Author Archive: jsomers

Jeff Somers (www.jeffreysomers.com) was born in Jersey City, New Jersey and regrets nothing. He is the author of Lifers, the Avery Cates series published by Orbit Books, Chum from Tyrus Books, and We Are Not Good People from Pocket Books. He sold his first novel at age 16 to a tiny publisher in California which quickly went out of business and has spent the last two decades assuring potential publishers that this was a coincidence. Jeff publishes a zine called The Inner Swine and has also published a few dozen short stories; his story “Sift, Almost Invisible, Through” appeared in the anthology Crimes by Moonlight, published by Berkley Hardcover and edited by Charlaine Harris. His guitar playing is a plague upon his household and his lovely wife The Duchess is convinced he would wither and die if left to his own devices.

Managing Tone

Author: August 30, 2017 0 Comments

Writing is a superpower in the way you can reshape your own past, present and future. I think most writers have used their own past humiliations, failures, and arrests as fodder for wish-fulfillment stories; I know I have. Plenty of my fiction, especially my short fiction, is drawn directly from what we’ll call Pants Drop Moments when I managed to make a complete ass out of myself through incompetence (emotional or practical), arrogance, or a tasty combination of the two. I take that greasy kernel of shame inside me and transform it into a story by writing about what I could or should have done, and mapping out how to get there.

Or, yes, sometimes the story is just retelling the humiliation without the wish-fulfillment, which can be depressing as hell, but sometimes makes for a good story.

A moire subtle way of wish-fulfillment in writing is making your characters impossibly glib and easy with their words—the Chandler Binging of characterization. It’s tempting to make your characters effortlessly smart and funny, always coming up with perfect responses and quips. And there’s nothing wrong with that—smart characters who always nail their lines are fun, for you and the reader. But you have to be careful, because chasing the Rule of Cool with your characters’ dialog can lead you into an abyss of tone dissonance.

The Abyss of Tone Dissonance

The problem with impossibly clever characters is you can wind up with scenes where they are supposedly having Very Serious Discussions but they can’t help by spout sarcastic, clever bon mots endlessly, undercutting the seriousness of your scene. A little clever goes a long way, after all, and if your character can’t stop laying down the savage quips, it becomes annoying and exhausting, like that one guy in your bar-hopping group who’s obviously on cocaine and can’t shut the fuck up already.

Tone dissonance can also be a sign that you don’t have faith in your own work, and believe you have to jazz things up with some sick one-liners. You have to be careful that your character’s zingers are naturalistic—appropriate for the emotional weight of the scene—and that they have flow. If they’re dropping like anchors in the middle of conversations, you’re working too hard, and your readers will notice, and the one golden rule of fiction is to hide all the hard work.

Of course, if you’re basing your character on me, then naturally I do have something clever to say about everything, all the time, and yes, it’s done me more harm than good.

characters, dialogue, Writing

The Hive Mind

Author: August 28, 2017 0 Comments

I was on a panel at the Writer’s Digest Annual Conference this year talking about World Building, and someone asked about staying on top of all the details of your universe. There was a great discussion, and the question made me think about the Hive Mind of your readers, and how you’ll never be smarter than the collective intelligence of the people reading your work.

We Are Legion

Writers take different approaches to managing details in their work. Some folks sort of wing it (my ears are burning) and don’t have any sort of “bible” or spreadsheet to help them keep it all straight. Other people more or less have their own private NORAD set up in their office to track details like what Mary was wearing in book 4, chapter 6 and whether or not Syd the Giant Spider is dead or not in the present iteration of the timeline.

That’s really just a preference in approach, like Pantsing or Plotting, and neither approach guarantees that you won’t make a mistake, because of the Hive Mind.

Your readers are many, and they have the Internet. Even a small fan base will find each other, exchange notes, and discover all your mistakes. You will never be able to cover every single base for the simple reason that your readers, as a Hive Mind, are smarter than you and your pitiful single brain.

The flip side to this is: Don’t try to fool your readers. They will figure it out if you’re faking something, or cheating with your own universe’s rules. Even if you get something past your Beta readers or your mother, the chances of getting it past every single person who reads your books are essentially zero, because someday they will meet a fellow fan in a subreddit and the shit will hit the fan.

I have two strategies when I get caught in a mistake: One, I shout “JEFF DURNK!” (note: yes, pronounce it durnk) and cackle drunkenly; two, I claim there is a deep, subtle riddle that explains all the inconsistencies in my writing, and then refused to answer questions about it. Call it the Lost excuse.

