This post has a bonus link. These book covers are the best thing I found online this week. They’re brilliant. You need to see them. Okay, down to business.

Last term, there was a documentary filmmaker in my writing course. She gave me one of my new favourite pieces of writing advice. I’m calling it the 100 hours rule, but I don’t really remember how the numbers played out.

According to this woman, when she puts together a film, she goes through hours and hours of raw footage to find the 90 minutes she’ll use. The right bits of film, put together, tell a story. The extra bits are, well, extra. But they have to film it all in order to find the 90 minutes that were going to end up in the finished product.

I had a similar experience with a short story. It wasn’t working at 2500 words, so I blew it up to 10,000. It was too puffy, but at least then I knew the whole story. From there, I cut it back to 6000 words, and that was the version that sold. The 6000-word story was, I have to admit, a lot stronger than the 10,000 word version. But it still hurt to make those cuts.

So the 100-hours rule makes sense to me. You film more than you need, and you write more than you need, in order to find the bits that tell the story in the best way.

But I don’t like to think about it when I’m writing a first draft. After all, I don’t set out to write extra scenes. (Well, not after the pre-writing stage, anyhow, but that’s for another post.) I work hard at my first drafts, and I want to believe that the effort isn’t wasted.

But maybe I’m looking at it wrong. I don’t think the filmmakers view those 100 hours as wasted. They’re just part of the process. Necessary.

One writing teacher advocated writing the first draft, then throwing it out and starting again. And I understand that — I do. After all, sometimes it’s only once I’ve finished a draft or two of the book that I really know what it’s about. But on the other hand, sometimes there’s an energy in that first draft that it seems a shame to lose.

Of course, by the time I’m finished editing, most of that original material is gone or changed anyhow.

I’m not sure I have a process for writing. I’m a planner, except when I’m not. And I do my outlines in a certain way, except when I don’t. The outlines only serve as an entry point, anyhow; once I start writing, things diverge from the plan.

At some point in every project, I have to accept that I’m winging it — that this book is different from others I’ve written, and that I’m a different writer than I was a year ago, and that what worked before might not work this time. That’s fine. It’s good — it means I’m learning.

But one thing I know is true. I will write scenes that don’t make it into the final version. Sometimes I mentally move them offstage — the action happened, but doesn’t need to be shown in the book. Sometimes I decide they represent another part of the character’s life, outside the scope of my story. And sometimes they’re just wrong.

But they always move me closer to knowing the character, and the story, that I want to explore. So from that point of view, I’m okay with putting in an extra 100 hours.

Or so.

Per chapter. (Gulp)

It’s not efficient, but writing isn’t an assembly line. This week, I’m working on an old project. I’ve written many drafts of it, and never felt that I was telling the story I wanted to tell. My edit, this round, is really more of a rewrite. Lots of old material is disappearing, and lots of new material is being added. Some characters are different now. There are key scenes that I know I want, and those will stay, but the way they all fit together might change.

I hope that this is all going to result in “footage” I can use. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. It’s worth trying. And if it results in a few more scenes on the keep pile, I’ll view my 100 hours as time well spent.

If all else fails, I’ll have material for some weird, ebook equivalent of DVD extras. Love those deleted scenes…

Last night my writing group critiqued one member’s middle-grade novel-in-progress. J’s novel is about a thirteen-year-old boy dealing with a truckload of difficult things–bullying at school, friendship conflicts, and a mother who struggles with clinical depression. In the current draft, near the beginning of the story, the mother attempts suicide. The boy is the one who finds her.

The scene has already been workshopped a few times. It’s gut-wrenchingly well written. There were a few tweaks suggested, but that wasn’t what dominated the discussion. The thing that bothers me, the reason the critique session sticks in my head, is that we spent a lot of time talking about whether the scene belongs in a middle-grade novel at all.

On one level, it’s simple. My knee-jerk reaction: “What do you mean? Of course it belongs!”

