Writing tip – It’s too long!

This is a companion piece to my blog ‘Writing tip – It’s too short! here

As we writers know, some publishers set an upper limit for fiction submissions. There are several valid reasons for this. The limit can vary from 50,000 to 100,000. Rarely do they want in excess of 100,000. Yes, there are exceptions, though I haven’t found any when searching on my wife’s behalf for her 150,000 romantic suspense novel.

So how do you clip off those extra words, expunge all that precious prose?

Here are ten suggestions:

1. Break the novel into two books. This will only work if the plot and flow of the story permits. The ideal point to break would be where the protagonist encounters a serious obstacle that seems insurmountable. Not the final black moment, but similar. So end on a cliff-hanger. That will inevitably require some rewriting. If you’ve captured the reader for the first ‘half’, then ending in this way is likely to entice the reader to seek out the follow-up.

Some books previously published were chopped up into smaller units because of their size – notably The First Chronicles of Thomas Covenant – that ended up as a trilogy (to be followed by others!) Edgar Rice Burroughs ended on a cliff-hanger at the close of The Warlord of Mars, the second in what amounted to a trilogy. Dickens did it all the time with the magazine versions of his novels: leave the reader wanting more. But not all books lend themselves to this kind of surgery.

Be ruthless. Yes, a good author should ruthlessly edit anyway. But many just tend to tinker rather than excise. Follow these suggestions and cut, cut and cut; put the manuscript away for a while, come back to it with fresh eyes and then cut, cut and cut again.  

2. Is every scene doing something to add to the plot or increase our understanding of the characters, or move the story forward? If the scene does none of those things, why is it there?

3. Is all that research that you’ve infodumped really necessary? Can it be condensed without losing the salient points in order to aid the story?

4. Repetition. Time and again I read where the same sentence or two is repeated, though using different words; the sense is the same, twice. Combine, or excise. Same goes for whole paragraphs.

5. Too many characters. This is a tough one. It depends on the type of story, naturally. A saga, or the first in a series, might contain a good number of characters. But do they all do enough to justify being there? Some need to be sounding boards, perhaps, for the main characters; others need to be there so they can meet a grisly demise that will signpost the threat to the protagonist. Fine.

Compare the screenplay of a novel; you’ll notice that some characters have been dropped, while in other cases two or more have been fused into one. (Yes, this is to save on actors’ pay, but it’s also to make the story less complicated). All your characters have to work or they don’t belong; in which case, send them to another work in progress.

 
6. Description. I believe description is necessary to put the reader into the scene. Admittedly, there are authors – and readers – who are happy with minimalist description; or none at all, relying on neat character-filled dialogue. That works, when done well. Though my argument is, it’s a novel that rattles in the reader’s head, not a radio play. Still, there can be too much description. Is all the description through a character’s eyes? Or is it imposed by the author? If you’re writing omniscient POV, then the description may tend to be too rich. If it’s character POV description, keep it tight and relevant, to create mood, foreshadowing or a sense of place and character.

7. Dialogue. Some characters can become irksome, running off at the mouth without let up. These folk need reining in. Does what they say have relevance to the story, to the forward movement of the plot? Occasionally, you can get away with ‘one sugar or two, Vicar?’ when the mood’s appropriate, but be ruthless where possible. Dialogue also falls into the repetition trap – beware, and if found, cut!

 
8. Scene shifts. Scriptwriting gets round much of the tedious bits by scene shifting. Do the same – unless it’s necessary, do you have to relate how your characters get to the next scene? Start the scene with them there.
 
9. Conflict. Without conflict, there’s no story. The conflict doesn’t have to be physical. It can be verbal, psychological, or even caused by the environment. Some scriptwriters arrive at the conflict slowly, letting us get to know the individuals first. That’s fine. But you’ll grab your reader faster and more firmly if you begin with the conflict and then get to know the characters through their actions. Cut the lead up to the conflict – go for the jugular straight away.

10. Tangent. If you don’t watch them, characters can go off at a tangent and take the plot with them. It’s interesting as you go, but is it necessary to the story’s main flow? Yes, you need sub-plots, but you can have too many of them. Be ruthless with the sub-plots and leave them only if they serve a purpose.