General, Uncategorized, Writing

Learn from Stuff You Hate

Author: August 25, 2017 0 Comments

One of the creakiest and most over-offered pieces of writing advice is to “read widely.” Not that it’s bad advice—it isn’t; it’s excellent advice. It’s just that like “show, don’t tell” it’s repeated so often, and so glibly, that many folks in the audience at panels just ignore it. “Read widely” is the “Wild Thing” of amateur guitarists: Everyone knows it, move along, nothing to see here.

The trick to reading widely isn’t to read a lot, or even to read outside your comfortable genres (although, yes to both those things). The real key to how reading widely can help you is to get into Advanced Reading Widely 405, a.k.a. learning good writing stuff from books you don’t actually enjoy.

Not My Books You SOBs

When people “read widely” they usually talk about getting outside their own genre or culture. And yes, if you’re a sci-fi writer, reading thrillers will give you lots of insight into pacing and plot. And if you’re, say, a middle-aged white cis American male who looks good in just about anything, reading books from other cultures and sub-cultures can open your eyes not just to different writing styles and techniques but different points of view that your characters can benefit from.

And that’s all great and necessarily. But the next level is to read books you don’t like, because what you’ll find is that genres and styles you despise have just as much to teach you—and those are lessons you’ll miss if you stay within the admittedly wider bubble of, you know, books you actually enjoy.

This can be true of wildly popular fictions that sell by the truckload but leave you completely baffled as to their appeal: Reverse-engineering that appeal might hold lessons for you, whereas smugly assuming that the millions of people reading those books are morons doesn’t do anything for you or your writing. And if a book is boring the pants off of you that doesn’t mean the author doesn’t pull off an impressive trick with their narrator, or have a dazzling sequence in the middle overflowing with ideas.

At it’s most basic, sometimes reading a terrible book just inspires you to steal the plot and try your own version of it in order to make it, you know, actually interesting (in your opinion).

Of course, reading widely also runs the risk of encountering a book so perfect and amazing you just give up on your own shabby efforts and just walk into the ocean, only to wake up on the beach being resuscitated by the teenage lifeguard and then mocked as you stagger home. Or is that just me?

General, Writing

Why Jon Snow’s Stupidity Matters

Author: August 24, 2017 2 Comments

Derp.

Note: This is discussing the TV show Game of Thrones specifically, ignoring the books.

Far be it from me to drag on people who are selling millions more books than I ever will, or attracting millions more eyeballs than anything based on my books ever will (unless I finally do my Pantsless Dancing exercise video, in which case: Watch out, world!) but it’s time to talk about how astoundingly dumb Game of Thrones has gotten in its later seasons—specifically the character of Jon Snow—and why it matters from a writing point of view.

We don’t know how close to the books the show is right now; Martin may have a much better handle on the story and the characters, and it’s been discussed to death how Game of Thrones is on an accelerated pace right now in an effort to finish the story before we all get collectively tired of it. I can forgive, therefore, the compressed and nonsensical time frame; after all, no one wants to have six episodes of Jon Snow slowly making his way to meet Daenerys in a damned rowboat, passing the time by chatting with Ser Davos about their unhappy childhoods and fighting sea monsters. Okay, maybe the latter, a little.

Side note: How is it possible there are no sea monsters in Westeros? For serious.

The time thing doesn’t bother me. Sure, it’s shitty storytelling, but there are economic factors pushing them, and I can still enjoy the show despite them. No, what bothers me is that Jon Snow is fucking stupid. And not in a defensible way.

Da King In Da Norf

Jon is a major character in this show (again, the future books may be different [and thus, better]), and might even turn out to be the ultimate hero/survivor in all of this. And the problem isn’t so much that he’s stupid, but that his stupidity would not exist in any slightly realistic universe. IN a realistic universe someone as stupid as Jon Snow would have choked on something as a child and died, or possible fallen down a hole and starved to death, or maybe have accidentally stabbed himself with a dagger. Here’s a few quick rundown of the disastrous decisions Jon Snow’s made in recent episodes, going back to the end of last season:

  • Allowed himself to be baited into a solo charge at the Battle of the Bastards, setting his army up for annihilation (prevented only by the fortuitous arrival of Sansa and Littlefinger)
  • Abandoned his kingdom to go personally visit Daenerys, bringing just a small honor guard
  • Allowed that honor guard to be immediately disarmed, like without even a shrug
  • More or less allowed himself to be a prisoner with no reason to believe it would work out aside from having copious amounts of Plot Armor
  • Came up with this absolutely shit idea that they needed to have a wight on hand to prove to people that the Night King for reals, yo
  • Decided that he had to manage this task personally
  • Then brought about a dozen people with him on the raid despite having a fucking army at his disposal, without bothering to tell his sister what he was up to as she sits in Winterfell ruling in his stead (this despite the fact that apparently he can send Ravens like super fast anywhere he wants)

I could go on. Should I go on? No.