I like to see books that tackle difficult topics. Especially if, as is the case here, the writer is approaching them from a place of respect and understanding. Cheryl Rainfield, author of Scars (which has both won awards and been banned from libraries) is a good friend of mine. I admire her for the risks she takes in her storytelling.

But another group member brought up a valid point: would a middle-grade boy want to read about this? In a way, this points to an issue of balance. J is writing the boy’s story, not the mom’s. It’s a novel for kids. And so the trick is to avoid letting the mom’s depression take centre stage. The book needs to be about the boy dealing with his mom’s depression. And that shouldn’t be the only thing he’s dealing with, because as important as that is, it could very easily get a bit, well, lesson-y. That might be an issue book. There needs to be a story.

Another point was brought up: would a parent want their child reading this? And that’s where I get my back up. Very hypocritical of me, because I’m about as overprotective a mom as you’ll ever meet… but I tend not to hold Sarah back much when it comes to books. I think the right book can be a discussion starter.

I don’t think we can write the books that the parents want. Yes, easy for me to say — I’m about as edgy as a crumpled sock. None of my story ideas would likely even register on the librarian/teacher/parent alarm scale. (Although I did recently have my childhood piano teacher “slap my wrist” over some of the language in Boarder Patrol. I think the character says “crap” once or twice. Ah, Miss Breckenridge, I love and respect you, but you are not my target audience.)

I’m one of the lucky ones. I had a relatively happy, albeit nerdy, childhood. But a lot of kids are dealing with a lot of stuff, and to downplay these issues in books does them a disservice. I think that for a child who lives with a parent who deals with depression or another condition, seeing his world reflected in J’s book might help. It might help him feel less alone, might help him see that there’s hope. And maybe for another child, the book might offer a glimpse into a world that they don’t know. And maybe that’s part of where empathy comes from.

Anyhow, J, if you want my two cents’ worth, don’t downplay the scene. And don’t age the character. Not yet. Write the book and see where it takes you, and see what feels right. Your mind wanted the scene to run that way for a reason. Write the book now, and revisit it later, and change it only if it feels like that improves the story.

Be brave.

Today’s blog post is inspired by K.M. Weiland’s post on plotting. Worth a look, if you haven’t come across it already. I’m looking forward to her new book!

I’m an outliner. A “plotter,” as writer-types tend to call it. (As opposed to a “pantser,” who is more likely to start off with a character or image or talking graham cracker crumb and just start writing and see what happens.)

The thing is, my outline is nearly always wrong. It starts off well enough, but as I start writing, things change. It’s a tiny change at first. Just a little “oh, we’ll go around the block, but we’ll get there anyhow.”

But then the character who made that decision or had that experience comes to the next branching-off point, and he’s different. Characters are informed by experiences, just as we are. So maybe the character saw something that wasn’t in my original outline, and that something changed him. Or, as his personality emerges and is firmed up through dialogue and actions, I realize that he would never say or do what I had planned for him to say or do. The character I’ve written so far in the book would handle the problem in a completely different way.

One small branching-off leads to another, and usually by the time I’m nearing the end of the first draft, my map is useless. That’s always a major frustration point, when I’m ready to ball the whole thing up and feed it to the dog (she likes paper). But I get the dog a milk bone instead, and then muscle through it, or rethink it, or do whatever I have to do. Often I build a new map, sometimes I try to wing it. It’s different with each project.

In some writing circles, I keep quiet about my outlines and plot points. Being a plotter is a flaw, an embarrassment, a secret shame. Real writers rely on intuition. It’s art, not science. They follow their characters around all day and wait for the characters to make the decisions.

Well yes, that sometimes happens. In a way. At least, I suspect that something like that is happening when my outlines go awry. I get a skin-crawly feeling talking about characters coming alive inside my head, though, so I prefer not to look at that side of things too closely.

And I can’t even start writing without some kind of an outline, even knowing that it’s likely to be wrong. I think I’ve finally figured out why.

