I wasted ten years of prime writing life because of the Big Lie.
In my twenties, I gave up the dream of becoming a writer because I had been told that writing could not be taught. Writers are born, people said. You either have what it takes or you don’t, and if you don’t you’ll never get it.
My first writing efforts didn’t have it. I thought I was doomed. Outside of my high school English teacher, Mrs. Marjorie Bruce, I didn’t get any encouragement at all.
In college, I took a writing course taught by Raymond Carver. I looked at the stuff he wrote; I looked at my stuff.
It wasn’t the same.
Because writing can’t be taught.
I started to believe it. I figured I didn’t have it and never would.
So I did other stuff. Like go to law school. Like join a law firm. Like give up my dream.
But the itch to write would not go away.
At age thirty-four, I read an interview with a lawyer who’d had a novel published. And what he said hit me in my lengthy briefs. He said he’d had an accident and was almost killed. In the hospital, given a second chance at life, he decided the one thing he wanted was to be a writer. And he would write and write, even if he never got published because that was what he wanted.
Well, I wanted it, too.
But the Big Lie was still there, hovering around my brain, mocking me.
Especially when I began to study the craft of writing.
I went out and bought my first book on fiction writing. It was Lawrence Block’s Writing the Novel. I also bought Syd Field’s book on screenwriting because anyone living in Los Angeles who has opposable thumbs is required to write a screenplay.
And I discovered the most incredible thing. The Big Lie was a lie. A person could learn how to write because I was learning.
While in the throes of the Big Lie, the most frustrating thing to me was Plot. Because what I wrote didn’t have it.
I would read short stories and novels, and wonder how the writers did it. How did they get all this great story material? The Big Lie said they had it in their heads, naturally, and it just flowed out on the page as they went along.
I tried it. I tried to let plot flow. But what came out on the page was dreadful. No plot! No story! Zip!
But when I began to learn about the craft, I saw that plotting had elements I could learn. And I found out about structure: when plot elements were put in a certain order, a stronger story resulted.
I can still remember the day it came together for me. It was an epiphany. All of a sudden, something clicked in my head. The pieces started to fit. The Jell-O hardened.
About a year later, I had a screenplay optioned. Then another.
Then I wrote a novel. It was published.
Then I got a five-book fiction contract. I wrote those books, and they were published, too.
Suddenly, I took a deep breath and looked behind me. Somehow, some way, I had learned how to write after all.
The Big Lie was exposed.
I was so ticked off about the Big Lie that I started teaching others what I’d learned about the craft of writing. I wanted new writers to know that they weren’t doomed to stay where they were. They could learn craft, as I did. I never taught fancy theory, just nuts and bolts. Things that worked for me, that new writers could understand and use right now.
And then a funny thing happened. Some of my students started selling their books.
I still find this the most satisfying part of the whole deal.
And this is what I hope you will learn. Let’s replace the Big Lie with the Truth. The Truth is that craft can be taught and that you, with diligence and practice and patience, can improve your writing. This is one book that’s going to be as practical on that score as I can make it.
My high school basketball coach was a strict disciplinarian. If it had been up to me, I would have spent my practice time shooting jump shots. But Coach made us do fundamental drills — dribbling, passing, cutting, setting picks. And, of course, the dreaded wind sprints when we messed up.
We all hated the drudgery, but come game time, we knew we were better players for it. And all of his teams overachieved.
If you want to break through with this thing called craft, you’ll need to be your own disciplinarian. Here are some things you can do to become your own plotting coach. Tweak them to fit your preferences, but use them. You’ll like the results.
Otherwise, I may have to make you do wind sprints.
[1] Get motivated. I remember the exact date I decided I was going to be a writer. I jotted this in my journal: “Today I resolve to take writing seriously, to keep going and never stop, to learn everything I can and make it as a writer.”
Remember, this was after I was steeped in the Big Lie. So what I wrote was a declaration of independence of sorts.
Why don’t you do the same? Write a statement of purpose, one that gets you excited, and print it. Put it on your wall where you can see it every day.