The simple fact of it is that this is shit writing. Even if we assume for a fun moment that getting a wight to show off to the doubters is necessary, any sane King in the North would delegate the task to a trusted lieutenant (Tormund, we’re looking at you). There is simply no need for Jon Snow to actually be in the north personally. And we’re supposed to believe that Jon is a smart, solid choice to be King of the North. His entire character arc is a guy who was and literally knows nothing to the one woke bastard in all of Westeros who sees the true threat. So he really shouldn’t be this terrible at the job.

There is, however, a plot need for Jon Snow to be in the north. The showrunners want Jon to be the badass, they want him to be the one to put together the puzzle pieces for defeating the Night King, and they wanted to demonstrate the growing and completely icky and nonsensical love affair brewing between secret cousins Daenerys and Jon. So they sent him up there despite the fact that it’s dumb. In short, since Jon’s arguably the main character at this point (or at least the focal character for the moment), he needs to be in on all the major plot developments.

Forget the timeline. Forget the fact that the Night King has been marching his wights for about six months and is still miles away from the Wall. This is the problem: Shit writing. Shortcuts in the service of smart plotting I can forgive, but shit writing that ignores the rules of decent storytelling deserves to be mocked.

Of course, I’m still gonna watch the show, because watching dragons burn the everliving shit out of wights is fun, dude. Bad writing can be entertaining. It’s still bad.

As you were.

 

Bullshit

Leave Yourself Hanging

Author: August 23, 2017 0 Comments

Inspiration is a tricky thing. I think every writer has had the unfortunate experience of having what seems like a fantastic idea that then melts like an ice cream in the summer sun—the more you try to pull it onto the page or screen, the less solid the idea becomes, until it’s gone and you’re weeping while sipping from an unmarked jug of homemade wine.

It’s bad enough when this happens at the outset, and you can’t even get a story going. What’s worse is when you’re deep into a story and suddenly the ideas run dry. For me, this happens most often after I tie off a Big Moment or a challenging sequence in the plot; I hit CTRL-ENTER to start a fresh page for the next chapter or scene and … nothin’.

One little trick I’ve developed to guard against this is simple enough: I always stop writing when I still have one idea for what happens next.

Peeking Around the Corner

I have a need to finish things. It might be a mental disorder, the science is unsettled, but when I begin a story I have a burning need to finish it even if it’s terrible. This compulsion starts off weak and gets stronger as I progress; I can quit a story easily enough when I’m 300 words in, but when I’m 10,000 words it’s almost impossible, because I know that with some shitty writing kung-fu I can turn it into a half-assed novella and call it done.

When I was a younger writer, living off of lite beer and hot dogs, one side-effect of this compulsion was that I would keep working at night until I’d finished a scene, finished however far into the future I could see on that particular story. And then the next day I’d wake up hungover and pantsless in some dumpster, creep home and try to pick up the story again, but since I’d in a sense “finished” the night before, my brain would deliver up a succession of flatlines.

Today, I always stop just shy of “finished.” In other words, I stop working on a scene when I still have a button that I know will go on the end, or before I’ve written the final exchange with some revelation. In short, I stop while I can still see the path ahead of me, even if for only a few steps.

The effect is simple: When I start working next, I can immediately dive in and start working. I don’t have to come up with my next move, because I already know it. This doesn’t guarantee that the inspiration will just flow from there, but my track record has been a lot better since I started to leave myself hanging a bit every night.

My improved inspiration may also have something to do with the introduction of leafy greens into my diet, of course, but no one’s done any studies on the effects of scurvy on creativity so, again—the science is unsettled.

