Fiction Writing Tips

Published writers have the enviable privilege of being able to start a novel or short story pretty much however they like. They're an established name with an existing fan base. Their readers, agents and editors already know that they are more than capable of delivering the goods. But, if you're a first time writer, unpublished, things are not quite so simple and readers, agents and editors are not quite so patient or forgiving.

As an unpublished writer, it is absolutely essential that you grab the reader right from the outset. Metaphorical hands should erupt from the first page, seize your reader by the lapels and drag them, helpless, into the narrative.

This means one thing and one thing only: action.

Don't start your story with description, start it with something actually happening. That means few adjectives and no adverbs. Your opening few paragraphs should be stuffed full of verbs and nouns.

Now, 'something actually happening' doesn't have to be a car chase, a bank robbery, an alien invasion or the outbreak of some devastating new virus. The 'something actually happening' could be an argument; it could be a particularly tense and unpleasant job interview; it could be a fierce and demonstrative custody battle in court; it could be the solemn delivery of bad news by a doctor; it could be the discovery of a cigar box full of shocking photographs. It could be just about anything so long as it's an event, so long as something is actually happening to somebody.

Here are three short examples:

Example One

It couldn't be the mailman, banging on the door like that.

Example Two

John realised too late that he'd taken a wrong turn and the alleyway he had hoped would take him back to the bustling high street, back to people and safety, terminated in a cold, hard wall, too high, smooth and rain-slicked to climb.

Example Three

Maria watched the letter burn. The stinging, acrid smoke would have brought tears to her eyes, if there weren't tears there already.

In each case, something is happening. The reader is compelled to keep going, to find out what's going on and what's going to happen next.

The stuff with which many novice writers tend to fill their opening pages (descriptions of place, character or, worst of all, the weather) can wait until the reader is firmly in your grip.

Metaphorically speaking.

Most unpublished writers labour under the misapprehension that their established kin on the New York Times Best Seller lists rarely, if ever, find themselves staring forlornly at a blank sheet of paper or a ticking, unproductive cursor. Furthermore, it is supposed these successful writers don't even have to try to summon up an original plot or a striking new twist on a traditional trope. No, successful writers are precisely that - successful writers - because inspiration strikes like a bolt of lightning, unbidden and with the regularity and reliability of the Tokyo to Osaka bullet train.

Whilst this may be true of some published writers, the fact is most writers, particularly those who rely on their craft for their livelihood, simply can't afford to hang around waiting for their muse to pay them a visit, bearing gifts from the depths of the human imagination. Most writers have to actively seek out and pursue their ideas. There are a whole host of techniques writers regularly employ to flush an idea out of hiding, but one which is both unusual and highly effective is the 'Least Likely Protagonist' technique.

In practice, it's very simple. You take a tried and tested plotline or genre and insert into it, as the central character, someone you wouldn't normally find in that situation or milieu. The very presence of this fish out of water becomes the driving force behind your story, propelling the narrative forward.

Let's look at a popular, cinematic example: the Coen brothers' classic comedy, The Big Lebowski. Essentially, it is a noir-ish private eye story, replete with femme fatale, kidnappings, blackmail and corruption. The central character, however, is utterly inappropriate. Jeff Bridges' 'The Dude' is a lackadaisical individual, a bowling fanatic with a penchant for white Russians and funny cigarettes. It is this very inappropriateness that moves the story from bizarre scene to bizarre scene, creating plot twists and dilemmas. The end result is striking, original, compelling and extremely funny. With a more appropriate protagonist, the film would have been little more than a warmed-over rehash of the sort of thing we've all seen many times before: the watered-down Raymond Chandler pastiche.

So, take a simple story and add the wrong kind of hero or heroine. Say you decide to write an espionage thriller: what would the typical protagonist look like, and how would he behave? He'd be debonair, physically able and highly intelligent. Well, then, why not make him socially inept, riddled with insecurities and plagued by countless phobias? Maybe he's an asthmatic computer geek who finds himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now his country is depending on him. Although it may be tempting to create something comical from this clash of genre and protagonist, just think how interesting, how different this story would be if you were to play it straight...

