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My Favorite Books of 2017

With 2017 in the rear-view and 2018 on the horizon, I figure now’s as good a time as any to share with you my favorite books I read this past year. Hope you enjoy them as much as I did!

Consider the Lobster by David Foster Wallace

From Amazon

David Foster Wallace was an excellent writer and a really brilliant guy. Though his life was cut tragically short, we’re fortunate enough to still have his writing. If you’d like to get acquainted with that writing, consider Consider the Lobster. This collection includes essays and articles on a variety of subjects, including the Maine Lobster Festival, crappy sports biographies, pornography, and why John Updike was a bonafide narcissist. Plus, Wallace writes about 40 pages on English language style guides, which is itself an impressive feat.

The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut

From Amazon

This book is almost sixty years old, so I’m not exactly telling anyone anything new by saying that it’s good. But The Sirens of Titan represents Vonnegut at the top of his game, as far as I’m concerned. He blends social commentary, religion, war, and politics all into one, with his trademark humor and wit to match. My favorite line from this book: “Theology: Someone created the universe for some reason.”

The Drawing of the Three by Stephen King

From Amazon

I don’t read a lot of series these days, but I’ll make an exception for The Dark Tower. As the second entry in the series, this is a really beautiful continuation of an outstanding start. The originality and sheer weirdness of the book are excellent, as are the plot and characters. Though it’s a somewhat lengthy book at 400 pages, it goes fast.

Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood

From Amazon

Prior to this novel, the only other Margaret Atwood I’d read was Negotiating with the Dead. I didn’t particularly care for that one, so I wasn’t quite sure what to expect from Oryx and Crake. I loved it. This is a book about a guy named Snowman, who lives in a withered version of the world without many humans or resources. The narrative shifts back and forth between Snowman’s present and past, showing how he and the world became what they are now. A word of warning: once you read this book and find out what “ChickieNobs” are, you’re unlikely to ever eat at KFC again.

Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel

From Amazon

Another book about a post-civilization future, though it’s more likely you’ve heard of this one before. Station Eleven has gotten a lot of national attention, and for good reason. After disease tears through the human population, an acting troupe travels the world performing Shakespeare’s plays. That’s just the main plot, though. In a wider sense, this book is about legacy, religion, art, and survival. The author, Emily St. John Mandel, does some fancy footwork with the narrative by flipping back and forth in time. While it takes a while to get used to, I loved this style because one sees how the characters connect, how certain artifacts got into the hands of others, and more. Very neat story. If you’re looking for books to read in the new year, I recommend these. Have a wonderful 2018!
Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. His debut novel, Gerald Barkley Rocksis available now on Amazon Kindle.

NaNoWriMo 2017 in Review

Image courtesy of National Novel Writing Month.

It’s December, which means NaNoWriMo 2017 is officially in the books. This is the second time I participated and the first time I hit the 50,000 word mark. I’m glad I did it.

Did you participate in National Novel Writing Month too? If so, you probably learned a lot about yourself as a writer. I know I did. Allow me to share my best takeaways.

You Really Can Do It

Writing an entire novel seems impossible—until you do it. Participating in National Novel Writing Month is proof of that fact.

This year, I enjoyed using the NaNoWriMo website to track my progress. I entered my word count every day to see how many words I wrote each day, and how many more I needed to stay on track for my goal. Super handy and a great way to stay motivated.

You Just Did the Hardest Part

Buy yourself a coke, champ. Filling a few hundred blank pages is a monumental accomplishment.

Of course, we’ve just got manuscripts right now. They’re not novels until we edit them!

Though this is another daunting task, we now have the confidence to do it. Plus, it’s actually pretty fun to paint a shinier coat over the initial strokes. Since we’ve been racing against the clock all month, it’s unlikely that our first draft is ready for readers.

So let’s reorganize and refine those raw concepts. The result is sure to be magnificent.

People Now Think You’re Awesome

I mentioned this in my pre-NaNoWriMo blog post, but I think it bears repeating: people are always impressed when you finish a novel manuscript. I once interviewed for an internship and was asked what accomplishment I was most proud of. My answer: “I finished a manuscript for a novel.” I don’t have conclusive evidence, but I think it went a long way toward getting the internship.