 
Finally, don’t discard. That might sound contrary, considering the purpose outlined. If you’re going to excise vast chunks of prose, that’s good. But cut and paste these chunks and save them elsewhere in another document. You never know, some or all of them may prove useful at a later date in another work in progress. If nothing else, it doesn’t seem as if you’ve entirely wasted your time on all that prose! [Whenever I decide to edit, I always start with a new copy, so I’ve always got the earlier version, in case I have an aberration and go too far!] Remember too that the time spent on those words wasn’t wasted; the simple action of writing improves your style every time, every day.
 
Of course, if you have a plot-plan and stick to it and monitor your word-count as you work, you’re less likely to exceed by too much that upper limit. I would estimate that 5,000 words over isn’t going to be frowned upon.
 
Truth is, you can always add more; the obverse is also true, you can always cut more.
 
Nowadays, of course, if you feel you cannot cut your prose to meet the upper limit of a publisher, you can always resort to self-publishing at reasonable cost – though bear in mind that usually every extra page of your masterwork will cost more in production and postage.

***

Advert time.

In my book Write a Western in 30 Days I discuss infodumping, plot-plans, conflict, description and character building.

 

On Amazon.com this book has eight 5-star reviews and two 4-star reviews; on Amazon.co.uk it has an additional three 5-star reviews.

 

This book is a very useful guide for anyone wanting to write genre fiction – that is, any genre, not only westerns. Those aren’t my words, but the opinion of reviewers on Amazon.

 

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Writing tips - Dialogue speaks volumes

Dialogue must move the story forward and reads faster than narrative. As Anthony Trollope said, ‘The dialogue must tend in some way to the telling of the story.’ Which means, dialogue is there:

• To carry on the plot
• To foreshadow coming conflict
• To reveal character
• To indicate the setting

Never get characters to speak so that it’s obvious that they’re spoon-feeding the reader with information (the dreaded infodump springs to mind).

Move the story and build up the character with dialogue.

Remember, dialogue is there for a purpose – it isn’t just filler – so avoid the ‘one lump or two, vicar’ kind that tells us nothing.

The way your characters speak should appear natural – without the real ums and ers. Real speech is not good dialogue. Good dialogue gives the semblance of real speech.

Stilted over-formal expressions are usually fatal to dialogue. Naturally, it’s possible to have a character who speaks in a particular stilted fashion – that’s his characterisation.

The majority of people speak using contractions – I’ll, I’m and we’ve, for example: I am, I will and we have are stilted and again slow down the speech.

Try to make each speech pattern appropriate to the character. One person might use lengthy sentences with long words, while another will speak in a terse fashion.

Dialogue is always useful where there might be a tendency to POV-switch. Instead of jumping into another character’s head and thoughts, get that character to voice his thoughts.

Avoid vernacular. Yes, in short bursts it might be humorous or even character defining, but it can soon wear thin over a novel’s length. Don’t overdo the truncatin’ of words, either. Modern readers don’t like to struggle with the meaning of what a character is saying – dialogue should flow and be clear. Besides, vernacular and unusual phrasing slows down the story. Mary Webb’s Gone to Earth (1917) is a deserved classic, but it wouldn’t be a runaway bestseller now – its vernacular makes it heavy going to the modern eye and ear.

There’s a tendency for beginner writers to have their characters constantly using each other’s name in a conversation:
          ‘I know, Josh, it’s awful.’

‘Yes, indeed, Mary, I don’t know what to say.’

‘But Josh, we must do something!’

‘I guess so, maybe we could stop referring to each other by name, since we know that already – and besides, there’s nobody else in the room?’

‘What a good idea, Josh!’

So, if it’s obvious that it’s only Josh and Mary speaking, dispense with the verbal reference – or indicate by gestures linked to the character’s words, e.g.:

Josh ran a hand over his face. ‘I’m really worried.’

Mary’s eyes searched his face. ‘What about?’

Try to convey the period, the person’s profession and background, and the character with the use of appropriate vocabulary.

Dialogue can also suggest mood or emotion in a scene. A shared painful past is hinted at in the pages of The $300 Man, for example where Corbin meets Jean (pp18-22). It’s a rather lengthy sample, but I think it illustrates many of the points already discussed. Here, I’ve tried to underplay the anguish and create a mood through dialogue, gesture and observation. Yes, dialogue isn’t always in speech – but in body language.