Here's another. A brutal and deranged serial killer is on the loose at a New England camp site, slicing and dicing his way through the dramatis personae with gleeful abandon (not to mention an antique samurai sword). Why does the heroine have to be a pretty, innocent teenager, blonde and Alice-banded with teeth like an advertisement for your local dental hygienist? What if, instead, the roster of potential victims consisted entirely of senior citizens? How will they overcome their physical disadvantages? How might their considerable life experience come into play? Why is the killer compelled to pursue and slaughter them with such relentlessness and efficiency? Again, try to avoid the more obvious comedic approach; play it straight. Really shake things up. See what happens.

The possibilities really are endless.

Most readers are remarkably tolerant of their novelists' inadequacies. They are liable to forgive a whole host of flaws in the fiction they read - messy plotting, a lack of originality, continuity blunders and all kinds of grammatical inaccuracies. You only need to flick through a couple of books currently sitting on the New York Times Best Seller list, and you'll find a plethora of imperfections and more than a few examples of downright bad writing. And yet, these novels are picked up by agents, approved by editors, put into print by publishers and read by tens of thousands (and, in some cases, millions) of loyal readers.

Such imperfections aren't the sole preserve of the latest pot-boiler, either. Classic literature is packed with countless such gaffes. In Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe, the protagonist removes all his clothes, swims out to a wrecked boat, and proceeds to fill his pockets with supplies. In Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, a clock strikes the hour, despite the fact that the play takes place in ancient Rome, where, of course, there were no clocks. Keats' On First Looking into Chapman's Homer makes mention of Cortez discovering the Pacific Ocean when it was Balboa who made that particular discovery.

If there is one thing the Constant Reader is likely to have little or no patience for, however, it is weak characterisation. A poorly realised character or one who behaves repeatedly in an unconvincing fashion will, in short order, be met with a snort of derision or, worse, the slamming shut of your book, never to be opened again.

Editors and agents are only too aware of the reading public's intolerance when it comes to shoddily fashioned characters, and so are similarly intolerant - perhaps, even less tolerant - when it comes to such deficiencies in the swathes of submitted manuscripts they wade through every day, panning for the latest Dan Brown, J.K. Rowling or John Grisham. If you want to get your novel into print, you have to put character firmly at the centre of all your efforts.

It's surprising how many novice writers allow shabby characterisation to blight what might otherwise be an effective and potentially publishable piece of fiction. 'Surprising' because it is actually relatively easy to populate your novel with convincing, three-dimensional characters.

The trick is to create your characters 'off the page' first. Shape them outside the narrative before you attempt to incorporate them into your novel. Take the character out and about with you for a few days, spend some time with them. You may find the experience a little unusual to start with, even a tad unsettling, but it is highly effective and will serve you well in your quest for publishing success.

Here's an example. Let's say you're writing a contemporary crime novel. You've got the plot pretty much worked out: a young mechanic from an impoverished but hardworking background makes the fateful decision to steal a car, intending to sell it later and use the ill-gotten proceeds to pay for his sick mother's mounting medical bills. Unfortunately, hidden beneath the vehicle's luxurious upholstery, is a significant chunk of a psychotic gangster's retirement fund. You've got a rough notion of who this young mechanic is - in broad strokes anyway. He's a decent man with an ingrained sense of right and wrong; but that sense is increasingly at odds with the definition of right and wrong handed down by the law makers and the authorities. He is a man of few words, not given to displays of emotion, but under that hardened exterior, he's all heart. There are many novice writers who would believe that this sketch of a character is ready to take his place in the narrative. But our young mechanic isn't really a character at all; he's little more than a cipher, a placeholder. We need to put some flesh on the bones.

So, let's take him out for lunch. Literally. Pop into your favourite eatery and imagine how he'd behave. Look at the menu. What would he be likely to order? Would he even like the place you've chosen and, if not, why? What would he make of the other patrons, how would he respond to your waitress? Pay particular attention to where his opinions and responses veer away from your own; these are the things that are going to enable him to live and breathe as a personality in his own right and not be relegated to the lifeless role of 'the author's representative' within your narrative.