Just because NaNoWriMo’s over for this year doesn’t mean we should stop writing. Keep at it!

Why the Divide Between Speculative Fiction and Literature?

Floating Castle

Literature | ˈlit(ə)rəCHər | noun | Written works, especially those considered of superior or lasting artistic merit. – New Oxford American Dictionary


According to a certain stuffy pocket of the literary community, science fiction, fantasy, and horror, collectively known as speculative fiction, don’t qualify as literature. Decent stories? Maybe. Cool ideas? Sure. But in the eyes of this snobbish literary elite, speculative fiction just doesn’t measure up to stuff like The Grapes of Wrath and Moby Dick

Would you ever read Moby Dick willingly? Yeah, neither would I.

Take the 2003 National Book Awards as an example. That year’s winner was none other than Stephen King, who of course mainly writes horror. The literary elite wasted no time in attacking him, no doubt because he’s just a lowly genre writer. Here’s a quite from critic Harold Bloom.

“The decision to give the National Book Foundation’s annual award for ‘distinguished contribution’ to Stephen King is extraordinary, another low in the shocking process of dumbing down our cultural life. I’ve described King in the past as a writer of penny dreadfuls, but perhaps even that is too kind. He shares nothing with Edgar Allan Poe. What he is is an immensely inadequate writer on a sentence-by-sentence, paragraph-by-paragraph, book-by-book basis.”

You forgot chapter-by-chapter, Harry, but whatever. I disagree with you.

In an episode of my favorite podcast, The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy, host David Barr Kirtley led a panel on this very debate. Recorded to promote Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2015, edited by John Joseph Adams and Joe Hill, the panel featured such influential SF figures as Adams, Hill, Carmen Maria Machado, Seanan McGuire, and Jess Row.

It’s interesting; Adams and Hill have starkly different opinions on the purpose of the volume. On the one hand, John Joseph Adams thinks of Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy as a vehicle for speculative fiction to prove its worth to the literary mainstream. In his own words:

“I and other science fiction fans believe that the best science fiction and fantasy is on par with or better than any other genre. My goal with The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy was to prove that.”

Joe Hill, however, argues that speculative fiction has already merged with literature, and that it did so a long time ago.

“The instruments of science fiction and fantasy—the tools in that genre toolbox—have been out there in the literary world and being explored for at least a decade now, in work by people like Jonathan Lethem, Michael Chabon, Margaret Atwood, and Cormac McCarthy. Science fiction and fantasy is part of the literary mainstream, and has been for a while now.”

At first glance, Hill’s argument resonated more with me. There are so many novels out there—The Road, Fahrenheit 451, Cloud Atlas, and 1984, just to name a few—that are generally considered literary, non-genre works, yet are so clearly speculative fiction that it’s difficult to argue otherwise.

The more I’ve thought about this debate, the more I’ve started to like a decidedly different answer.

Why doesn’t the literary mainstream accept speculative fiction?

Why does it matter?

Let’s refer back to our definition of literature for a second. In the grand scheme of things, does The Lord of the Rings have “superior or lasting merit”? I’d say so. Since the trilogy’s publication in 1954, it’s been an enduring classic for generation upon generation. It’s been translated into 38 different languages (not sure if Tengwar counts there). Furthermore, it’s a story about enduring human ideas: friendship, tyranny, power, greed, love.

Does The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy have lasting merit? Does DraculaDoes Slaughterhouse Five? 

If you’ve ever read any of those books, you already know the answer.

Truth is, we don’t need to speak up for speculative fiction. Speculative fiction speaks for itself.

 

 

Are you a fan of speculative fiction? Me too. Check out some of my speculative work here.

Unearned and Pointless: When Character Deaths Don’t Work

From Amazon

In fiction, everything happens for a reason. So when characters bite the dust, the audience wants to understand why. (Unless we’re talking about someone like Joffrey Lannister. In which case, reasons need not apply.)

A film called Trick ‘r Treat got me thinking about this topic. I really enjoyed this movie. It’s a horror-comedy Halloween anthology film featuring a murderous school principal, zombie children, and a demonic trick or treater. I loved pretty much every minute of this film—except for the very first scene.

