how to ride — and I miss that part of my life, and still plan to get back to it someday. But these days it’s more about writing workshops. The best part of any workshop is that it makes me rethink some of my own process. However, when you find yourself saying the same things over and over, it starts to feel dull–which is why 2008 was the year of just say no to any workshops. But I’ve already lined up a few for next year, and I’m actually excited.
The first one off is a “Show and Tell” workshop Jan. 5th thru the 16th for the Northeast Ohio Chapter of RWA. While I’ve given this workshop before, a year of space has given me time to rethink things, and I did a run through of this for the local LA RWA chapter, and that went well. It always interests me just how many writers do not have a clear idea between what’s the narrative voice, and what isn’t–and I think there’s a connection here between if a writer leans more towards instinct or analytics. Instinct is good, but one thing I learned from one of the most brilliant riders I’ve ever known–George Morris went on to coach the US Olympic riding team, and he always said he’d take a solid technical over a brilliant instinctual rider. He knew he could count on the technician to produce–that person might not give the brilliant rides, but the instinctive rider also has moments when instinct fails or goes wrong, and so there’s a lack of consistency in the performance.
Writing is a lot like that. Instinct can fail–can take you the wrong way. But solid technique–that can lead you to solid performance. Which is why I lean more towards wanting a better understanding of craft. I adore brilliant writing– but I also love a really well-crafted story with solid technique. And if I can pass on a love and interest of that–well, hey, that’s not a bad thing, is it?
This article first appeared in The Regency Reader, and I’ve updated it recently.CLICK HERE to Download a PDF of the Updated Article, including Precedence Tables.House of Lords, 1809 from Ackermann’s Microcosm of LondonAn Etymology of Titles
We tend to think of dukes and viscounts as having always been in the British nobility. In fact, these titles came into creation at specific dates, often as the result of royals looking to reward a favorite. English nobility grew as a result of the crown granting a “Patent” which stipulated the degree of the title and how it could devolve upon the title-holder’s descendant.
Knowing when a title was created can help understand its precedent. Two factors go into creating precedent: the rank of title, and the age of the title. The older a title, the more clout it carries. Therefore, a fourteenth marquess takes precedent over a fifth marquess, but not over any duke. For simplicity, let’s start at the crown and work our way through the English peerage by rank.
King (pre-conquest): In Old English the word was cyng or cing. The Saxon tribes who invaded Briton used this word for their leaders. In Saxon days, this did not denote a hereditary title, merely someone of high status and noble birth who could be elected to power. After 1066, when William of Normandy brought over his feudal notions of inherited power, King became an inherited title for the ruling monarch.
Queen (pre-conquest): The Old English equivalent to cyng is cwen. Again, we have a matching ancient Saxon title for a female ruler, or the consort of a king. England differs from much of the continent in that women can inherit the throne. This began in 1135, when Stephen inherited the throne through his mother, Adela, the daughter of William of Normandy.
Prince/Princess (1200’s): The Normans brought the Latin and French; from them, in the early 1200’s, comes this title. Until James I (1603-1625), only the king’s eldest son could call himself a prince. After James, all sons and daughters of the King or Queen became a prince/princess. Victoria (1837-1901) went on to extended the titles prince/princess to all children of the sons of the ruling monarch (all grandchildren of the monarch through the male line). The Windsors are now moving away from this tradition, opting for lesser titles for the queen’s grandchildren.
Prince of Wales (1338): Edward I conquered Wales in 1283, and his son Edward II, was born in Wales at Caernavon a year later, the first English ‘Prince of Wales.’ In 1338, Edward III made his son Duke of Cornwall, and would later confirm him Prince of Wales—a title that continues to this day.
Duke/Duchess (1338): This is an ancient title in European countries, coming from the Latin, dux, for leader. William of Normandy, the Conqueror, is often called William, Duke of Normandy. But, an Old English chronicle of 1066, gives him an older Saxon title, Wyllelm, earl of Normandize. In England, ‘Duke’ remained a foreign title until 1338 when Edward raised his son from Earl of Cornwall to Duke of Cornwall. Despite traditions of romantic fictions, duke remains a rare title.