Take him to work with you. What would he make of your chosen profession? How would he have reacted differently to the various dilemmas and confrontations that occurred throughout the day? Take him shopping for groceries. How would his shopping list differ from yours? Would he strike up a conversation with the cashier, or keep himself to himself? How does he feel about the spoilt child wailing for candy in the confectionary aisle? At home, would he watch the same TV shows as you, listen to the same music? Would he be tidy or disorganised? What would he make of your decor, the books on your shelves? What would he rustle up in the kitchen if he was feeling a little peckish?

In each of these instances you're trying to capture both the everyday qualities of your character and the essential differences between you and him. Once you have a vivid sense of the quotidian qualities of your character, you'll be far better equipped to explore precisely how he will behave in the extraordinary situations your novel has in store for the poor schmuck! Before you can imagine how he might react with a gun pressed to the base of his skull, you need to know how he would react to missing the elevator when he's late for work. Before you can imagine how he might behave holed-up in an abandoned warehouse with every crooked cop in the precinct closing in, you need to know how he'd react when he gets a ticket for a minor driving violation.

Ordinary first, extraordinary later: the secret of compelling and believable characters in your fiction.

Many novice writers make the mistake of trying to write in what they perceive to be a 'writerly' style. They adopt a kind of formal tone, paying close attention to the strict rules of grammar, writing as if there were an English professor standing behind them the whole time, peering over their shoulder as they type away at their latest opus, and occasionally snorting his displeasure. The end result of such a stiff and prescribed approach to writing is, more often than not, a novel that reads like it was written by a time-travelling Victorian. Such efforts rarely come to life on the page and are likely to leave the reader cold. And anything that is liable to leave the reader cold will cause severe frostbite in the hands of an agent or editor.

The key to writing compelling prose is to relax a little. Now, that's easier said than done, especially when your publishing aspirations mean so much to you and you're doubtless trying to squeeze your literary ambitions into whatever meagre fissures the working day presents you with. So, here's a technique that will 'relax your fiction' for you. It's called viewpoint writing and it offers the writer many advantages, but we're just going to explore the prose-enriching element here.

Viewpoint writing, in a nutshell, is when you infuse a third-person narrative with the character central to that narrative. Now, that could be your entire novel, if you're writing a piece which revolves around a single protagonist. If your novel has multiple protagonists, each central to their own narrative thread, you will infuse each thread with the personality of the appropriate character.

It's very simple. You just describe each scene as the character central to that scene would perceive it. The words you choose would be words from that character's vocabulary. The attitudes would be that character's attitudes. Even the sentence structure would reflect the central character. For example, if your protagonist is a man of few words, viewpoint writing would tell you to avoid loquaciousness; keep things short and simple, to the point.

To illustrate, here's the same paragraph created using viewpoint writing, from the perspective of two different protagonists. The scene is the discovery of a dead body on a riverbank. The first character is an Oxford-educated journalist walking his dog; the second is a nightclub bouncer returning home from work.

He knew she was dead the moment he saw her. Her skin was white as marble but with a feverish sheen to it. Even with her eyes closed, there was no mistaking her stillness for slumber.

And now the bouncer:

She was dead. No doubt about it. Stiff as a board and skin like old dough.

In both scenes we allow the character discovering the corpse to inform the narrative. We use their words, their expressions, their perceptions to describe what is unfolding. Our Oxford-educated journalist would be more prone to using words like 'slumber' and 'stillness'; he would be more liable to wax poetical and compare the unfortunate victim's flesh to 'marble', noting its 'feverish sheen'. Our bouncer, on the other hand, would do no such thing. He would be far less descriptive, for one thing. Plus, he'll have experienced the darker side of life and seen his fair share of brutality. Hence, the narrative is brief, less florid and a little harsh. The end result, in both cases, is a far livelier narrative than if we had simply taken a detached 'floating narrator' approach.

You might be thinking that viewpoint writing seems like hard work, requiring a certain amount of literary flair, but it's actually remarkably simple. As you write, you just need to ask yourself: Would the character have said this? Would the character have noticed this particular detail? And if that doesn't work, slip into the first-person for a few sentences, you'll soon find the character's perception sneaking into your prose.