It begins with two characters: Emma and Henry. They’ve just returned from a night of trick or treating, and Emma decides to dismantle their Halloween decorations, since she knows Henry won’t do it. Henry’s kind of like, “Yeah. True.” He also points out that removing decorations before the night’s over goes against tradition. Emma does it anyway.

As she’s putting away the decorations, an unseen assailant murders her. Henry comes out later and finds Emma’s dismembered corpse in the yard. And…scene!

Okay, this is a horror movie. The mortality rate for characters in horror films is far above the national average. And, as I mentioned, I think this is an excellent film. Yet I have an issue with this scene because the character’s death feels undeserved and pointless.

First of all, when we meet Emma and Henry, Henry feels like the character more deserving of death (no offense, Henry). He’s dopey and clueless. Plus, he won’t help with the stupid decorations. Emma, on the other hand, seems like a perfectly likable character. She doesn’t do anything in the scene to make her death feel earned aside from breaking the rules of Halloween. Yet she isn’t ware of the rules (nor is the audience) until it’s too late.

Here’s the thing about character deaths: Oftentimes they should feel either earned or significant to the plot. Otherwise, they feel cheap. If the villain dies at the end, no one minds. If the main character’s best friend dies and that death has no further bearing on the plot, something’s off.

I’ve seen cheap character deaths in other films as well, and they’re just as jarring. For instance, in Jurassic Worldthere’s an assistant character named Zara who’s needlessly and brutally eaten by dinosaurs. It isn’t just the character’s death that’s jarring—it’s the way she dies, being dropped into the waiting jaws of a sea monster. Seems unnecessarily nasty.

As mentioned earlier, I’ll admit that genre bends this rule somewhat. We expect character to die in horror films, often in gruesome ways. This makes sense, considering the genre is all about scaring its audience.

Still, the best works of fiction, horror or not, should strive to make character deaths feel earned. Deaths are plot points, after all, so like any plot point, the preceding actions must progress toward them. If an author/filmmaker doesn’t work toward a character’s demise (whether it’s a nasty one or just a regular one), it can often feel hollow. Plus, if a perfectly innocent character gets killed in a really awful way, audiences are likely to be repelled.

Character deaths work best when they’re earned or they serve a purpose to the plot. Striking that perfect balance is a challenge, one that even experienced filmmakers and authors don’t always get right.

Okay, I’m gonna go clean up my Halloween decorations. Wish me luck.

Vonnegut, King, Rushdie, and the Art of the Opening Line

Writer

Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five, widely considered a literary classic, starts with a simple sentence:

“All this happened, more or less.”

Isn’t that an amazing first line?

Now we’re not all Kurt Vonnegut (okay, none of us are), but we can still learn from the guy.

Why is this line so good? It sets the tone: satirical, somewhat detached, and spare. Thousand-page tomes are all well and good, but concise and precise literature is oftentimes even better.

Of course, there are many ways to start a story. Stephen King’s opening lines, for instance, often display a distinct style. Here’s the first sentence of King’s short story “The Monkey”:

“When Hal Shelburn saw it, when his son Dennis pulled it out of a mouldering Ralston-Purina carton that had been pushed far back under one attic eave, such a feeling of horror and dismay rose in him that for one moment he thought he would scream.”

King takes a slightly different approach than Vonnegut, though I think it’s no less effective. The first sentence of Slaughterhouse Five serves to set the tone for the rest of the novel. King, on the other hand, often starts with a character, sometimes several, and a situation. In our example, we’ve got Hal Shelburn, a father, and his son, Dennis. Dennis just pulled something awfully creepy out of a corner of the attic. What is this thing? Why is it so scary? The only way to find out is to read on. And that’s what makes it so effective.

For a third example, let’s turn to the great Salman Rushdie. His controversial 1988 novel The Satanic Verses begins thusly:

“‘To be born again,’ sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, ‘first you have to die.'”

This sentence is sick.