We all have different ways of incubating. I call it “back-burnering,” but incubating is probably more scientific. When I’m outlining, the characters and the situation and all the possibilities are rolling around in my mind. I’m spending time with them. I’m getting to know the story, and if I start writing too soon, it’s useless. Some people might incubate by researching a historical period, some by daydreaming, and some, maybe, by writing. My “pantser” friends tend to write many, many drafts. Maybe some of those early drafts are just another form of incubating.

Control freak that I am, I incubate by planning and making story maps and playing with ideas. I’ll write a couple of scenes from this character’s viewpoint or that one’s, try first and third person, see what works. Most of those early scribblings get chucked, but sometimes they help me firm up my outline.

I devour books on story structure and hang different methods on different story ideas as if I’m dressing them up in coats. Sooner or later, something will look right.

So this is me coming clean. I’m a plotter. I make maps and outlines and gosh-darned charts before I tackle a manuscript, and then do it all over again when I’m editing. I use giant sheets of paper and even a ruler. I colour-code things and I have an ongoing love affair with sticky notes. I use writing software that incorporates electronic index cards. And that’s okay.

You incubate in your way, I’ll incubate in mine. Can’t we just all be friends?

(Roll call: any other plotters out there? Drop me a line. We’ll start a support group or something.)

Some advice I’ve heard, and shared with my writing group often enough that I don’t remember where I learned it (Don Maass, I think, but I might have first come across it somewhere else), is to pay close attention to the first impression your character makes.

It sounds obvious, but I think it’s one of those ‘obvious’ things that gets lost while we’re paying attention to everything else. We all know that there needs to be a character arc, right? So it’s okay if my character is a miserable, self-absorbed grump in chapter one. By the end of the book, he’s going to be Mother Teresa! He needs to start off wrong-footed so there’s room to grow, doesn’t he?

Maybe. But the early chapters are also your chance to engage the reader. I don’t know about you, but I need some real redeeming qualities in that miserable, self-absorbed grump before I spend my time reading his story.

I’m reviewing a manuscript for a friend now. Since the story is aimed at kids around my daughter’s age (grade three, strong reader), I armed her with a highlighter and sticky notes and gave her the first chapter to read. It was an experiment, but a lot of her advice was bang on.

The opening paragraph describes a character struggling through the cold. The next line is spoken by the character: “Stupid wind!”

My daughter circled it. On a sticky note, she wrote “That’s not going to help. Doesn’t everybody know that?” (Actually it says “that’s not going to help cdoin’t eveybte know that” but I’m translating.)

It’s a tiny detail, but a telling one. I think that the reason my daughter found that line jarring is that, in the third line of a novel, our relationship with the character is in its infancy. Heck, it’s barely been conceived. And maybe a pointless exclamation thrown (literally) against the wind isn’t the best way to make a first impression.

In his book on screenwriting, Blake Snyder talks about a “save the cat moment” — a moment of heroism in the opening scene, where we see who the protagonist is and want to identify with him. It gets its name from an old movie where the hero stops to save a cat from a tree in the first scene. Which is kind of like attaching flashing lights and arrows to his head, with a sign that says “I’m a great guy, root for me!” I’m not sure it needs to be anything so blatant (and to be fair, neither is Snyder, if you read his book), but we need a reason to want to spend time with your main character.

Maybe she’s funny and has a great narrative voice. Maybe he’s secretly kind. Maybe she’s shown in contrast to people who are worse than she is. Editor Cheryl Klein explains in her book on writing that the opening scene of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone does just this. We meet the Dursleys and are encouraged not to like them. So when baby Harry shows up, and the Durleys don’t like him — well, we’re already onside with that tiny baby, aren’t we? And he hasn’t even had to do anything yet.

Most of us aren’t starting our main characters out as infants. They’re generally older and able to speak and act for themselves. As writers, we need to make sure they do that. Most of all we need to make sure that there’s something in there, some hint of a characteristic that makes the reader want to spend time with them.

Meeting a character is like meeting a stranger. We form an impression based on the first actions that we observe, the first words we hear. That impression can change over time, but let’s face it — you’re stuck beside the bragging loudmouth at the PTA meeting, but you can set down a book without finishing the first page.