Royal Dukes are those sons born to the ruling monarch. George IV’s brothers included the Royal Dukes: York (Frederick), Clarence (William), Kent (Edward), Sussex (Augustus), Cambridge (Adolphus), Cumberland (Ernest). The Prince Regent’s sister Mary also married William, Duke of Gloucester, who had inherited the royal title from his father, the younger brother of George III.
Other than the Royal Dukedoms, there are 26 noble dukedoms, including: Argyll, Atholl, Beaufort, Bucclench, Buckingham, Devonshire, Grafton, Hamilton, Leinster, Manchester, Marlborough, Montrose, Newcastle, Norfolk, Northumberland, Portland, Portsmouth, Queensbury, Richmond, Roxburghe, Rutland, St. Alhans, Somerset, Wellington. At birth, a duke’s eldest son takes on one of his father’s secondary title as a courtesy title. And a grandson then takes one of the third, lesser titles as a courtesy.
Marquess/Marchioness (1385): In 1385, Richard II created Robert de Vere–the Earl of Oxford–the Marquess of Dublin, thereby bringing the title into existence as a degree between Duke and Earl. The term comes from the Old French, marchis, for warden of the marches. The title wasn’t adopted into the Scottish peerage until the 15th century. As with a duke, the eldest son of a marquess takes on one of his father’s secondary, lesser title (if one exists) as a courtesy. Other sons and daughters are called Lord and Lady. This is a courtesy title, and so the title is attached to their given and family name.
Earl/Countess (pre-conquest): The Old English for someone of property is eon. This is as opposed to ceonl, someone without property. Earldoms are perhaps the oldest English title, dating back several hundred years before the conquest. After William came along with his conquest, earl became equal to the Norman “count.” William tried to force the title “count” on the Saxons, but the word caught on only with the earl’s wife, who still bears the title countess. As with duke and marquess, an earl’s eldest son takes on one of his father’s lesser titles as a courtesy title. Daughters are style Lady—such as Lady Elizabeth Dabney—and retain that title if they marry beneath them. Younger sons are mere Honorables (but that title is never mentioned in any verbal address).
Viscount/Vicountess (1440): In Old French the word is viconte, or in Latin vice comes–the deputy of a count. In 1440, Henry VI first granted the title to make John, Baron Beaumont, into Viscount Beaumont. However, the word had already been in use for almost a hundred years for an assistant to an earl—specifically for high sheriffs. There are no courtesy titles for any rank below earl, therefore the children of Viscounts are only known as “Honorables” (a style used only in writing and never in speech). And eldest sons of Scottish Viscounts are sometimes called The Master of (place name).
Baron/Baroness (late 1300’s): The word comes from the Latin for baro, meaning a man. Specifically, this meant a man who was not a vassal or servant. From the time of Henry III (1216 – 1272), the King’s barons were summoned to the Great Council. These were men who “were summoned by a writ to Parliament” or men of important, and often military, standing. (It was the ‘Great Barons’ who forced King John to sign the Magna Carta in 1215– primarily to make sure they kept their own rights.) Richard II (1377- 1400) started to created Barons by patent.
Baronet/Lady (1611): From the Latin for lesser baron. Historically, the term was applied to gentlemen summoned by Edward III (1327 – 1377) to the House of Lords (barons by writ, not by tenure). It also has been used to indicate barons of small holdings. The original term was Knight Baronet. The title did not come into formal existence until 1611. At that time, James I needed cash to hang onto Ulster, which the Irish wanted back. So James created a hereditary title, baronet, and The Red Hand of Ulster became their badge. Baronets of Scotland were created from 1625 until 1707, and Irish baronets were created until 1801, when acts of union passed respectively. A baronet is really not a member of nobility. He styles himself ‘Sir’ (no my lords here), and he does not hold a seat in the House of Lord. His wife is known as Lady (instead of Mrs.).
