Write What You Know (and other suspect advice)

That time-honored edict seems to get followed in at least one way, because something lots of writers sure like to write about is writing. We do it here, quite a bit actually, so we’ll be careful about throwing too many stones in this glass house.

Many authors pen books of guidance for aspiring writers, and a seemingly disproportionate number of protagonists are themselves writers. (We have a major character who is a novelist, and we have a main character who is a journalist, and we’ve used various forms of the book-within-a-book device.)

It’s probably not that there’s something wrong with writers. All professions probably have some form of this, but when painters paint about painting or plumbers plumb about plumbing it doesn’t result in a book. Anyway.

As far as actual advice is concerned, we say writing is best done with a partner, and we try to illuminate how we make that work. We can only speak with any authority about our own experience, and we try to be consistent about acknowledging that it might not be what works best for anyone else. Hell, it could turn out not to be what even works best for us. We try new things and adjust our process all the time. And then we blog about it.

They say, “If you really want learn about something, teach it.” This might account for much of the tendency among writers to write about writing, because the act of writing is very much a way of teaching yourself. So, even if there were no audience of aspirants to serve as a market, writers would probably still do this.

Chuck Wendig shared some insightful points about his own journey in regard to this topic. Check it out over on his blog: https://terribleminds.com/ramble/2022/10/05/why-i-dont-talk-as-much-about-writing-anymore/

 

Isolde Shifted The Infants On Her Hips

  • by Kentpoetic fantasies about snowbound mountains
  • hostile, feathered invaders
  • “Would you like some fresh towels?”
  • but the same can not be said of murderers
  • stylish gold shoes covering his feet

Tune in next time part 736      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Isolde shifted the infants on her hips, and I knew they were getting heavy. Any second she was going to just dump them in the tub with the rest of us.

Fleur used her hands to make mounds of soap suds. She shoved them my way, and soon I could barely see out from my foamy cocoon. She sing-songed, “The summit wears a crown of ice, its weather isn’t very nice, but we can sip hot wine with spice, and if you behave I’ll kiss you twice. Before the vultures come.”

With my stoned wife spouting poetic fantasies about snowbound mountains and hostile, feathered invaders, and my sister-in-law looming over us with a pair of children of uncertain provenance, and Tessa still hiding under the bubbles, I couldn’t clear my mind to determine a next move. Isolde impatiently shifted the babies again. “Would you like some fresh towels?” she asked. “Seems like there’s only one.” And with that, she plunked one child each — diapers and all — into my and Fleur’s laps, and left the bathroom.

“They are cute little things,” I said, lifting the baby up.

“Yes,” Fleur said distantly. “These tiny people are rather cute, but the same can not be said of murderers. Except, they must have been babies once too…”

I wasn’t really paying much attention to Fleur’s ramblings by then, because I’d discovered that the baby I held had stylish gold shoes covering his feet.

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The Last Time I Saw Isolde

  • by jenlantern-jawed hero
  • vinyl purse full of Jell-O
  • brought these two miscreants aboard
  • leprechauns are land-based organisms
  • make him look and sound positively ridiculous and dainty beyond belief

Tune in next time part 735      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The last time I saw Isolde was at Enigma Fortress, right after she’d given birth to a large number of babies. I never did manage to get an accurate count before I had to leave my post to venture into the caves beneath it. If she didn’t know who these children’s father was, they must not be from that magnificent brood we’d somehow created together. But she was right, they were probably mine. I wondered who their mother was.

Isolde sighed in frustration. “Act like the lantern-jawed hero and answer me! Don’t just sit there like a vinyl purse full of Jell-O. Time is of the essence. I didn’t see who brought these two miscreants aboard the zeppelin. I think they might be spies.”

“Spies?” I cried. “That’s ridiculous. They look barely old enough to walk.”

“I’ll just put them in the tub and we’ll see. If they float, then they must be leprechauns, and are therefore spies disguised as babies.”

“Hang on, hang on!” I said. This bathtub was crowded enough already. “First of all, leprechauns are land-based organisms. And second, what if they don’t float? I can’t let you try to drown innocent babies.”

Isolde shook her head and addressed her sister. “Fleur, I can’t believe your husband. His bizarre opinions and all the bubbles make him look and sound positively ridiculous and dainty beyond belief.”

Fleur just chuckled and licked the cheese.

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Cave Art

The Writing Cave’s stylish updates are so close to complete. We need to track down a few specialized supplies for our final, final, finishing touches. But it’s almost done!