It’s a problem in a lot of ‘new kid’ stories. Your character has just started at a new school. He’s worried and nervous. He misses his old friends. Realistically, he’s probably feeling whiny and resentful about the whole thing. Who wouldn’t be?

But we don’t want to read about the kid who sulks in the corner. We want to read about the one who gets out there and tries to make new friends. The one who chases the soccerball on the field. Maybe he misses it. Maybe he makes a fool of himself. Maybe he ticks off the other kids by messing up their game. But at least he tried.

Pay close attention to the first five, or ten, or fifteen things your character says and does. Look at the impression he makes in the first few chapters. And ask yourself if, not knowing how the story will turn out or how he’ll develop, this is a person you’d want to spend time with.

He doesn’t have to be perfect. Perfect is off-putting, too. But whatever it is that you love about your character, even if it’s just the potential to be more than he is at the start — make sure we get a glimpse of that.

Or barring that, stick a cat in a tree for him to save.

I have a confession to make. My current draft of Haze, an Orca Sports novel slated for publication next spring, is too long. Way too long. Stephen King’s “cut 10%” ain’t gonna do it. So this blog post is advice for me, as much as for anyone else. A few things to think about as I get out my scissors and head into the next set of revisions.

I work as a part-time Occasional Teacher, usually for the primary and junior grades. Not often, but sometimes, I get called in to cover classes in French Immersion schools. This happens only when the school board is very desperate and willing to settle, basically, for any teacher with a pulse.

It’s not that I didn’t try to learn French. I studied it all through high school and up to third year university. But that was a long time ago, and if you’re not using it on a regular basis… well, you find yourself facing first graders who put up their hands and then parlez at a bewildering rate. And you find yourself blinking and translating word by word, and all the while the poor kid just really, really just wants to use the toilette, s’il vous plait, madame. (Fortunately, the pee-pee dance transcends language barriers.)

I made it through the morning. But the afternoon included a science lesson on the water cycle. The teacher had left a fictional picture book for me to read, to set the tone for the lesson.

I couldn’t read it.

At lunch, I stood meekly in the staff room and asked for help from the French-speaking teachers there. One kind soul stepped forward. We translated the book together, me doing my best, she filling in the parts I couldn’t work out. My pronunciation… well, let’s not talk about it. But I had at least an idea of how to say most of the words, and of what the story was to go with each picture. It wasn’t going to be pretty, but I’d get through it.

I met the Principal in the hallway. She asked, in beautifully accented English, how my day was going. The kids were wonderful, and I told her so. Then I laughed and held up the picture book in my hand. “I had to get help,” I admitted.

She studied me for a moment. Then she said, “This is for science. It’s about the water cycle. Use English if you have to.”

Use English. Of course. Because the point of the lesson had nothing to do with French, and only a little to do with the picture book. The point of the lesson, the thing the kids needed to leave with an understanding of, was the water cycle.

So where’s the writing application here? It’s about remembering the point of the book, the story, the chapter, the scene, whatever it is. And not getting carried away by the language.

I know how I’m going to approach this set of cuts. I’m going to go through my book scene by scene, and work out the point of each one. Some of them will probably fail the “justify your existence” test (I got that line from editor Cheryl Klein, but I can’t remember if it came from her book or from the online seminar I just took), and they’ll have to go. Others will be honed so the point comes through more clearly.

And some of the extra stuff, I’ll be sad to see go. It might be funny, or moving, or just plain good. But if it doesn’t serve the story–if it doesn’t help me get to the point–it probably doesn’t belong.

And secretly, I’m excited about this opportunity. I think one of the best things I’ve written is a science fiction short story that start out at 2500 words, then ballooned up to 10,000 words as I explored the world and the characters. The published version is 6000 words, which feels like the right length for the story–but I had to write those 10,000 words to get there and find the right scenes. I’m crossing my fingers that it works out that way for Haze.

Have you every had to grow a story before you could cut it to size?

