Tag Archives: Writing

Creative Writing Tips from Dakota State University, Madison, South Dakota. (classic repost)

14 Jul

A Flashback! classic- Updated!

I was feeling a bit bloggy today but I lacked the proper topic. So I decided to do some googleing and after I put my pants back on I went online and searched “creative writing tips.”

Wow. There is a lot of bad advice out there. I should know, I’ve given enough of it.

So without much further ado, or fanfare, whatever, here are some actual creative writing tips (and my commentary) from actual “experts” at the Dakota State University, Madison, South Dakota.. In my humble opinion (being a humble man) this school is probably better than Kingsborough but worse than Apex Tech. At least at Apex you get to keep your tools when you graduate. At Dakota you are taught by tools.

(And I was just kidding about the pants thing. I’m wearing cargo shorts.)

Fiction writers learn to write by writing.
Thank God this isn’t true of other disciplines. Just imagine if brain surgeons learned to do brain surgery by doing brain surgery.
 
A compulsion to write is very useful.
A compulsion to kill, however, is not.

 

Readers of fiction want very much to find the writer’s work to be believable.
What, you mean that the Lord of the Rings didn’t happen? All those tears I shed for Frodo as he was possessed by the One Ring? I WANT TO BELIEVE!

The writer should write about what he or she already knows through experience or can learn about through research.
Do you know how much research J.K. Rowling did before she wrote the first Harry Potter book? Decades of mystical research at forbidden Tibetan monasteries, thousands of hours pouring over ancient voodoo manuscripts in Haiti, and untold months chanting the Panoptic Mantra to summon Nylarthotep to school her in the ways of the wizard. What? She was an unemployed single mom who wrote the book on a train from Manchester to London? Shit.

Long works like novels can have many subplots and secondary climaxes.
Insert your own dirty joke here.

Flashbacks have been overused. A story is stronger when it runs chronologically
So George Lucas was an idiot for starting Star Wars with episode four. What an EPIC FAIL. Lucas went broke soon after The Phantom Menace came out. After all, we had already seen the meaty middle of the story, who would care how it began? I’m sure no one was interested in how Luke’s father became Darth Vader.

This reminds me of a story……

Back when I was in high school, I took a creative writing class. My teacher explained that flashbacks have been overused in modern literature and that they should be avoided.

The reader should be able to identify with and care about the characters.
You do, of course, identify with Hannibal Lechter. You do? Stay away from me.

The main character should be introduced before setting, so that the setting can be introduced from the point of view of the character.
But didn’t God wait until halfway through the Bible to bring in Jesus? What a crappy writer that God is.

Weather can be an important part of setting.
“It was a dark and stormy night.” If it is good enough for Snoopy it is good enough for me.

Profanity and vulgarisms can be used where they seem appropriate. Overuse amounts to author intrusion and can interrupt the reader’s belief in the story.
This is especially true for rap. Please never curse in a rap song. It is vulgar.

However, don’t try to find too many different ways to say “said.”
“Hello,” he lied. Hmmm……

The theme of a story is often abstract and not addressed directly in the narrative.
Especially in my blogs.