Feast your eyes on the bounty of inspo that surrounds us!

We used a combination of vinyl and felt to create the designs, incorporating imagery derived from our various story worlds. Kent did the illustrations, and Jen’s sister used her magic cutting machine to turn them into decals, and Jen painstakingly applied them to the walls. (Jen is also the art director and project manager.)

There Was Something Odd

  • by Kentit was *very* purple
  • the cylindrical shape is the central theme
  • where no New Yorker has gone before
  • glass eyes and hand-implanted yak hair
  • arrived with two children

Tune in next time part 734      Click Here for Earlier Installments

There was something odd about the wedge of camembert on the side of the bathtub. For one thing, it was *very* purple. For another thing, I could see several half-inch tall minotaurs prancing about on it. The THC content promised to be monumental.

As Fleur settled herself into the suds with me (and with Tessa, although she didn’t know it) she said, “When you’re dealing with a wheel of cheese, the cylindrical shape is the central theme. But then, when you cut into it, you open up a pizza-slice shape that will take you where no New Yorker has gone before.” Her pupils were dilated and her words slowed, just from touching the dosed camembert.

“Darling,” I said, “why don’t you take the first nibble.”

She happily took me up on my chivalry, and consumed half of the edible in a single bite. As she chewed, her expression grew so vacant she seemed like a doll. A very expensive, anatomically correct doll, with glass eyes and hand-implanted yak hair, lounging in a bubble bath with me.

I gently raised Tessa by the shoulder so she would know it was safe to surface. “Fleur won’t remember any of this,” I said.

We heard the outer door of my quarters bang shut. Tessa grabbed a deep breath and hid under the bubbles once again just as the bathroom door banged open and Isolde arrived with two children in her arms.

“Are these some of yours?” she asked. “That seems to be the safe bet, but I wondered if you could tell.”

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“We’ll Eat the Cheese Together in the Bath”

  • by jenanother few weeks of gliding
  • starting to look a little naked
  • It was a gorgeous day and the birds were chirping
  • and a middle finger
  • a ninety percent chance of success!

Tune in next time part 733      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“We’ll eat the cheese together in the bath, Lady and the Tramp-style,” Fleur declared. “It’ll be messy, but there will be plenty of time to clean up. It will take another few weeks of gliding through the skies before we arrive in Contraria.”

The little bell beside the dumbwaiter dinged. Fleur opened it and pulled out a very runny wedge of creamy, stinky Camembert. She balanced it on the edge of the tub and slipped her robe off. “I’m starting to look a little naked,” she said as she stepped in beside me.

It was a gorgeous day and the birds were chirping in the zeppelin’s aviary, and a middle finger was lifted by fate in my direction. Luckily the bathtubs on Contrarian Royal Airships are quite large. I managed to keep myself in the middle, between the two women, and so far Fleur had not noticed Tessa’s presence. If the THC content of the cheese was high enough and I got Fleur to eat enough of it quickly enough, my plan to protect Tessa stood a ninety percent chance of success!

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Writing Cave Wrenovation Update

You might recall (but we’ll certainly understand if you don’t) that we are doing some renovations in our home office, aka the Writing Cave. That linked post is from a year ago, and hey! we are finally putting the final touches on the room.

It features a magnet wall, which we created via special paint, and a plethora of tchochkes that reference assorted imagery from our assorted fictional universes. It’s still not done, but here’s a teaser pic.

I Knew Tessa Could Hold Her Breath

  • by Kentsex involves two people
  • in the middle of the Tate modern
  • all the edibles I can eat
  • jazz appreciation class
  • the elderly cheese inspector

Tune in next time part 732      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I knew Tessa could hold her breath for several minutes, and presumably her cybernetic doppelgangers didn’t need air at all. There was no need to panic provided I talked Fleur out of getting into the tub.

“Darling,” I said with a flutter of my eyelids, “wouldn’t the bed be more suitable? I’ll join you as soon as I’m clean.”

She gave me a cockeyed grin and began to strip. I realized I had miscalculated. For most people, the notion of sex involves two people somewhere cozy and private. But for Fleur, it might involve multiple rugby teams in the middle of the Tate modern. While I spluttered helplessly and continued holding Tessa’s head underwater, Fleur finished undressing and put a toe into the suds.

“Nice and warm,” she cooed.

“Hang on,” I said. “My contract as commander of the comedy garrisons entitles me to all the edibles I can eat. And yet, there are none. I couldn’t share a bath with someone who’s in breach of contract.”

