I generally end up adding material when I revise (I draft bare-bones and bulk it up afterwards), but I know I’m unusual in this, and this article’s advice is good regardless. Basically: Outline what you’ve already written, and it will show you what’s unnecessary and what doesn’t fit.
I’m part of an online community where we critique each other’s work, and the critique I find myself offering most often is that the story lacks clarity. Outlining so you can figure out what the story actually is will help you to solve this problem.
(I have a technique I call the “rich outline,” which isn’t just about plot events, but any aspect of the story you want to work on: imagery, language, character, setting, emotional beats. It’s a general fix for a number of story ailments.)
I happen to enjoy cooking shows, which is why I read this article on one chef’s theory of food. But I ended up wondering if it could be applied to writing.
Basically, he’s saying: find the underlying “formal pattern” of a dish and translate it into different ingredients. Classic dishes are classic because they work reliably. Take a classic and deconstruct it; what are its parts? Now, what can you substitute for those parts?
I’ve heard Brandon Sanderson remark on the Writing Excuses podcast that a buddy-cop movie has essentially the same underlying structure as a romance. He often refers to stories that have no overt reference to sports as “underdog sports” stories: outsider joins group of losers, they learn to accept the outsider and are inspired to win.
So, could I write a heist novel where the project isn’t a heist, but an engineering challenge? Or a mystery novel where the mystery isn’t a murder, but a scientific (or historical, or archaeological) puzzle? (I’m sure that’s been done.) What other ways could we use classic structures with new ingredients?
What do you do if you receive a story rejection that says the pace is too slow; revise it, adding 200 words; and get another rejection that says it now feels rushed?
Well, if you’re me, you sit down and write a post about pacing, how it’s perceived, and how, as authors, we can control that perception.
One of the things I find interesting about this that the article doesn’t mention is that Christie claimed she didn’t know in advance who the murderer was. She’d decide late in the book, and then go back and revise to point the appropriate clues to them.
So if she really was writing to a formula, it was largely unconscious.
Via Laura Gibbs. I’ve only played Portal and Journey out of those listed, so I have some treats ahead of me, it seems.
Originally shared by Arthur Gillard
Very interesting article. “Your experimental technological literature is already here; it’s the noise you’re trying to get your children to turn down while you pen your thoughts about the future of location-based storytelling.”
“To pick just 10 examples from recent years, it’s hard to imagine how you could opine on the future of literature without having played the brilliantly characterful and fourth-wall breaking Portal, the sombre and engrossing Papers, Please, or the dazzlingly surreal exploration of the American subconscious, Kentucky Route Zero. Are you interested in discussing experimental “read it in any order” literature? Then for goodness’ sake, play the mystery narratives of Her Story and Gone Home and the hilarious and unsettling The Stanley Parable. If you want to talk about how writers can engage with politics, capitalism, or the environmental movement, you’ll be showing your ignorance if you haven’t played Oiligarchy.
“Interested in how storytellers can engage with themes of mortality? You’ll want Spider: The Secret of Bryce Manor, or Jason Rohrer’s short, powerful game Passage, or the sublime Journey. Each of these games could – and probably should – be taught in schools to inspire the next generation of creators.”