Viewpoint writing is well worth the effort required during that initial learning curve. Take something you've already written, something you're not altogether happy with, and rewrite just a page or two using viewpoint writing. Compare the two approaches. You'll soon see just how dramatically it can improve and enrich your prose. What's more, once you get used to viewpoint writing, you'll find the pace at which you're able to write will increase significantly, unconstrained as you are by rules, regulations and the ghosts of English professors past.

If there's one thing that will indicate to an agent or editor that the manuscript their reading is the work of an inexperienced writer, it's a profusion of adverbs.

Excessive use of adverbs demonstrates an underdeveloped vocabulary and a lack of appreciation of the need to create a compelling and focused narrative. Adverbs are just so much linguistic padding and they can harm your fiction, not to mention your chances of getting your work into print!

The purpose of an adverb is to modify the verb with which it is associated. In other words, adverbs exist to explain what the verb alone is incapable of representing. But if you have to explain a verb, what does this tell you about the verb in question? Well, it must be the wrong verb, mustn't it?

Take the following example: Quickly, Karen ran to her car. 'Quickly' is the adverb (most adverbs end in 'ly') and it is modifying the word 'ran'. But, what's the point? It's not as if you can run slowly. If, however, you did want to indicate that Karen was running toward her car faster than one would expect, why not ditch 'run' and plump for 'sprinted', 'darted' or 'dashed'? Karen dashed to her car is far more evocative, suggesting panic and desperation. By selecting the right verb, you eliminate the need for an adverb at all. At the same time, you create a more accurate and compelling representation of the unfolding action.

The most common misuse of adverbs follows the word 'said'. For example: "Shut up!" Karen said angrily. The word 'angrily' isn't needed. It's clear from what Karen has said that she's angry. In attempting to eliminate adverbs following direct speech, many novice writers make the mistake of trying to replace the verb 'said' with something more descriptive. This is almost as bad as using an adverb in the first place. Agents and editors will recoil at the use of 'snapped', 'blurted', 'hissed', 'rasped'. Even worse are such redundant words as 'replied', 'retorted' and 'declared'.

Let the dialogue do the work.

Here's an example of what not to do:

"Will you be quiet?" Karen snapped.

"I didn't say anything," Neil replied innocently.

Let's tighten it up:

"Quiet!" said Karen.

"Me?" said Neil. "I didn't say anything."

The more abrupt "Quiet!" is snappy enough, no need for an elaborate alternative to 'said'. Neil's initial, "Me?" indicates that he is taken aback by Karen's command, eliminating the need for the horrible 'innocently'.

It can be quite difficult to lose the adverb habit. If you try to avoid using adverbs during the writing of your first draft, you may find it interrupts the flow of ideas and hinders the pace of your narrative. So, for the first draft, forget about the adverbs. If they pop up every now and again, don't worry about it. You can weed them all out on the second draft. It's easy to do. Use your word processing software's 'find' to search out 'ly'. Nine times out of ten the word highlighted will be an adverb.

Your manuscript will be far more pleasing to potential agents and editors and your narrative will be leaner and meaner.

Take a trip down to your local bookstore and check out the bestsellers shelf. Pick a book (any book) and read the various quotes from critics and other authors plastered all over the front and back covers. Chances are, you'll encounter the phrase 'page turner' at some point. Most bestselling novels are bestselling novels precisely because they are able to compel the reader to keep on turning those pages, eager to find out what happens next.

Now, there are many reasons why a reader may find a book particularly compelling - the characters, the quality of the prose, the subject matter - but we're going to discuss just one element here: the cliff-hanger. Why? Because the fact is any writer can create nerve-jangling cliff-hangers.

The first thing you need to do in your pursuit of the cliff-hanger is to forget all about chapters. At least for the first draft. Instead, write your novel as a single continuous document. The only divider you should employ whilst writing the first draft is an additional line space whenever you shift from one scene to another.