Knight/Dame (1000’s): Knight comes to us from the Old English cnihht or in Old French cnihta. It’s original meaning is for a boy military servant or follower. After the conquest, the word shows up to denote a man, usually of gentle birth, who has earned the title by serving at court and training for the right to bear military arms (and therefore earn higher rank by fighting for the crown). By 1386, we have Chaucer’s “verray parfit gentil knyght.” And by the sixteenth century, the title began to be awarded for personal merit or services to the country. Knights are not members of nobility. And the title cannot be inherited. The title is given to an individual. A knight is known as “Sir” and his wife is usually “Lady” or “Dame.” A woman can be granted this honor and is then named “Dame” in her own right, but her husbands remains a mere mister.
Listed by precedence, the British Orders of Knighthood include:
— Knights of the Order of the Garter (1349)
— Knights of the Thistle (1678) – exclusive to Scottish nobles
— Knights of St. Patrick (1788) – exclusive to Irish nobles
— Knights of the Bath (1399, revived in 1715)- first order conferred on commoners
— Knights of the Star of India (1861
— Knights of St. Michael and St. George (1818)
— Knights of the Indian Empire (1877)
— Knights of the Royal Victorian Order (1896)
— Knights of the British Empire (1917-1918)
— Knights Bachelor – a knight who is not a member of any particular knighthood
Edward III founded the “Poor Knights of the Order of the Garter.” It was a set group of 26 veterans of military service. Since Charles I the number has been fixed at 13 for the Royal Foundation and 5 for the Lower (now abolished), and a Governor. These men are military officers who are given, along with their title, apartments in Windsor Castle and small pensions. They are therefore known as Knights of Windsor. From 1797 to 1892, these Knights of Windsor could included naval officers. William IV officially made their title, Military Knights of Windsor.
A FINAL NOTE: For those Americans confused by the inconsistent “of” that is sometimes included in a title, this preposition indicates a title that takes its name from a territory. The Duke of Kent is a title associated with Kent, the land. The preposition is omitted in titles that originated with the family name, such as for Baron Beaumont. All existing dukedoms are territorial titles. And the preposition “of” is never used for viscounts.
The caveat to everything said here is that there are exceptions to almost everything. These are frequent enough to confuse, but rare enough to slip past the notice of most. Remember the notion of a monarch’s whim when creating titles—almost anything goes, but tradition is tradition because it is the most common method of doing anything. And you need good reasons to break that tradition. Particularly some of the traditions of nobility date back to before the conquest.
Sources:
Oxford English Dictionary, Compact Edition, Oxford University Press, 1971
Titles and Forms of Address, Black Ltd., 1929 ed.
Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, Wordsworth Reference. 1970
It’s Banned Book week, and at least in the US we do mostly silly bans–we haven’t gotten to the point of throwing writers in Jail (yet). Amnesty International has a list of those who have had not just their words banned, but their lives. There’s also an excellent post on why this week matters over at Everybodyslibraries.com with a good summary:
“Banned Books Week is thus about twin freedoms: the freedom to write about what matters to you, and the freedom to read about what matters to you.”
But I like the quote from Philip Pullman best: “Destroying intellectual freedom is always evil, but only religion makes doing evil feel quite so good.”
A Wrinkle in Timeby Madeleine L’Engle Brave New World by Aldous Huxley Canterbury Tales by Chaucer East of Eden by John Steinbeck Fanny Hill(Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure) by John Cleland My Friend Flicka by Mary O’Hara Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare
And then some how this shows up on the list: Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary by the Merriam-Webster Editorial Staff. Okay, what was someone thinking–smutty words? Diabolical definitions? I do love the idea that it’s not even the ideas, but the words themselves that somehow present a danger to young minds. (I am a dictionary junkie myself — I have four at home, including an OED.) And somehow it’s fitting that there is book on book banning, Banned in the U.S.A.
So I say live dangerously and buy and read a banned book this week.
In the quest for something fresh to stir up the pond, I’ve taken an online workshop — which ended up showing me I have a better idea of what I want to do, and really wasn’t my cuppa since lists were involved — and I’m reading Karl Iglesias’ Writing for Emotional Impact. (Well, technically, that’s the non-fiction currently going, the fiction is Silent in the Grave, although I’ve a couple of other things going on — does anyone else multitask their reading these days — I have to believe yes.)