My wife narrowed her eyes at me. “Why didn’t you bring this up sooner? Where do you expect me to get them while we’re in flight?”

“Probably on the bridge,” I said with a smirk. “Oh, also, I need you to get yourself signed up for a jazz appreciation class before you come back. That’s in my contract, too.”

It wasn’t, though, and she knew it. I had overstepped. I held my breath even though mine wasn’t the head below the surface. But she drew her foot back and wrapped herself up in my robe and left the bathroom.

I lifted my hand so Tessa could sit up. She glared at me through the curtain of sudsy water draining from her hair. Then we heard Fleur’s voice, and Tessa ducked back down.

“Actually,” Fleur was saying as she came back into the bathroom, tucking her phone into a pocket of the robe, “seems like the galley has the best hookup for your… contractual fulfillments. Thing is, they have multiple kinds. How are you with fermented dairy? My connection is recommending a Camembert-based infusion. He can’t say how far out of code it is, but assures me it got a passing grade from the elderly cheese inspector.”

“Maybe you should sample it,” I enthused. “Take your time.”

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“Tessa!”

  • by jenSome bidets come with
  • something tells me that I shall soon know
  • make that face every time you fart
  • both pickles and beer
  • my wife is on the prowl

Tune in next time part 731      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Tessa!” I cried. She was dripping wet and slippery with soap suds. “I haven’t seen you since… I don’t even know anymore.” I hoped it was the real Tessa, and not one of her robot doubles.

“It’s nice to see you, too,” she said. “But please put me down now. You smell quite peculiar.”

The fact that she could smell me didn’t prove she was human. Some bidets come with perfume dispensers, and some robots come with olfactory sensors.

I stepped into the tub and beckoned her to join me. The water was quite hot and the bubbles were fresh. She couldn’t have had time to finish her ablutions before I walked in.

“Something tells me that I shall soon know what you’re doing here, and I doubt I’ll like it. But until that moment comes, let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

“Okay,” my auburn-haired beauty said. “But only if you promise to make that face every time you fart so I can hold my nose.” She smiled coyly. “You know the face I mean.”

I did know which face she meant. And I wondered why she was trying so awfully hard to convince me both that she knew our shared history and had a sense of smell.

“Why do your armpits smell like both pickles and beer?” She handed me a washcloth.

“I was just in a wedding.” Which didn’t really answer her question.

The door to my suite banged open and I heard Fleur grumbling as she entered the room. I barely had time to whisper, “My wife is on the prowl,” and submerge Tessa under the bubbles before Fleur appeared in the bathroom doorway.

“A bath? How decadent. Perhaps I’ll join you.”

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The Art of Critique

Just like anything else, getting good at providing feedback to a fellow writer takes practice. To save you a little trial and error, here we offer some tips on how to go into the meeting prepared. (Note that our advice is specifically calibrated for fiction. Some parts of it may generalize well for other forms of writing, but use your own judgement about what to apply.)

1. Start by reading the submission straight through without marking anything. Don’t try to reverse-engineer it yet. Don’t look at it through your author goggles, just read it. Approach it as if you selected it as a pleasure read.

2. Then read it again, with a pen this time. Mark typos if you wish, but remember that critique is not proofreading. It’s more valuable to share what questions come into your mind as you read. Was there something that seemed confusing at first, but now that you’re on the second time through you get it? Tell the author that’s what happened. Your annotations should amount to you “thinking out loud” about what you’re reading.

3. Critique also isn’t all about finding problems. Positive feedback is important too! Mark turns of phrase that you particularly like. Call out good structural choices. The key to giving good notes well is to say not only “I like this” but also why you like it.

4. Write a summary of your impressions. This could be on the back of the last page if you’re working from hard copy, or it can be the body of an email if your group uses electronic formats. This is the place to answer any specific questions that the submitter posed. Offer suggestions, but don’t do a rewrite.

Now, about item #1. It’s not so easy sometimes! Becoming a writer can sort of ruin you as a reader, because your mind is on technique the whole time you’re consuming the text. Analyzing rather than appreciating. Learning how to turn down the volume on that voice is a useful skill. Another challenge is when the submission’s genre or subject matter is simply outside of your tastes. Except in the most extreme cases, you should be able to put yourself in the target reader’s shoes and provide valid feedback. But it’s a good idea to let the author know that their manuscript was something you wouldn’t ordinarily have chosen on your own.