So I read the other day on Twitter that the world is ending this weekend. And really, if the world were ending, where else would you find out about it? If you can’t trust Twitter, what can you trust?

It reminded me of the last time I heard about the world ending. This happened a little over ten years ago, back when I was a technical writer for a software company. You’ll think I’m talking about the Y2K crisis; I’m not, although I do remember the panic around that. The software company made more than a little money off of Y2K projects.

But no. This is something different.

The company was small enough that we shared office space with another software company. And one of their senior consultants (we’ll call him Bob; plenty of Bobs in this world) was sure that the world was going to end on May 5 (the Cinco de Mayo) of the year 2000.

This was something out of the Mayan calendar. And something to do with the planets all lining up on the opposite side of the sun from the Earth. I didn’t quite follow all of what he said, but I gathered that major tectonic shifts and world-ending weather anomalies were expected.

Bob was a smart guy. Scientific, well spoken, successful. He had a lovely wife and three or four bright, well-behaved kids. And also, he had planned his life around the coming apocalypse.

I hesitate to consider whether the three or four kids were part of the plan, but he had studied local fault lines and predicted the likely outcomes of earthquakes before buying the property where his house was built. Out in the country, of course. I believe that there was some kind of fallout shelter involved, well stocked with water and canned goods. The family was as self-sufficient as possible, at that time, as far as water supply and electricity; they had the land, if not the time, to grow their own vegetables. He was ready for disaster, and he talked openly about it.

Had he not fixed a date to the disaster, he would have been prudent. Environmentally friendly, even. But he had a specific date in mind. He knew when, and how, the world would end, and that was the driving force behind many, if not all, of his actions. And that made him interesting. Weird, but interesting.

I was reading something recently about how characters need to have a passion. I believe it. We’re drawn to people who are different, who are passionate, who are motivated. Action is interesting. If Bob had just talked about the world ending and not done anything about it, I probably wouldn’t remember him nearly so well.

So there are a couple of things I want to point out here, from a character development point of view.

1. I know he really believed the world was ending, because he took action accordingly. He didn’t just pay it lip service. He didn’t just think about it. He acted. Makes me want to look at my characters and make sure that, right or wrong, they’re acting on their convictions.

2. The fact that he was wrong didn’t make his conviction any less interesting. In fact, it made it more so. So the take-away there is that it’s okay if your character is barking up the wrong tree, as long as he has a reason for it. And honestly, the more I see him act on it, the less convincing I need that his reasons are valid. I know that he thinks they’re valid, and that carries a lot of weight.

3. Bob was not a paranoid, shelter-building recluse. He was a senior consultant. Good with clients. Friendly. Respected. Extremely intelligent. Which is another reason why he sticks in my memory, and the stereotypical guy on the street corner with a sign that says “the end is near” gets forgotten. Contrast is good.

May the 5th fell on a Friday that year. I think he was off-site, or at least not in the office that Friday. Because I remember the following Monday, the 8th, as being the awkward day. What do you say? “Good morning, Bob. Nice weather we’re having, eh? And hey, look — we still have weather!” Smile.

I think we left it at “Good morning, Bob.” Or at least, I did. I can’t speak for the guys in the stockroom. They were their own sorts of characters, and acted on their own convictions.

It seems to me that as writers, we could do worse than push our characters outside the norm and let them act on their convictions. Let them be different. Let them be weird. Let them be right, or take a real risk and let them be wrong. Let them follow their beliefs and fall on their faces doing it. And learn from it, or not. Either way, it will make them memorable.

P.S. You may gather from this post that I don’t believe the world is any more likely to end this weekend than at any other time. I’m not an expert in these matters, but it has been my experience that apocalyptic events rarely run on schedule. But if it were ending?

I’d want to write. Maybe read a little. Spend time outdoors, spend time with my family. So that’s what I’m going to do. How about you?

I spent last weekend at a Screenwriters’ Summit in Toronto, with fellow children’s writers Lena Coakley, Cheryl Rainfield, Karen Krossing, Jennifer Gordon and Urve Tamberg. My brain is still on overload. But I learned stuff. Oh, yes, I learned stuff. (No, I wasn’t just there for the movie clips.)