Don’t mention just a tree; say what kind of tree it was.
          Master Spy Edward “Old Knickers” O’Brien had been on the trail for days. His quarry, Hans Brickface, had been meeting with several suppliers of highly illegal ammunition and O’Brien’s superiors at MI5 were concerned that the weaponry would be funneled to the IRA for terrorism against British politicians.
          Brickface had cleverly set up a meeting with his contacts in the center of Leary Park in Glasgow. More than just hiding in plain sight, it offered an unobstructed view in all directions. If he were being followed, his pursuer would have to break cover and show himself.
         Master Spy O’Brien needed to get closer in order to identify the contact. It was vital for the security of the nation. The only cover was afforded by a large tree near Brickface and his contact.
          Larches are conifers
in the genus Larix, in the family Pinaceae. They are native to much of the cooler temperate northern hemisphere, on lowlands in the far north, and high on mountains  further south. Larches are among the dominant plants in the immense boreal forest of Russia and Canada.
          They are deciduous trees,
growing from 15-50 m tall. The shoots are dimorphic, with growth divided into long shoots typically 10-50 cm long and bearing several buds and short shoots only 1-2 mm long with only a single bud. The leaves are needle-like, 2-5 cm long, slender (under 1 mm wide). They are borne singly, spirally arranged on the long shoots, and in dense clusters of 20-50 needles on the short shoots. The needles turn yellow and fall in the late autumn, leaving the trees leafless through the winter.
          Larch cones
are erect, small, 1-9 cm long, green or purple, ripening brown 5-8 months after pollination; in about half the species the bract scales are long and visible, and in the others, short and hidden between the seed scales. Those native to northern regions have small cones (1-3 cm) with short bracts, with more southerly species tending to have longer cones (3-9 cm), often with exserted bracts, with the longest cones and bracts produced by the southernmost species, in the Himalaya.
          “Good thing this isn’t a spruce,” thought O’Brien. “They afford little cover this time of year.”
          As he inched his way to the tree, the Master Spy broke a small branch underfoot and the sound alerted Brickface. The criminal whirled and faced O’Brien.
          “Ah, not so-Master Spy Edward O’Brien! Did you really believe that you could capture me by hiding behind a maple tree?”
          “It is a larch,” O’Brien cleverly riposted.

Becoming a skilled typist (on a word processor) is extremely useful to a writer.
Shakespeare learned that lesson the hard way.

Avoid starting a story with dialogue…
“What utter rubbish!” I argue. “Evocative dialogue can draw a reader into a story!”

Don’t use clichés.
But I digress.

Avoid overused words
Has “blogslinging” caught on yet? Damn, I was sure that was going to be the hot catchphrase of the summer.

Every word can be used appropriately somewhere in some story.
If there is an appropriate story for “vaginal discharge” I don’t want to read it.

Scorning the work of a writer does not make that writer a better writer.
That’s for all you playa hatas out there.

Whatever rules or tips you read about writing you will be able to find some published work that violates them. Sometimes the violation is glaring and amounts to author intrusion. Other times the violation may actually help the story. Usually the latter occurs when the writer actually is an excellent wordsmith and deliberately, with great specific purpose, violates some rule or tip.
Finally, something that applies to me!

Thank you Dakota State!

Jesus Christ, Novelist

16 Nov

from October 24, 2008

I had three hours plus of time to kill and it was the Department of Education’s fault. I t was open school night and school ended at 2:48. Parent/teacher conferences (A.K.A. “here’s why you’re a-hole kid is a dick” conferences) began at 6:00 and ran to the ungodly hour of 8:30. I say start them at 3:00 and let me go home by 4:15. Anyway, I had a ton of time to kill, and I wasn’t about to go back over the bridge and come back a couple of hours later. I may be a lot of things but I’m not a tease, and I’m sure as hell not going to tease myself by coming all the way home only to have to go back. I’d hate myself in the morning.
I found myself at the Staten Island Mall, home to stores I’m not interested in and people who have nothing better to do than to be in the mall in the middle of the day. That includes the elderly, the unemployable, and people who work in the mall, who may also be elderly and otherwise unemployable.

The place was festooned (Love that word. “Festooned.” Kind of a combination of “festering” and “balloon.”) with big banners the reissuing of classic novels. “ADVENTURE!” they screamed. “EXCITEMENT!” BUCCANEERING!” “SWASHBUCKLEERING!” and other words I swear I saw but may have made up. They looked cool, a whole set of “stories from the golden age,” eighty in all. “DAMES!” “DAMSELS!” “PRIVATE EYES!” “PIRATES!” “XENU!”

“Xenu”?
Yes, “Xenu,” ’cause these books were all written by noted _____ (fill the blank with whatever your favorite synonym for “tool” may be) _____ L. Ron Hubbard.