General, ideas, plot, Writing

Bruises Build Character

Author: August 21, 2017 0 Comments

My brother and I were once discussing movies we love and turned to the subject of Raiders of the Lost Ark, casually getting into why Indiana Jones was so appealing (aside from the innate charisma of Harrison Ford, of course), and I suggested one reason was the fact that Ford played Jones as a plausibly human hero who actually got hurt. Action films often have the hero surviving things that would kill real people—not only survive them, but walk away unscathed. You see thing like people being shot and still being able to fight on. I referred to Indiana Jones as Johnny Take-a-Beating, and that’s become shorthand between us for a protagonist who actually suffers when the plot hurts them.

I’m currently reading a sci-fi novel whose main character is basically indestructible. There are plot reasons for this having to do with their nature and the technology surrounding them, but just because you can come up with a reason to make your main character a tiny god in your fictional universe doesn’t make that a good writing decision. It’s always lazy writing.

Lazy, Lazy for Loving You

It’s always tempting to make your protagonist indestructible. One reason is it streamlines your storytelling, because no matter what kind of pickle you place them in, they can break free. Another reason is the simple fact that having your main character kick ass all over the place is thrilling, for a time; you can set them up against all sorts of strawmen and comically evil characters and it’s kind of fun as a reader to imagine having the power to instantly master any situation through insane violence that would kill any normal person.

The trick is, if you set your character up as indestructible, it should be leading to a fall. Strip them of their power, remove their technological crutches, and have a plot reason for it all. Not only is having a previously super-powered character suddenly vulnerable kind of thrilling, it can turn all the dumb tractionless violence of the early story into set up for the real payoff.

Otherwise, all you have is a boring character who can’t be harmed. If you can’t be harmed, nothing means anything. It’s like revealing that the entire book has been a dream, so joke’s on you if you thought any of it had consequences.

Plus, I hate reading about people who can run and jump and fight without having to sit down and rest all the time. It’s kind of virtually exhausting.

characters, Writing

I Am Jack’s Lack of Control

Author: August 18, 2017 0 Comments

Writing is a funny thing, a private act of artistic invention whose endgame involves trying to convince everyone in the goddamn universe to read your words. You sit for years in a lonely room, typing away, and then you run around all crazy-eyed begging folks to read what you’ve done.

And then they do, and immediately get it all wrong and subvert your vision.

You people have stood in my way long enough. I’m going to clown college!

If you’re writing a novel, you must on some level expect and desire it to be read. If not, if you’re planning to write THE END and then burn the manuscript (and then the computer, and then the printer, and then the server farm where your cloud files were stored) then you’re either insane or the baddest badass performance artist of all time, badder even than the guys who literally burned a million pounds a few years ago.

The rest of us write believing that someone’s gonna read it. But we also write in an attempt to control that experience, don’t we? We intend the reader to see certain things, to take away certain things.

The problem? Once we hit PUBLISH, we lose control over that. And you have to be good with that.

Sure, you could get into endless arguments with folks about their interpretations of your work. You could berate people for not “getting” it, or lecture them on how to read your work, but ultimately, that’s supposed to be baked-in. Ultimately, people get to own your work and decide what they think of it. And ultimately, let’s face it: Someday you won’t be here to argue or lecture, and your work will mean whatever the fuck the future literature students of the world think it means—and as a former literature student, I can assure you some of those ideas are gonna be crazy.

And you’re going to have to just take it, because that’s how all of this works. You send out ideas, people ruin and destroy them, and hopefully some tiny kernel survives.

That’s why I plan to be frozen when I die, so when they cure death I can come back and lecture everyone about what my books really mean.

General, Writing

Points for Style

Author: August 16, 2017 0 Comments

I’ve mentioned before how non-original your basic ideas must be. Just about every creator pivots from something that’s already been done, for the simple reason that everything’s been done. No matter what your idea for a novel is, chances are it’s been done before, in some way.

So, it’s not the premise itself, it’s how you write it—the style and execution. And you get a lot of points for style. Rather than a superficial metric, style is actually a pretty important aspect of writing, and it can be the difference between an idea being seen as tired and over-done or being seen as exciting and new.

Use the Force

Case in point: Star Wars.

There’s really not a single new idea in Star Wars, and to his credit George Lucas has been pretty up-front about that. It’s a mash up of a bunch of ideas that would have been common enough for someone born in the 1940s to have encountered, starting with sci-fi serials like Flash Gordon and incorporating stuff from 1950s Westerns and other sci-fi classics like Metropolis. It’s a re-hash from beginning to end, and yet it was a huge hit and now influences subsequent generations.