There’s a lot going on here. We have an element of fantasy introduced: the process of resurrection. We have a main character who is perhaps offering wisdom to another character. We also have the exciting image of a man “tumbling from the heavens.” How did he get there? Who is he singing to? Why the heck would a guy who’s falling from the sky be singing? There’s only one way to find out…

The best first sentences grab our interest, make us wonder, and invite us into the story. They might address tone or character or action or any number of other story elements, but, it seems to me, they all do one thing: demand us to read the rest.

Wonderland is a Shade of White

You hear a noise in the night.

You toss back the sheets and swing your legs over the bed’s edge. You creep out into the dark. Your husband doesn’t seem to hear—not surprising. He doesn’t hear anything when he’s asleep, not the baby crying or the sink dripping water or the muffled sounds you sometimes hear when you’re lying awake in bed. Crying—that’s what it sounds like.

The moon lights your way. It peeks in at you through the parallel windows near the door. You’ve always loved the moon, the night. You love the soft pallet of cool colors, the blues and purples and blacks created by the darkness.

There’s a painting on the wall near the basement door: an image of a house in the woods at night. It’s your house, the one you’re in now. It might be the best painting you’ve ever done.

You peer at your painting, your house, and you notice something that you hadn’t before. There’s a person in the frame. A man standing under the eave of the roof, his face obscured by shadow.

Odd. You don’t remember painting that.

The man turns to stare at you. You admire the way his face is shaded, the perspective of his hand as it reaches out. He looks quite lifelike. You’ve always struggled with the human form—whoever did this man did a fantastic job.

Of course, you’re dreaming. You must be. Paintings only move in dreams.

Yes, you must be dreaming, because the man reaches through the frame, and he touches you. His fingers are moist slugs against your skin.

You scream, and when you do, your husband asks you to stop screaming, he’s trying to sleep.

Your eyes snap open. Here you are, back in bed next to your husband. Turns out he does wake up—you just have to shriek really loudly. He reiterates the fact that he’s trying to sleep. And then he rolls over.

You lie awake. You stare at the white ceiling. You promise yourself that it was just a dream. Paintings don’t move in real life, after all.

Then why are there paint smudges on your arm, right where the man from your dream touched you?

#

Hours pass, and you’re still staring at the ceiling. The white ceiling. You remember choosing that shade of white for the master bedroom, though you can’t remember the name. Something like a fairy tale, maybe?

You hear the baby crying in the other room. You’re not surprised. You’re also not surprised that your husband is still snoring loudly beside you, oblivious. Of course, of course.

You walk into the baby’s room, just one door down from yours. You pick her up and hold her and she stops crying immediately. You’re thankful for that—for a pair of nascent lungs, hers are powerful.

You take her downstairs and you feed her. And finally, an hour or so later, your husband wakes up and joins you. He asks you how you slept. That’s when you remember your strange dream.

You tell him about it. He listens to you. He says it probably means you have repressed rage or something, then heads upstairs to get dressed for work.

On a whim, you glance at your painting, the one near the basement door. It looks just the way you remember it looking—dark shading, smoke rising from the chimney, silver moon peering over an intricate tree line.

But no man. No hand reaching out of the frame.

It makes you feel a bit silly for thinking, even for a moment, that your dream might’ve been real. You’ve had nightmares before, many of them, but you’ve never had one quite so vivid as last night’s. Like dreaming in living color, some might say.

Frightening, certainly. But not real.

The baby is crying again. Your husband shouts this down to you from upstairs, as if you hadn’t noticed.

You wash your hands. And when you hold them under the hot, steaming water, something drips off into the basin. It looks like paint. But you haven’t been painting.

It’s strange and a little disconcerting that the paint washing off your hands, the paint you don’t remember painting with, is the same color as your skin.

#

You go through the day without looking at your painting. You avoid it the way you might avoid making eye contact with someone you have a history with. Still, you feel a gaze on your back, as though it’s looking at you. You can’t explain why you feel this way.

Your husband goes off to work. You don’t see him again for the rest of the day and most of the night. When he comes home, finally, he smells strange. Almost like paint.

The baby cries and cries all day, and she won’t stop unless you hold her. You just want the poor kid to be happy, for once.

Some time that night, you finally dare to look at the painting of your house. Again, there’s something there you don’t remember adding. Through the window in the lower half of the house, you have a clear view of the basement door and the wall beside it.

