A Writer's Four Most Basic Tools

Okay, let's have a frank discussion about what you, the writer, must have in order to be successful.

Before anything--before a great story or vivid characters or a knockout plot or an original voice--a writer must have the basic subset of tools that permit you to practice this craft adequately. You cannot be a good writer until you have mastered this list. Period. Before you even think about hitting 'send' on that next submission, step back, take a good, hard look at your work and make certain that you meet this criteria.

1. Correct spelling. I cannot emphasize this enough. Writers use words. You will lose all credibility right from the get-go if you don't spell those words correctly. If spelling is an issue for you, you need to work on it. The basic rules of spelling like "i before except after c" or knowing the difference between homonyms need to be second nature for you. If you get hung up on they're/there/their, then work on the rule until you memorize it. I'm not talking about typos--typos happen to everyone and should be found when you edit your story--but good, old-fashioned spelling. Learn it. Love it.

2. Basic grammar. Sure, everyone is going to get hung up on some aspects of grammar. I'm an editor and I still have to look things up occasionally. However, there's no excuse for any writer not to make the effort to follow the rules of grammar. Here again--words are your tools. You can't use those tools effectively unless you know how to use them correctly. It doesn't matter what experience you have as a writer, it is necessary for you to have a good, current grammatical stylebook or manual--I use the Chicago Manual of Style, personally--and refer to it frequently.

3. The ability to take criticism. This is so important and so often overlooked. Let me pass on a bit of advice that will serve you as you write: artistic license is no excuse for a poor, sloppy story. *editor's hat on* I don't care how artistic you think you are, if you bore me I'm going to red ink the section. Editors, publishers, agents and beta readers don't criticize your work because they hate you/are jealous/think you need criticism whether it's warranted or not--we criticize your work because something isn't effective. Park your artistic sensibilities at the door. Creating a storyline is art. Telling the story is a craft--and as such, you need to be prepared to hear what works, what doesn't and what flat-out fails without whining or getting angry about it.

4. The ability to edit. You need to be your own harshest critic. You need to be prepared to writer your manuscript four, five, ten times if necessary to make it the best it can be. There is no such thing as a perfect first draft. Or second. Or third. There's always room to improve and just because you've typed "The End" doesn't mean the process is over.

Okay, got it? Print this list out. hang it over your desk. Every day when you sit down to write, read this list again. If you don't have these four basic tools, then your manuscript is doomed to fail. There are thousands of writers out there submitting materials and a healthy proportion of them have mastered these basic elements of their tool box. In the end, it doesn't matter how great your story is or how original it has to be spelled correctly, have correct grammar, have been edited stringently before anyone will consider it. And then? Then, you'll have to submit to the publication process and criticism is inherently a part of that. If you can't take criticism with good grace and implement those changes then you're doomed to failure on a bigger and more hurtful level.

And just remember--as with any craft, the more you practice the better you'll get. Writing is a developed skill, one that takes years of work to perfect. Once you've got these four tools in your back pocket, writing itself becomes much easier.

The Impact a Great Teacher Has

So in my last post, I was talking about dedications for the upcoming Asphodel books and I mentioned that I would dedicate the second book to some of my high school teachers. These educators taught me the rudiments of what would eventually turn into a writing career. Without them, and the attention they paid to me, I would never have gotten as far as I have. Let me explain.

When I started high school in Clarksville, Tennessee, I was really excited about a particular elective I could take: Latin. I still remember my first day in class, when my best buddies Eddie and Jimmy (twin brothers who now have gravitated to the more mature 'Ed' and 'Jim') sat at our desks, opened our textbooks and looked expectantly at the teacher--Grady Warren. He started us in immediately on conjugations and declensions; our first translation work as I recollect was about a pulchra puella and her frog. Before too long, we were competeing in Junios Classical League events. At state, we garnered quite a few first places between us.

Then came summer. During the summer Grady and his wife Kaye (Dr. Warren, who taught at Clarksville High School) held open house for their students. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, hordes of adolescents descended upon the Warren's house, which was tiny and crammed with books and pets, to study willingly during the hot, humid Tennessee days. On Wednesdays, those of us who were chosen for the certamen (Latin for battle--it's Latin quiz bowl essentially) team that would represent Tennessee at Nationals, would gather to practice in some vicious games to hone our knowledge and our skill. My nickname was fauces, which is Latin for jaws. That should tell you all you need to know about my fledgling personality. We played against the certamen greats of the past: college students who, through love for the Warrens and the language and the game, gave up their summers to serve as our teachers. The Warrens provided the chips, cookies, and cola, the study guides, their home (which had a volleyball court where we played as well) and we, unthinking and completely ignorant of the financial cost of hosting a group of ravenous kids, happily spent our summer vacations learning. We went to Nationals, won numerous chapionships for TJCL, and came back to do it all over the next year.