The reason? Style.

Lucas took the raw materials of his influences and gussied them up in a look and sensibility—not to mention editing and screenwriting—that was wholly new and fresh at the time. The set and costume design, the music, the look and feel was something no one had seen before, and thus made a pretty shopworn plot sing.

In short, you get points for style. A Song of Ice and Fire isn’t telling a story that’s revolutionary, it’s telling a story in a revolutionary way. So don’t get too hung up on the idea of having an idea that’s somehow so unique it does all the heavy lifting for you. There are only so many stories in the universe, and they’ve pretty much all been told. There’s an infinite way to tell those stories, and that’s what you should be focusing on.

Now if you’ll excuse me I’m off to the lab to develop new ways of drinking whiskey. I’ve got an idea involving a pheasant and a trampoline that I don’t think’s been tried before.

General, ideas, Writing

Forgetting as a Writing Tool

Author: August 14, 2017 0 Comments

Ideas are funny things. They come at random moments, and often prove to be so fragile they melt away the moment you take a good, hard look at them. While ideas aren’t worth much by themselves, they are the spark that can ignite the writing kindling and turn into a novel, so they’re kind of necessary. But anyone who’s tried to write a novel knows that ideas can be difficult to control—they’re slippery, and often prove more elusive than you’d like.

I’m not the first person to think of this, of course, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true: The best thing to do with an idea for a novel is to forget it immediately.

What Was I Saying?

It seems a little crazy at first, but it works, trust me. Your first instinct when you have what you think is a great idea is to capture it, to nail it down. If you don’t make some notes, you’ll lose it.

What happens then? Well, you work on it, develop it, and eventually—whether days or weeks or years later—you realize whether or not it’s really worth your time. And if it isn’t worth your time, then all that effort you just sank into it was a waste.

What I’ve found to be true is that instead of trying to capture that idea, you should immediately try to forget it. Just put it out of your mind. Inevitably, the ideas that have real power behind them—the ideas that have the potential to be great books—will come back to you. A week, a month, a year later they’ll be triggered and you’ll remember them. What seems to happen in the mean time is that your subconscious continues to work on the idea, developing it and strengthening it. If the idea doesn’t come back to you, it very likely wasn’t worth your time.

I don’t have anything scientific to put behind this. In my experience when I jump on an idea immediately in a surfeit of enthusiasm, it usually goes nowhere. When I put it out of mind and it returns, it works.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a heavy day of forgetting things and drinking beer to get back to.

ideas, Writing

Self-Policing in World-Building

Author: August 11, 2017 0 Comments

In a few weeks I’ll be sitting on a panel with other writers at the Writer’s Digest Annual Conference in New York discussing world-building, and of course I’m worried that I’ll fall asleep on stage, or stand up to make a dramatic point as my pants fall down with a comical whistle sound, or make the mistake of choosing to discuss an author whose name I cannot properly pronounce. Among many, many other anxieties.

One aspect of world-building that doesn’t get mentioned much is actually one I consider to be crucial, and one of the first things you should ask yourself: Is the world you’re building self-policing or not?

The Self Police, They Live Inside of My Head

A self-policing society is one where the citizens handle much of the enforcement of norms, of laws, of traditions. The country we live is, by and large, self-policing; if I suddenly assaulted some old lady on the street and stole her handbag, chances are multiple people would do one of three things:

  1. intervene
  2. call the police
  3. quietly submit my name to some sort of Star Chamber for future vigilante justice

That’s self-policing. We have real police, of course, but not that many of them. We rely on each other much more than we rely on cops to keep order, and we rely on each other 100% to ensure traditions and such are upheld. That’s why I actually wear pants in the first place, the heavy weight of society’s disapproval.

Totalitarian states are not self-policing, either because the population has stopped self-policing (either in protest or out of apathy) or because policing has been forcibly taken from citizens by the state. A self-policing society is more or less stable. One that doesn’t self-police can be a lot of fun, like living in Westworld, but it’s inherently unstable because if no one’s gonna force me to wear pants, I’m not gonna.

So, deciding whether your world will be self-policing or not is a pretty important aspect of your world-building, kids. It informs just about every other aspect of the universe, seeping into the spaces between your characters, driving actions big and small. Let’s call step one the Pants Question: If one of your characters casually took off their pants in the middle of the street in the middle of the day, would anyone do anything about it? That’s your answer.

worldbuilding