That wall should be blank—you did not paint anything on it—but now there’s a picture there. You look at the picture, you get as close as you can. It’s so small. You can’t be sure, but it almost looks like the painting within your painting is a painting of a house.

You drag your husband over to it and you ask him if he notices anything different about it. He looks at it for about a second, says he likes it, then pulls out his phone. You tell him to put his god damn phone away and look at it, really. He does, he looks at the image for about five seconds this time, and he informs you that it’s great. He likes the shading. The tree detail.

You ask him what he means by that, by the detail. He says he doesn’t know, he just likes it. And please, he asks you not to bother him, he has emails to get to. When he leaves the room, the baby starts to cry again. And your husband informs you that the baby’s crying.

#

That night, you can’t fall asleep. It’s silent for now, no dripping faucet, no baby crying, no unexplained sobbing from downstairs. Yet your mind clings to the painting.

Why do your thoughts always drift back there? Why can’t you force it from your mind? You peel back the sheets and walk downstairs.

The painting is right where you left it. It’s funny—you know it’s just watercolor on canvas, you did it yourself. Then why does it look so much like a photograph now?

Through the lower window of the house, you see a figure leaning over to look at the painting near the basement door. A man. He turns.

This is another dream, clearly. Figures in paintings don’t move. The man in your painting, though, he moves. He steps out of the house, through the front door.

The painting makes a sound, you realize. Crying, it’s crying. It sounds like the baby, yet it’s not your baby. It’s coming from the painting itself.

You feel something dribbling out of your nose. You reach up to touch it; it’s thick and oily. You think it’s blood at first, but blood isn’t white. Blood doesn’t smell metallic.

You look down at your hands and they look indistinct. The edges, which should be sharp and defined, are instead fuzzy. Like careless brushstrokes.

Meanwhile, your painting looks so real, so vivid, so lifelike. It looks real as the paint that oozes from your nose, your eyes, your ears, the paint that coats your lungs and your body and your thoughts, and you try to scream, but all that comes up is a mushy wet gurgle from your throat. And the man emerging from your painting, he whispers your name.

#

You wake up and stare at the ceiling of your bedroom. Paint, there’s paint on the ceiling. You remember its name now: Wonderland. Isn’t that pretty?

###

© Kyle A. Massa, 2017. All rights reserved. No part of this short story may be duplicated or distributed in any form or by any means without expressed written consent from the author.

If you’d like to read more of my fiction, you can find it here.

Why You Should Try National Novel Writing Month

Image courtesy of National Novel Writing Month.

National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo, as the cool kids say) is a fun time of the year. It’s a time when people come together to create their own versions of one of the greatest forms of art there is: the novel!

Have you tried it before? Are you thinking of trying it? Here are some reasons you’ll want to join National Novel Writing Month yourself.

NaNoWriMo Gives You a Hard Deadline

I explored this idea in an earlier blog post from this month, but it’s still relevant, no matter what. In my opinion, most writers need deadlines.

This might sound harsh. Still, I know a ton of talented people who could generate a ton of great work, if only they hadn’t been working on the same project for three years. I’m not trying to put anyone down for doing so; writing is your time, and you should work on whatever projects you’d like. But hey. Sometimes you’ve got to move on to the next project.

I know I need deadlines. I often review my stories numerous times, making cosmetic (and ultimately low-impact) edits. For example: shuffling commas around. This is probably not a great use of my time, and it’s why I like deadlines. At some point, I can say, “This is as good as it’s going to be.” And then move on.

NaNoWriMo Gives You a Sense of Community

Unless you dig the working in a coffee shop thing, writing might feel a little lonely. And even if you do work at Starbuck’s, baristas are unlikely to chat about your first chapter.

But during National Novel Writing Month, you’ll have an entire community to people to discuss your writing with. NaNoWriMo is one of the rare times when everyone writes crazily hard for an entire month. Yes, that’s write—ahem, sorry. That’s right.

If you’re feeling lonely, head over to the National Novel Writing Month homepage. You can register your novel there, update your progress, and chat with others who are doing the same. Writing novels is hard, so feel free to encourage your friends as they slog through theirs. They’ll do the same for you.