The speakers: Syd Field. John Truby. Linda Seger. Michael Hauge. I felt like I was meeting my movie stars. It was amazing. And the ideas! My hand nearly fell off, I wrote so much.

Here’s some of what I learned:

Linda Seger

Linda differentiates between art, craft and the creative process. All three are important, and all three need to be cultivated.

Art is the “voice” of the writer, which ties in to the writer’s outlook on the world. Is most of what you write optimistic? Pessimistic? Do you have an agenda? Will you use an intellectual tone, a paranoid tone, a warm tone? Voice is something that emerges over years and over a body of work.

Craft is technique. It’s the part of writing that you can learn. It’s reading books on writing, reading books as a writer, not just as a reader. Watching movies and thinking about the structure of them. Trying new things and failing. Trying again.

Creative Process is unique to the writer. The point here is to learn your own work habits — are you most productive in the morning? At night? — and be aware of them, so you can plan your work time accordingly.

Linda had a lot of other great things to say, too, but some of it has already been touched on in Lena’s and Karen’s posts. Make sure you take a look! Linda’s books are also worth checking out.

John Truby

I’d love to write up John Truby’s talk in its entirety and share it here. I think that was the part of the weekend when the hand cramps started. I just couldn’t write fast enough to keep up with all of the fascinating things he had to say. He’s got a book. Trust me, you want to read it.

One thing to start with: differentiate between your main character’s need, and his desire or goal. The character’s need is a weakness. It’s something holding your character back. It’s the root of your character arc.

The character’s desire is specific to your story — maybe she wants to be an astronaut, but if your novel is about striving to get the highest mark on the grade twelve physics exam, that’s the desire. (Obviously, you’d want to put the astronaut thing in there, too, because that’s just cool.)

And your antagonist? That’s the guy who wants to keep your main character from reaching her goal, of course. Probably because he wants it, too.

Syd Field

Syd Field talked mostly about setting up and establishing story. A lot of what he had to say was kind of specific to the movie business (voice-overs, anyone?), but here’s one thing that I thought was interesting for the YA writers out there.

What Syd calls a “circle of being” event (sounds a bit California for me, frankly), is a traumatic experience that affects the characters life either emotionally, physically or mentally.

This experience usually takes place between the ages of 13 and 20. That’s important, because those teen years are when the family stops being the absolute centre of life. Teens turn outward and rely more on friends and there social circle. It’s an emotionally charged time.

A “circle of being” event might be the loss of a parent, or a move to another city. It might be an accident that permanently changes the character, as in the movie The Lookout. The ripple effects of this event will follow your character throughout their life.

Sounds like inciting incident material to me.

Syd, of course, has a book as well.

Michael Hauge

Michael Hauge was, I think, a little nervous about following all these giants. He didn’t need to be. His talk was amazing. It was another one of those sessions where I wished I had brought a spare hand along with me so I could write faster. (No, I’m not ambidextrous.)

His book (a new edition!) is on my wish list now.

My favourite part of Michael’s talk, besides the bit where he bribed us with schmancy bookmarks printed with his take on plot structure, was when he lined up the arcs.

Michael has his own take on three-act structure. Now I’ve read a lot of versions of three-act structure, and I had just listened to John Truby explaining that there was no such thing, but I like Michael’s take. I like it because he showed how the outer journey, the external arc of the story, lines up with the character’s inner journey, the inner arc. You don’t just lay a foundation for change and then have the character suddenly flip in the last scene. The change happens gradually. A character wavers back and forth between who he was and who he might be. It made a lot of sense, and helped me understand some issues in my own works-in-progress.

It was an intense weekend, filled with lots of great new information. I was glad to be there with friends. “Pssst — Cheryl! What did he just say? What movie was that?”

It was kind of like university all over again. Except better. Because this version featured Harrison Ford clips.

To learn more about the summit, read what Cheryl Rainfield, Lena Coakley and Karen Krossing had to say.