He rapped on the door with his hook.

         ‘Who is it?’ Jeannie’s voice was throaty and tremulous; perhaps a little rougher round the edges than he remembered.

         ‘It’s the man who saved you from Turner’s knife.’

         ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Begley said you’d be back.’

         The key in the lock turned.

         He thought it odd that she should lock the door now though not while she was being intimate with her customers.

         He heard her move away from the door and some wooden furniture creaked. ‘Come in,’ she said.

         Opening the door, he tried to smother the memory from an hour earlier, when Jeannie had been threatened and bleeding. He entered the room, taking off his hat, and closed the door after him.

         She sat in a rocking chair. Looking at him from hollowed eye-sockets, she seemed malnourished. The jutting cones of her breasts were more pronounced than he recalled, pressing against some white gauzy material while her legs were covered by a white frilly petticoat. Her feet were bare. She hadn’t managed to clean away all the blood, he noticed; there were traces on the bridge of her left foot.

         ‘Thank you for stopping Mr Turner, sir,’ she said, and offered a lop-sided smile.

         Her smile hadn’t been that way before, he realised. Something had altered her face – her nose still turned up at the tip, but it had been broken and was now slightly askew. The freckles were barely noticeable under the powder. Her thin lips usually offered the promise of a winsome smile but now they were dark red and unnatural. At one time her hazel eyes sent his heart soaring when she looked at him, but now she was hardly focussing on him or her world. Her mind was in some dark and distant place. Life once brimmed from her, now it was little more than a flickering candle in a gale.

         ‘Have your cuts been doctored?’

         She blinked, returning from her reverie, and nodded. ‘Mrs Begley brought in Doc Bassett. He sewed up two cuts and the rest weren’t too deep. The iodine stings, but he says I’ll be OK.’

         ‘Just keep the wounds clean,’ he said. He refrained from commenting on how many young lives he’d witnessed being snuffed out on account of dirty wounds.

         ‘Thank you for caring, Mister.’ Her smile was thin, fragile, as if she was afraid that it may be misconstrued, his kindness sullied.

         Hands gripping the brim of his hat, he said, ‘You don’t recognise me, Jean, do you?’

         ‘No, I can’t say as I do.’ She gave him another travesty of a smile. ‘You appreciate, I entertain many gentlemen. Unfortunately, my memory isn’t as good as it was, you know?’ She lowered her feet to the floorboards and thrust herself out of the chair, which creaked in protest at being abandoned.

         ‘Let me take a good look at you,’ she said, gliding up to him. She still walked with an enchanting serene movement; once, he’d thought of her as poetry in motion.

         He looked down at her and he could see the stirrings of memory reasserting something in her, in the glinting of her eyes.

         Brow wrinkled, she glanced at his hook and then his skewed nose. ‘We make a good pair, don’t we?’ she said.

         ‘Yes, I guess we do.’

         She eyed the small scar on his forehead. Reaching up, she brushed a hand gently through his black hair, lingering on the clump of white hair on the left, just above the scar. At one time her touch would have sent his heart pounding; now he just felt sad. Finally, her gaze lingered on his. There was no mistake. Recognition widened her eyes and moisture formed at the rims. She stepped back a pace, a hand rising to her chest, over her heart. What little colour she had seemed to drain from her face. ‘Corbin? Is it really you?’

         ‘Yes.’

         ‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered, turning away. She crossed over to the bed and sat down, studying her feet and let tears fall to the floor where they darkened the dust and wood. ‘Oh, my God.’ A small fist beat at her right breast, plaintively.

         He moved to sit beside her on the bed but refrained from touching her. ‘It’s been a long time, Jean.’

         She nodded. ‘A lifetime.’

         Having observed the change wrought in her, he could understand how she must feel. He’d last seen her in ’62 – twelve years ago.

         ‘You’ve changed,’ she said, her hands resting in her lap. Turning her head, she studied him, eyes ranging over his broad shoulders and muscular arms and thighs. ‘You’re taller, bigger – quite a man now, Corbin.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t know about the hand – well, anything really.’