NaNoWriMo Helps You Improve

Being a writer is all about gradual improvement. The first novel you ever write is probably going to be hideous. That’s just how it is. The key is to improve, and continue improving.

NaNoWriMo helps you do that. It gives you an excuse to go ham on your long-form writing skills for a while. Plus, it gives you a short window to do it in. As stated above, it’s kind of like forced practice. And, it’s a better time than any to get those much-needed reps.

I’ve found that the more time I put into my writing, the better it gets. So if you try NaNoWriMo, that’s a whole month of excellent practice. Which will help you improve. Which will help you write something even better next year. Woo hoo!

Bonus: People Will Give You Mad Props

If you tell another human being that you’ve written a book, they’ll be super impressed, especially if they’re not a writer.

Give yourself a deadline. Join a community. Improve your writing. Earn street cred. National Novel Writing Month starts in a little over a week on Wednesday, November 1st. Try it out!

Chunk Writing and Why It Might Work For You

I’m sure you’ve heard the proverb “there are many ways to skin a cat.” I myself find this phrase distasteful, if not downright alarming. However, the general idea is still relevant, especially to writing.

Let’s rephrase it. There are many ways to write a book. (Be nice to cats.)

Part of writing long-form narratives is discovering what works best for us. Learn how others write, but don’t feel the need to copy them.

I’ve found a process that works for me. I didn’t invent it, but so far as I know, I did invent the name for it. I call it chunk writing (patent pending).

No, chunk writing is not treating yourself to chunks of food while writing (though it could be, if that works for you). Chunk writing—or at least the version of it I’d like to describe today—is exactly what it sounds like: writing a story in chunks. They need not be, and often aren’t, in chronological order. Rather, you come up with individual scenes you’re excited about, write them, then string them together.

For Starters

I begin chunk writing with a character. Imagine, for example, a story about a cat named Mittens who’s searching for his favorite litter box. (The main character is a cat because I like cats. Also, we’re still making amends to the cat community for that comment at the beginning.)

It’s often best to start with a character you love. Character should almost always drive plot, so be sure you’re invested in this person (or feline). You could also start with a setting, or a scene, or a line of dialogue. Again, writing is all about what works best for you.

Once you’ve found your starting point, write it down on an index card. Or a word document, a piece of paper, a stone tablet—whatever you dig most. Ask yourself some questions: who is this person? What are they searching for? Familiarize yourself with your character.

Next Steps

Most stories are about a journey. Characters start somewhere, then end up somewhere else. With that thought in mind, write an index card for the beginning of your story and another for the end. The challenge is getting from one point to the other.

For this part, I tend to focus on the scenes I’m most excited to write. This keeps me invested in the story I’m telling.

Let’s jump back to the story of Mittens the crusading cat. I’m hyped to write the scene where Mittens confronts his nemesis the vacuum cleaner. Therefore, this should be one of the first notecards I create. You can fill in the less important (and sometimes less interesting) transitional chapters later.

Elmore Leonard said that you shouldn’t bother writing the parts your readers will skip. While you might want to write them anyway and cut them from the final product, the index card method gives you a preliminary feel for your chapters. If the index card itself feels boring or unimportant, you might not commit time to fleshing it out.

Pulling It All Together

Once I’ve got some index cards I’m excited about, I start writing! At this stage, I don’t worry about revisions. I might go back and switch out an index card or make some mental notes for later. The most important thing is just to get the words down.

While chunk writing might sound like a lot of work upfront, I’ve found that it creates a better final product. For me, it gives direction without the rigidity of an outline.

Everyone’s writing process is different. I hope these tips prove useful, but I doubt the exact same methods will work for you. Just keep writing and discovering. And be nice to cats.

Developing Good Characters in Fiction

Good characters aren’t stick figures. They demand more detail than lines, circles, and basic expressions.

As writers, if we want our characters to go from good to great, we’ve got to do more. It’s our job to fill in the lines, to add shading, texture, subtlety, and nuance.

It’s difficult, but that doesn’t mean we can’t do it. Here are a few good places to focus:

Voice

Giving characters distinct voices helps make them feel real. Easier said than done.