Only once your first, chapterless draft is complete should you begin to think about dividing the book up into chapters. As you read through your first draft, you'll find any number of moments where something dramatic is either about to happen or just beginning to happen. This is where you'll create your chapter breaks. The effect? Each chapter ends with the reader eager to find out what happens next. Don't end your chapter with the vampire defeated and your protagonist nursing his wounds; end it with the vampire appearing at the window. Don't end your chapter with the surprise witness undermined, his testimony in tatters; end it with the sudden appearance of the surprise witness in the courtroom. Don't end your chapter with your hero miraculously dragging himself from the mangled wreckage of the crashed helicopter; end it with the helicopter suddenly lurching downward, black smoke trailing from its howling engines.

The traditional approach, that of consciously conceiving and writing chapters, often creates a narrative in which each chapter is neatly rounded off, the drama fully played out and some form of resolution achieved. It can be quite difficult, particularly for novice writers, to avoid this trap, as it is quite natural to approach each chapter as a self-contained narrative unit, a kind of short story, complete with beginning, middle and end. Whilst this can make for a very satisfying chapter, it does little or nothing for the novel's overall momentum.

If you want your novel to be described by awe-struck critics and envious fellow authors as "a gripping, unputdownable, page-turning, rollercoaster of a relentless thrill ride", lose the chapter habit.

If there's one thing that is liable to leave even the most able of writers paralysed with dread, it is the prospect of writing a synopsis for their novel. The very thought of having to condense their masterwork into something that can be read, understood and judged in just a few minutes is a terrifying one. It seems an impossible task.

Thankfully, it's a lot simpler than you might think.

The first thing you need to do is understand the synopsis format. Different publishers and agents will request different lengths of synopsis, from a single page to a chapter-by-chapter breakdown. However, unless otherwise stated, a synopsis should always be written in the present tense, following precisely the sequence of your narrative, and it should, without exception, include the ending of your novel. Even if you've written an elaborate mystery with a real twist in the tale, don't be tempted to withhold the ending. Remember, an agent or editor is looking for a publishable and saleable book; they're not necessarily looking for something they themselves can enjoy reading on the train journey home from work. In other words, they don't mind if you spoil the surprise. The synopsis should include every major character and every major plot development. When introducing characters, their names should always be capitalised and written in full (e.g. 'NEIL STREET', not 'Neil'). Your synopsis doesn't necessarily have to include every subplot or supporting character; include what you can without infringing the editorial guidelines. The synopsis should not include dialogue and shouldn't attempt to explain anything. Just like the novel it is created to promote, the synopsis should show and not tell.

The second thing you need to do is to forget you're writing a synopsis. That's right. Once you've familiarised yourself with the format, you need to approach your synopsis as a piece of writing, as a story in its own right. Instead of thinking, I've got a synopsis to write, you need to think, how do I tell this story as quickly and as dramatically as possible?

Forget agents, editors and publishers, and imagine you've just been introduced to someone who loves a good novel, particularly the kind of novels you write. Unfortunately, some years ago, they were seriously injured in a car accident and now they only have a ten-minute memory. They want to read your novel, but they simply can't. Why don't you, out of the goodness of your heart, create a condensed version just for them. You're not trying to sell your novel to them, you're trying to tell the same story in as few words as possible, and you want it to retain its drama and style.

Let's illustrate this with an example.

In the first chapter of your novel, Neil, a police officer, is shot and left for dead by a mysterious man in black who shoots him with an antique pistol. Now you could condense this down as follows:

NEIL STREET, an off-duty police officer is shot and left for dead by a mysterious man in black. The assailant uses an antique pistol.

It works. It's simple and to-the-point. But it hardly qualifies as literature, does it? In fact, it hardly qualifies as writing.

Try something like this:

A man in black, an antique pistol, a deafening report. NEIL STREET clutches the wound in his gut, his hardwired cop mentality already wondering what the ballistics report is going to say.

We've managed to include all the detail but now it's actually quite enjoyable to read.

You really can't go wrong if you simply try to create a brief but compelling narrative. Whenever you find yourself struggling, think of your eager reader with the ten-minute memory. You might even find, far from being paralysed with dread, you quite enjoy writing your novel's synopsis.