The other teacher, Kitty Savage, is a bit different. She taught English in the hardcore, old-fashioned way. We thought she was older than dirt and meaner than a snake, with her chain-smoking of unfiltered Camels during breaks and her abrupt, brusque way of instruction. Most all of the kids hated her--except for me. She was our 10th grade teacher, and for some reason she saw something different in me. Mrs. Savage turned out to be a wonderful (if gruff) woman. While she hammered the basics of grammar into our heads, she softened the blow with good books and writing projects. It was when she saw my writing that she took me under her wing. For the rest of my high school education, I'd go over to her house quite often with my mother. As they sat there drinking tea, Mrs. Savage would tell me the most wonderful stories with the sole purpose of expanding a young mind to the great stories in real life that could be told. For example, as a young war bride, she had worked in Oak Ridge, Tennessee on the Manhattan Project. She'd saved all the newspaper clipping in a big album, and I got a bird's eye look at how a young woman lived, worked, and dreamed in the biggest top secret city in the country. She told me a local tale of how a man named William Kelly had invented a cheap, easy process to turn pig iron into steel, and how his British employee stole the secret that eventually came to be called 'the Bessemer process.' She took a girl who spent a lot of time dreaming, and turned her into a hard core researcher who could write a term paper as an epic poem. She, too, sponsored a competition group. She tookd groups of students to state and national History Day competition every year I was in school. She came away with three state champions in Research Papers; twice it was me and both were done as epic poems. She couldn't quite rid herself of my artistic pretensions.

Mrs. Savage is dead now; she died at the age of 92. The Warrens are very much alive, still bringing the joys of the Classics to classes of eager students. One of the twins, actually, is teaching Latin in Clarksville too. Ed married Laura, who was my idol when I was a freshman and she was a senior, and they both teach Latin. When I went home for Christmas, the Warrens' students had a reunion to honor them. I saw people I hadn't seen in twenty years, including the teachers who had impacted me strongly, the older students whose footsteps I'd tried to follow, and the friends my own age who are now doctors and lawyers and teachers in their own right. It was bittersweet in a way, because it felt like we'd never left.

So when someone asks me which profession is the greatest for mankind, I instantly say teachers. I know how mine impacted me, I know how one miserable year of teaching Latin brought me to my knees as a colossal failure, and I know how twenty some odd years later, what they taught me has brought me to my professional destination. Without them, Asphodel (and Darkshifters and Terella and so forth) would not exist. And that's why book two is dedicated to them. Who else, in a book called "The Gift of Redemption" could it be?

Thanks, Grady. Thanks, Kaye. Thanks, Kitty.

It's all YOUR fault!

Holy Grammar Nazi, Batman!

All righty then. I have just read the WORST critique EVER. Not worst as in 'bad.' A bad critique is the one that reads as follows:

Wow. This was good. I have nothing else to say.

I mean, unless you're Homer or Dante that sort of critique is pretty much useless. No, I'm talking about a great critique on a bad piece of writing. First off, any time the critique is longer than the story it's not a good sign. Second, if the critique is the only thing written with things like proper spelling, grammar, and punctuation it's REALLY not a good sign.

But what if the critique is so entertaining in its badness that you forget what the story is about? That can't be good, can it?

I pride myself on giving good, solid story critiques. I usually leave the technical aspects to someone more qualified than I to give it, for example someone with a degree in English. Nothing wrong with a good grammar nazi; every writer should endeavor to have at least one friend who qualifies for grammar nazidom. I focus on character development, pertinency of plot devices, the fine art of substituting words in well-know cliches...that sort of thing. I will, if pressured, point out a stray comma or superfluous adverb but that's very rare. Unlike the grammar nazi, I'm reasonably fond of commas and adverbs.

What made this particular crit so funny was how long it took for the grammar nazi to degenerate from detailed, nicely written explanations to "OMG WILL YOU FUCKING FIX THAT?" (paraphrased, of course) I have to admit, I was laughing helplessly by the end of it. I printed it off after I was done and am now commissioning a lithograph from the critique. I want it silkscreened onto 3 x 5 panels to hang along the stairway in my foyer. Kind of like Andy Warhol meets Miss Snark. It could be fun.

There is a down side to this story however, and it is this. The person who received the critique is unlikely to actually benefit from it at all. This writer has never, to my knowledge, taken a crit and implemented it into any of his further rewrites. The grammar nazi has expended so much time and effort, effort that could have been better used on someone who was willing to pick up the red pen themselves and improve their work.

My writing is not perfect. Far from it. I am in no position to really sit back and slice up another writer's work with grammatical precision. But then again, I can't begin to calculate the number of hours that I've sat, Chicago Manual of Style in hand, and gone through my stories line by line to ensure that I've given my absolute best to a piece of work. Even then, I miss a lot. But, at least I made the effort.

So here's to the grammar nazis of the world. My hat's off to you. And to this particular grammar nazi (and you know who you are) a special salute. Although your intended recipient will never ever appreciate what you've done, I certainly do. It's the best damn critique I've ever--EVER--seen.

By the way, my manuscript is in the mail. Be gentle with it. And when you win your Pullitzer, I'll be able to say I knew you when.