One of the best ways to find a character’s voice is writing that character constantly. You probably won’t find a character’s distinct tone the first time you write them. More likely, you’ll write them, revise them, and refine their voice over time.

A great example is George R.R. Martin’s Patchface, a weird jester who speaks in poems and riddles. For example: “Under the sea, smoke rises in bubbles, and flames burn green and blue and black. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.” He’s mysterious, nutty, and a little creepy, with a tone all his own.

Mannerisms

Mannerisms are key to good characters. Sherlock Holmes, for example, wouldn’t be the enduring character he is without this famous line: “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

Like good dialogue, effective mannerisms suggest details about your characters. The above mannerism works because it indicates who Sherlock Holmes is: an intelligent, sophisticated, slightly patronizing fellow.

A mannerism to avoid is something like a character pushing their glasses up all the time. Though it’s a repeatable quirk, it doesn’t suggest anything about our character (other than poor vision).

Backstory

Past experiences shape us all. Characters are no different.

Try to imagine what a character’s life was like before the book begins. Take Jack Torrance, the main character of Stephen King’s classic, The Shining. A huge part of that novel is his past violence toward his son, Danny. Jack constantly tries to atone for it throughout the novel, which shapes his actions, and therefore, him.

One important detail: all this backstory need not appear in your work. Sometimes it’s best to leave it out, since heavy backstory can impede the flow of an otherwise good yarn. Still, as the writer of the story, it’s good information to have in your back pocket, since it might help inform later behaviors.

There’s tons more that goes into building great characters, but these are three of the essentials. Use them to fill in those stick figures.

Why You Should Read More Short Stories

In the mood to read something a little different? Short stories might be just what you’re looking for.

Okay, you know short stories are shorter than novels. But they aren’t just about brevity. They’re also easily digestible, often unconventional, and uniquely indicative of an author’s strengths. Let’s go deep on this topic.

Short Stories Can Be Finished in One Sitting

If you have limited reading time, committing to a novel could prove difficult. It would be like watching a movie thirty minutes at a time. You might even forget who’s who!

Short stories are often designed to be read in one session. If you’re an infrequent or sporadic reader, this spares you confusion when you sit down to read. Plus, you get a new experience every single time you open your book, e-reader, or computer. (Or whatever the kids read on these days.)

Short Stories Defy Conventions

Short stories are generally weirder than long-form narrative. This is due to a couple factors.

First, techniques that might grow tiresome in a longer narrative become more palatable in smaller doses. Examples include second-person narration, atypical point of views, or present tense. It might be difficult to sustain any one of these techniques for a few hundred pages. But in a short story, they provide a refreshing change of pace.

Second, short stories generally require less commercial appeal than novels. Since the readership for short stories isn’t especially large, writers can afford to be a bit zanier than usual. If you enjoy writers pushing the envelope on what a story can be, you’ll enjoy short stories.

Short Stories Showcase a Writer’s Skill

This opinion is completely unfounded and totally based on my own personal feelings. And yes, there are tons of great writers who’ve never written a short story. But I really do feel that someone who writes good short stories is usually a stronger writer than someone who doesn’t.

When you read an author’s short fiction collection, you’ll discover not one great idea, but many. It’s the difference between a hit single and an entire album; sure, you might be able to strike gold once, then make a living off copies of what’s already worked. But those who can frequently diverge from where they started are often far more interesting.

Parting Thoughts

I do hope I’ve convinced you to read some more short stories. If you’re ready to do so, here are some of my favorites. Check them out!

  • “The Dowager of Bees” by China Mieville
  • I Can See Right Through You” by Kelly Link
  • The Great Silence” by Ted Chiang (Note: This is one of the only stories I’ve ever read, short or long, that has ever made me cry.)
  • “Black Dog” by Neil Gaiman
  • “Good Country People” by Flannery O’Connor
  • “Sandkings” by George R.R. Martin
  • “Escape from Spiderhead” by George Saunders
  • Walkdog” by Sofia Samatar
  • Unbelievable” by Kyle A. Massa (Yes, this is a shameless plug.)
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