I won’t go into details about “El” Ron here. I’ll save that for Tom Cruise’s wet dreams. But the guy was a writer and he really did publish books. I’m sure that some of them may have even been on a high school reading level, though the fact Hollywood stars have read them might prove otherwise. He published westerns, mysteries, adventure, swashbuckleering tales, and who cares what else? Not me. But the covers looked nice, even if I’m sure they all had subliminal scientololgy imagery embedded in the artwork, and microchips that shot biorhythmic information about anyone who picked up the book to the orbiting scientololgy satellite piloted by John Travolta.

TRAVOLTA: “Hey, what’s this lever here? It says, Air Supply. That’s like music, right Mr. Kotter?”
GABE KAPLAN: “Vinny! Don’t touch that! Mr. Woodman is on a space walk!”
TRAVOLTA: “What?”
KAPLAN: “That switch!”
TRAVOLTA: “Where?”
KAPLAN: “Right in front of you!”
TRAVOLTA: Flips the switch
KAPLAN: “Vinny! You killed Mr. Woodman!”
EPSTEIN: “Don’t worry. I got a note.”
HORSHACK: “OHHH! OH OH OH!”
KAPLAN: “That’s the same way Freddie Boom Boom Washington died.”

But this brings up an interesting point. The founder of a major religion (snicker snicker) (snort) (HA HA I can’t even type that with a straight face) was a failed novelist. What if Buddha wrote si-fi novels? What if Mohammed wrote a humor column?

And what if Jesus wrote romance novels?
Jesus Christ, the swashbuckleering pirate rogue, ran his rough hands over the lacy bodice of the lusty, young, yet virginal, serving girl.

“But Christ, M’Lord, I am but a poor wench from Jerusalem. I have nothing to offer one such as you,” she said as her bosom swelled and heaved.

The muscles of his bare chest rippled as Jesus Christ’s hair billowed back in the salty sea breeze. He leaned close, his hot breath causing the silky skin of her breasts to tingle in earthly anticipation of pleasures of the flesh.

“Oh M’Lord,” she sighed. “Do with me as thou wouldst. You truely are the King of Kings!”

Seriously, would you trust your religion if that was your savior? But that’s what’s happening.

Here is the description of Elron’s “The Iron Duke”:
American arms merchant Blacky Lee is wanted by nearly every government in 1930s Europe— especially the Nazis. They want Blacky’s head for selling them dud weapons, prompting his rapid (and illegal) escape across the Balkans to the kingdom of Aldoria with his business partner in tow.

Aldoria is well chosen. Years before, Blacky discovered he was the spitting image of the country’s Prince Philip, learned the archduke’s speaking voice and memorized the royal family tree just in case. When Blacky brazenly impersonates the leader, things go surprisingly well . . . that is, until he finds himself caught in the middle of a Communist plot to rig elections and take over.

I’ve seen better plots on helium.com.

Here is a description of “If I Were You”:
Circus dwarf Little Tom Little is the king of midgets, loved by crowds and carnival folk alike. Only he doesn’t just want to be a bigger circus star, he wants to be just like the circus’ tall and imposing leader.

Trouble begins the moment that a set of ancient books containing the secret of switching bodies finds its way into Tom Little’s tiny hands. When he magically trades his small frame with that of the circus chief, he finds himself in a giant-sized heap of trouble— his craving for height has landed him smack in the center ring surrounded by forty savage cats!

Who the fuck is he shitting?

And lastly, “Spy Killer”:
Kurt Reid may be innocent of the murder he’s charged with (and of grand larceny, for that matter), but he’s got no time to be thrown in jail and defend himself. Instead, Reid flees to pre-Communist China and Shanghai, the exotic city of mystery and death.

Reid takes refuge in a tea house where he meets White Russian Varinka Savischna, whom he manages to rescue from certain death. As beautiful as she is smart, she recruits him in her crusade against Chinese intelligence services. Unfortunately, Reid manages to get himself captured by the Chinese and blackmailed into pursuing and assasinating a Japanese spy.

I’ve come to the conclusion that if those Hollywood types are going to take a hack writer as god, they may as well take me. My stuff is as bad as his is. (Or something like that.)

So prepare world, Blogtology is coming! Prepare to believe!