Anyway, so far Inglesias is very clear — great quotes, good examples — but the best advise yet is the old ‘if you were this person what would you do…’ yes, yes. I’m now tempted to skip ahead since chapters 8 and 9 have promised more specific techniques, but I’m being the good student. There is a reason for the order here, and refresher course stuff is always good. There’s been many a workshop I’ve sat through that was just redudant enough that I could daydream and let things shift like a shuffled deck of cars — and that sounds terrible. But I mean that in the best way.
Learning sometimes isn’t just finding out new stuff–it’s seeing the old stuff in a new light. It’s a fresh pair of glasses, or it’s even pulling the glasses off for a change. And maybe some fresh music to go with–eh?
It must be the autumn–and there must be deeply nomadic blood in me, because fall and spring always make me want to move things around (mostly myself), and make shifts. It’s a good time to write bad poetry, and try exotic drinks, and go someplace where one can sit and soak in experience.
One of the truely enjoyable things about the Internet is that stuff links. Unfortunately, this is also the best way to spent lots of time on the ‘Net (not writing), but there’s a good article on Wired: “How to Get Published and Avoid Alien Bloodsuckers“. (Blood being a touch more of a metaphore, and one only wishes they were alien, and not a pretty typical get-ahead human.) But the good stuff is the mention of Yog’s Law, which is posted on SFF: Money Flows Toward the Writer. This is a good thing to remember, and it is interesting that good advice often seems to come in small words.
From here you can get to SFWA’s Writing FAQs, with lots of good basic info. Now, it amazes me with all this good info — easily Googled, another way to spend hours tripping down the WWW garden paths — that folks don’t know or find this stuff out. Is it fear that keeps people from poking around? Or perhaps that blank stare that often hits when all those pages and pages of possible links show up on Google (and did they ever do a study to find out just how many links they could put on that first page without really freakng someone out?).
Ypulse’s book blog is another good source of info, and links off to a list of 100 books most often found on top 100 lists. (There’s something very circular about that reasoning, but, oh well.) I’ve read 26 of them, which goes to show my top 100 are not here — and why are so many of these books so old? Does this mean it takes time for a book to show up in top 100’s? Or is it that so many of these books are on reading lists in English classes in every English speaking country, and thus get put here? Or, is it that these lists are generated by critics, not readers, and therefore are highly suspect, just because you have to worry when someone tells you to read a book, unless that someone is a best friend who is also pushing the paperback your way.
Nevermind that, however, since I have new books found, and already treasured. Deanna Raybourn, Silent in the Grave, and Silent in the Sanctuary, and I so want to spell her last name with an ‘e’ tucked in there (for not particular good reason, other than it feels like it ought to be there). She’s on my top 100 (currently, I’m always hoping for a new book to come along and bump off the old). And she has a link to cool, goth photos by Simon Marsden, (and his name is spelled as it ought to be), and I’ve already ordered as cards. Because you really do never know what one thing will lead to another thing.
Third day of a writers’ conference and I’m ready to go home. I’ve also come back to the same conclusions I always reach–writers are better at writing than talking. It’s not so much that too much talk of writing and my eyes glaze. Love to talk plot, character, technique, structure. It’s fun to listen, too–sure is easier to talk than to do. But, the business stuff–that’s where my eyes glaze. These conferences always remind me I don’t care about the business stuff–that’s not why I started writing. I like writing. I like writers. The rest of it–well, it’s necessary, but not exciting, and I can’t do without it, but I sure as hell don’t have to talk about it any more than necessary.
Third day and I also want my bad habits back. I’m ready for sweat pants and my dogs and meals that are just snacks pulled out of the fridge. I’m ready for a writing binge so I don’t have to talk about it. Some times I do wonder if, as writers, we should talk less, and just keep the keyboard humming.
The “Readers for Life” Literacy Autographing has become one of the most popular events at RWA’s annual conference. Over 500 romance authors participate in this two-hour autographing event, and each year we raise thousands of dollars, which are donated to ProLiteracy Worldwide. Since 1991, RWA has donated over $600,000 to literacy charities.
The 2008 “Readers for Life” Literacy Autographing takes place on Wednesday, July 30, from 5:30-7:30 p.m. at the San Francisco Marriott, Yerba Buena Ballroom. (This event is open to the public.)
