Author: Skeptifist

Here’s the kinds of conversations I get into with Kaia, just don’t ask me how they get started.  

Out of the blue yesterday, or perhaps the day before, she said, “I really don’t like first-person.” 

I said, “Some of my favorite books are written in first-person, but I’ve always thought about it as a cheat.” I think one of my writing profs in college called it that and it stuck. Or screwed up my brain. I do not like writing fiction in first-person. Always third-person limited.  

And then we went on from there for a good 10 minutes. 

Here’s the thing. Everyone has opinions, right? But opinions don’t make you … right. In terms of writing, I default to calling my opinions preferences. Because I am not a published author. What the hell does my opinion amount to?  

If you ever want to have a fun time as a reader, get into some of the forums and subreddits about writing and publishing. Lots of unsolicited advice.  

Some of the fun stuff that always makes me chuckle … how long do you give a book before you bail on it? As a reader, if you know, you know. I’m apt to bail on a book even before I finish Chapter 1, and I can’t always tell you why. The kid has this mental mandate to finish any book she starts. She’s young. She’ll get over it. 

Sometimes, the story does not hook me. Sometimes, it’s the prose. Sometimes, it’s how they handle internal monologue, which ultimately is why we’re gathered here today. 

There’s a trend it seems in modern fiction for authors to include huge paragraphs of internal monologue in third-person. Paragaphs that span pages of tell, but not show. I have no patience for it. 

For instance, Olivie Blake’s The Atlas Six. I made it through the first book, but by the second, I could not handle it anymore. I want things to actually happen in the stories I read. I do not want to spend the majority of a chapter sitting there watching a character think. Shit should be going down, man. Set the scenario, give your character something to react to, and then show us how they react. Simple stuff, really.  

Show, don’t tell, is one of those subjects in writing that’s talked about all the time, and it sure feels like many modern published authors are not getting the message, or not being taught about it properly, or something. I hate it. I skim/skip pages, which even a decade ago I would’ve thought was one of the worst offenses a reader could commit.  

An argument can be made for exposition, I guess. They’re using these huge internal monologues to convey information about their worlds and their characters history.  

I’m in the William Gibson school on that. Throw your readers into the fire and let them figure it out as they go, like a constantly unwrapping present. Don’t explain it, let the world and narrative show it to them. It creates that feeling of anticipation and discovery far better than a goddamn info dump. Show them your world.  

I’m reading like … six books … at the moment. Mostly because I’m having reading a.d.d., maybe?  

• Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,  Hunter S. Thompson (haven’t read it since ‘94?) 

• Servant of the Shard, R.A. Salvatore 

• Burn to Shine, Jonathan Maberry (just finished that one) 

• #NSFW, Tosca Fasso 

• The Third Rule of Time Travel, Phillip Fracassi 

• The Gate of the Feral Gods, Matt Dinniman 

The difference in styles is crazy. One of those is a work manifesto, so not fiction at all, but I find myself studying and comparing … writing styles? Makes me wonder what doing an MFA in creative writing would’ve done to me. At the very least, it would’ve taught me how to finish writing a goddamn book. Probably. 

(No, I cannot write these kinds of things without swearing. Also wtf am I going to do with this when I’m finished with it?) 

Anyway, this morning, I made the decision to leave my phone in the bedroom on the charger. I’ve spent too much time on my Spring Break looking at the damn thing. I trundled out to the couch, sat down, talked to Steph a bit, and then noticed Kaia’s copy of The Deathly Hallows sitting next to me. She’s got the whole thing marked up, colored post-it note tabs sticking out all over the place. 

Picked it up, opened it to a random spot, and started reading. The spot turned out to be where Harry, Ron, and Hermione (almost left out my Oxford comma right there, which is another conversation the kid and I have had recently) are going in to question Olivander about the Elder Wand.  

I have not reread the Potter series in at least a decade, and my memory of Rowling’s prose was slippy. Adverbs and the like. What I just read this morning? Not bad at all. I’d even go so far as to call it pretty good. Sure, it’s book seven. But in this particular scene, she’s info-dumping wandlore, but it’s not a whole page of anything. It comes out through conversation in the midst of scene demanded by the story. It’s … well done.  

I mean, Rowling? Really? 

I may sit here and read this freaking book today. Harry Potter and the Properly Written Prose.  

Happy Spring Break, y’all!