The next thing I did was buy a black coffee mug with Writer written in gold across it. I would look at that cup every day to remind me of my commitment. In fact, on days when the writing drags, I’ll look at it again. It gives me a fresh jolt of enthusiasm.
Come up with your own item of visual motivation. It might be inspirational words taped to your computer, a photograph of an admired writer (on my wall I have a shot of Stephen King, feet up on his writing desk and dog under his chair, revising a manuscript), or your own rendering of your first novel’s cover (be lavish in the critical praise on the back!).
I was also motivated early on by going to bookstores and browsing in the bestseller section. I’d look at the authors’ pictures and bios, I’d read their openings (and think I can do this!), and I’d imagine what my face would look like on the back of a dust jacket (nicely retouched, of course).
Then — and this is crucial — I’d race back to my office and start writing.
Find some ritual that gets your juices flowing, and don’t waste it. Turn it into words on the page.
[2] Try stuff. Just reading a book on plotting is not going to make you a better writer. You have to try out what you learn, see if you get it, and try some more. You test the principles in the fire of the blank page.
As you read this book, take time to digest and then apply what you learn about plot and structure to your own writing.
I love books on writing. I have shelves full of them. I’ve read every one with a yellow highlighter. Then I’ve reread almost all of them with a red, felt-tip pen, marking things I missed the first time.
Then I’ve gone through most of them a third time, writing out new insights on a yellow legal pad.
Then I’ve taken my notes and typed them up.
What I’m doing is digesting the material as deeply as I possibly can. I want it to be part of me. I want it there when I write my next novel.
So please be on the lookout for new techniques in the craft of fiction writing, and try them out yourself. This is how you learn and grow.
[3] Stay loose. Writing is never any good when it is done in the grip of anxiety. A tense brain freezes creativity. If you try to make writing too much of a military exercise, if you go at it with a clenched jaw and fevered brow, you’ll be working against yourself. The guidelines in this book will give you material to work with and techniques that can help you. Your job is to write, as Brenda Ueland puts it, “freely and rollickingly.”
[4] “First get it written, then get it right.” I can’t remember who said them, but these are words of wisdom. Don’t spend too much time worrying and fretting and tinkering with your first draft. The guidelines in this book will help you not only in the planning of your plot and the writing of it, but most of all when you get to the revision stage. Your job with that first draft is to pour yourself onto the page. In Zen in the Art of Writing: Essays on Creativity, Ray Bradbury says, “Let the world burn through you. Throw the prism light, white hot, on paper.”
[5] Set a quota. Writing is how you learn to write. Writing daily, as a discipline, is the best way to learn.
Most successful fiction writers make a word goal and stick to it. A time goal can easily be squandered as you sit and agonize over sentences or paragraphs. Sure you were at your writing desk for three hours, but what did you produce? Write a certain number of words instead.
I have a spreadsheet that logs my words. I record the number of words I write on my projects. The spreadsheet automatically tallies my daily and weekly production.
I review this log each week. If I’m not making my quota, I give myself a talking to and get back on track.
But be kind to yourself. If you don’t make your quota one day or one week, forget about it. Get to work on your new week.
The daily writing of words, once it becomes a habit, will be the most fruitful discipline of your writing life. You’ll be amazed at how productive you’ll become, and how much you’ll learn about the craft.
But if you’re one of those writers who thinks he needs inspiration to write, then I ask you to please follow the advice of Peter DeVries:“I only write when I’m inspired, and I make sure I’m inspired every morning at 9 a.m.”
[6] Don’t give up. The main difference between successful writers and unsuccessful writers is persistence. There are legions of published novelists who went years and years without acceptance. They continued to write because that’s what they were inside, writers. That’s what you are. That’s why you’re reading this book. Whenever I hear from students I’ve taught at writers’ conferences, I always end my communication with them with two words: Keep writing.
In the end, that’s the best advice there is.
Are you ready now? Are you convinced of the Truth? Do you dream of writing novels with plots that keep readers up at night? Then come along. I’m going to do my very best to show you how.