         He could feel the trembling of her body transmitted through the bed’s mattress. At any other time he might have appreciated the irony, of sitting here on a bed with her; in those far-off days he had coveted her young nubile form, though he hadn’t rightly understood all the emotions that had threshed through his adolescent frame. Now, he understood all too well.

         Gently, he placed his hand on hers. ‘Life changes us. I’ve been through a war – and a lot besides.’

         She gave a wan smile. ‘You don’t want to know what I’ve endured, Corbin. You really don’t.’ She looked away again, the back of her hand wiping the tears from mottled cheeks. ‘Best you just go and leave me be.’

         Corbin shook his head. ‘No, I came to see you. I’m not leaving.’

         She faced him again, her eyes wide with a cynical edge to them, which he found surprisingly distasteful. Her upper lip curled. ‘You want me, is that it?’

         ‘No, Jean. I didn’t turn up here as a customer.’

         ‘Client,’ she corrected.

         ‘Whatever. As it happens, you’re the fourth Jean I’ve tracked down. The others were false trails.’

         ‘Tracked down?’

         ‘Oh, I haven’t made it my business. Sometimes, though, in my travels, I get to hear about a woman called Jean and the description seems to fit yours.’ He eyed her copper-coloured hair and felt impelled to stroke it, as if that motion would brush away the past so they could return to those times of innocence. He raised a hand and gestured vaguely. ‘So I take a detour, just to put my mind at rest. Today, my detour found the real Jean.’

         ‘But why are you looking for me?’ Her eyes shone with a forlorn hope.

         ‘I wanted to be sure that you’re all right. And there are a few things I need to know – things only you can tell me.’

- extracted from Write a Western in 30 Days (pp117-122) Available as an e-book from
Amazon.com here and from Amazon.co.uk here

The $300 Man (hardback) is available from the book depository post free worldwide here

Review. When I started Nik Morton's WRITE A WESTERN IN 30 DAYS, what struck me was that this wasn't just a book of guidelines and tid bits for someone attempting a western, this is a fantastic map to anyone who wants to dive into the world of genre fiction. What Morton lays out are some of the best, common-sense rules for writing that I've ever come across - especially the chapters on plotting and structure. If you're not writing a western, it doesn't matter; what can be found in this book can be applied to any genre novel... Morton lays a solid foundation for a way for writers to follow a path to get their work done in the cleanest, most efficient way possible - and discover their best work besides. Highly recommended. - C. Courtney Joyner, film producer, author of Shotgun.

Editing tips - Just the facts, Ma'am

Just the Facts, Ma’am

It’s so easy to become wrapped up in the interesting facts in your research for your novel or short story. Yes, often I need to do research for a short story, too. The danger is not only spending time on the research rather than writing, but also in extracting too much information. Yes, it’s fascinating, but is it all pertinent to the story and the characters? Does it help move the story forward? Probably not.

Of course, this doesn’t stop some authors who commit that annoying sin of lumbering their readers with the dreaded ‘infodump’ – literally, paragraph upon paragraph of fact, information gleaned during research that the author considers so interesting that you’re bound to want to know all about it too.

Sure, some bestsellers do it – but you aren’t a bestseller, so be kind to your reader and avoid falling into the infodump trap. Really, infodumping is lazy writing. Be circumspect with the research details you use.

       
Naturally, you want to divulge the pertinent facts in some manner. Not as cold author intrusive text. Preferably via character exposition, and not directly in the narrative. Even here, you have to tread carefully. Some authors think if they disguise their infodump text in dialogue, it will be all right. Not so. It still seems stilted, unreal and declares that the author was too indolent to weave the research material into the fabric of the story.

- Extract from Write a Western in 30 Days (p22)

'Morton has a brilliant way of condensing a great deal of information into manageable junks without sacrificing clarity or content. The resulting book works both as master class and as a refresher course.' - Amazon.com review, September 2013.

'This has to be the best book about writing I've read for ages, even if the title is a misnomer. It should be 'Write a Novel in 30 Days', as it covers all the key aspects beginner writers need to know about the skill of writing any novel, not just Westerns. I have recently completed my first book and wish I'd had this to hand when I started! Excellent; full of easily digestible tips.' - Amazon.co.uk review, July 2013.