Lessons 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8,
I have been asked in replies on my blogs, in chat and in person. I've been asked to give tutorials and teach people how to write. I've thought about it, I've considered it and now I've started it.
I'm not sure I can teach YOU how to write like I do, but I can tell you how I developed my own style and maybe, hopefully, that will help you develop yours.
These are my books. It took two years to write my first book - and another nine years to publish it.
Google (free use) images and Pixabay
Basic Advice on Writing 3
I alluded to the characters in my last piece and they are vital to any book – of course!
For the plot to move ahead, you’ve got to follow the characters, right? Of course you do! You can’t follow scenery through a plot, where’s the fun in that?
You know your character best (or at least you do when you’re writing the book – I find my readers remember things I’d forgotten about and they remind me if we get talking – highly embarrassing!) so because you know what your character likes, loathes, fears most, you can place them in interesting situations in order to bounce the plot and story around them.
Putting your character into their comfort zone all the time is nice, and all, but… you know… boring after a while.
Play on your character’s fears, put them in danger, fear for their life, MAKE YOUR READER FEAR FOR THEIR LIFE - after all, since Game of Thrones, not even the most favourite characters are safe…
Then you want your reader to know your character almost as well as you do. Actually, as I said before, if you do your job right, your readers will adore (or loathe) your characters so much they’ll be Googling them before they even finish reading about them.
Trust me on this, your reader doesn’t want you to describe the characters – no, not even if you put the character in front of a mirror and tells you what they see – remember, ‘Show, don’t Tell!’ is the key.
Tall and willowy, graceful, beautiful… yeah… yawn… how about allowing the reader to make up the character in their head? That way, your character gets an added hook – a more personal connection to the reader and your reader won’t be able to help falling a little more in love with them than they already were.
This one?
This one?
Sorry... it's not the writer's choice
If the hair colour is important, give that as the hint, but don’t force your image of the character onto your readers. Allow them a little of their own imagination and they’ll love you for it.
Mention a scar and where they got it, of course, but shape of the nose, height, build, shoe size? Not vital to the character unless it IS vital. You need to give the readers something different, you need to introduce the character to the reader under cover of darkness – totally blind - so they can get to know them before making any judgements about their looks.
Didn't duck when he should...
Your readers want to know that the character takes a deep breath when it starts raining just to smell the petrichor – a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather. (Dictionary.com)
Your readers want to know that the character loves dogs and horses, is petrified of butterflies but can’t help look at them and squeals a little if the butterfly takes off unexpectedly.
You know… the things that make them human… but don’t just tell your readers… show them.
She flapped her hands in front of her face in panic as the butterfly came too close for comfort. She settled as soon as it did and she carefully approached the bush where it had landed, just to see the powder on its wings, the delicate hairs that made up its markings and the tiny legs…
It took off again, probably because it felt uncomfortable under such close scrutiny and she gave a little squeal of alarm and looked around to see if her fright had been noticed by anyone.
Then, the puppy she’s been looking after for a friend slips the leash and runs away. She sees the little scamp at last, running into a large greenhouse. The puppy slips through the door as someone opens it and your character has no choice but to go into the Butterfly House…
Now describe her heart pounding in her chest, her breath quickening. What does every movement she catches from the corner of her eye do for her panic levels? When something brushes past her cheek, a movement on her hair?
You’ve got a barrow-load of material just there and it all adds to the tension – not only for the character, but also for the reader, who, even if they don’t fear butterflies, they fear something and they can imagine what it would be like to be forced into a situation where they are forced to confront their fear.
That’s the tension. Build it up, focus it, make it unbearable for the character and therefore for the reader and then… and then!
Release it so she can find and rescue the puppy before her heart bursts and you can move the story forward.
She moved on again, through the deserted car park. She noticed a lone car - perhaps left by its conscientious driver who had had a drink and left it until the morning. The cynic in her thought otherwise, in a perfect world maybe he had, but more likely, he was too drunk to remember where he had left it.
The open space of the car park gave her a sense of security that she knew would desert her as she approached the alley. There was nowhere to hide in the area surrounding the pub and so she knew he was not so close behind her.
As the distance to the walled passageway was eaten up by her self-assured strides, she started to slow down as though she was trying to delay getting there. Again she hesitated. At the mouth of the alley, she leaned forward just a little as if trying to see around the bend in the middle. Her bag was grasped in one hand and as she leaned forward, it swung against her leg. She looked down as if she had only just noticed it was there. Then as though deciding that she should make a move before she could scare the living daylights out of herself, she entered the mouth of the narrow and enclosed walkway.
The stalker forced himself to be patient as he waited until she had entered the alley, then he moved - fast and silent - around the perimeter wall. He scaled yet higher walls with ease, running across the tops of them, moving with the agility of a cat to get ahead of her. He had the advantages of surprise and shock and he intended to use them both to maximum effect. His hands flexed as he waited in his chosen position just ahead of his victim, listening for her footfalls.
She tried not to think of the violent and bloody attacks that had happened in the neighbourhood - one a few weeks earlier and another just the previous night. She managed to keep a poker-face as her colleagues delighted in telling her gory details - exaggerated no doubt, she hoped.
When she told them that she was parked in the same secluded car park as the two victims had been, their humour had turned to concern. Her dismissals of offers to drive her to her car or to accompany her were accepted with reluctance. She thought that acceptance of escort would be seen as weakness. She was probably right.
Reports in the local paper after the first incident had described a woman being attacked and brutalised. One had described the attacked woman as being mauled. A hospital porter had gone to the paper and told of the victim’s hysterical and not-quite-coherent, deathbed ramblings about her attacker slashing and biting with tooth and claw. Last night’s attack was, as yet, unconfirmed by official sources but that didn’t stop gory details circulating along the rumour mills.
Her pace was no longer as brisk as it had been. She was by now, dawdling along the pathway, hesitating more and more as she approached the sharp bend in the path, stopping to look behind time and again.
He heard the sigh of relief when at last she rounded that bend and could see the rear bumper and one light and she knew her car was within reach. Her pace picked up a little and she straightened up, regaining her self-assured stance of before.
She was just two metres from the exit of the alley and no more than four metres from her car. Her keys were already in her hand - as they had been since The Swan. Her guard dropped for a split-second as she made sure it was the right key for the lock.
A split-second was all that was needed to pick off a victim.
He landed in front of her, from the top of the wall.
She was surprised into an exclamation of “Shit!” and she staggered back a few steps to lean against the high sandstone wall.
His grin was full of cruel humour but she tried to return the smile with one of her own. What looked like an attempt at a confident smile did not seem to make her feel any better.