Thoughts on Dialogue

Here's a theory about the way reader's judge fiction writing: If the story is compelling enough, the writer can be forgiven a plain vocabulary and so-so skills at setting scenes. Apparently a strong story can also earn forgiveness of thin character development, because thin characterization is everywhere in today's popular fiction. But a reader cannot forgive bad dialogue.

I think there are three main reasons: 1. Bad dialogue is distracting, just as it is in a movie. 2. Bad dialogue makes characters unrealistic or unlikeable or unrespectable, all deadly. 3. Bad dialogue makes us conclude that the writer doesn't know how to write. And as confidence erodes in the writer, the reader tends to go south on the whole project.

What is bad dialogue? The question reminds me of the senator's definition of pornography. "I can't explain it exactly, but I know it when I see it." Bad dialogue just sounds wrong; it doesn't ring true; or worse, it's howlingly bad, especially when read aloud.

Every writer has written bad dialogue, especially in first drafts. So the trick is improvement: making it ring true, letting it help develop characters, drive the story, and add to reader involvement.

The best single piece of advice I received was "read it aloud." Dialogue that appears passable on the printed page, especially to the person that wrote it, can sound bad, bad, bad when read aloud, even by the person who wrote it. Try pretending that you're the voice of an audio version of your work. Read aloud and read with inflection. The process is revealing, if painfully. If you can stand the possibility of loud guffawing (it happened to me!), ask someone else to read you aloud while you listen in.

Inexperienced writers tend to overwrite dialogue. We want to be sure the reader understands, so dialogue becomes explanatory. We try to do too much with dialogue, for example describing settings or characters.
- "Oh, Mary, a pink dress with a white scalloped hem looks perfect on you, especially here in the flower garden."
- "Thank you, Fran, and your beige business suit looks wonderful, too, it fits the image of an aggressive female executive perfectly."
- "Okay, now that the reader knows what we're wearing, and that I'm an aggressive businesswoman," said Fran grimly, "we can begin talking about who murdered Uncle Herbie."

I exaggerate, of coures, but it happens all the time.

Critiques of my early work talked about too many characters "sounding the same." Same phrases, swear words, figures of speech, etc. This means, of course, that I had done a lousy job clarifying the characters in my own mind. Once characters are "real," they'll begin behaving and speaking uniquely.

My early attempts to differentiate dialogue included trying to write dialect. For example, in early versions of Accidental Soldier's Tess Montgomery might say, "Why, Mista Johnson, ah...ah'm jus' overcome by the kindness ya'll are continuin' to extend."

A wise counselor convinced me that thick dialogue is hard work for readers and probably doesn't work anyway unless delivered by a true master writer. Better to grasp the expressions and cadence of, say, a southern belle, but only sprinkle the dialogue lightly with ah and jus'.

I believe the real key to dialogue is polish. Now and then, the polishing process will add to dialogue. Ninety-five percent of the time, at least in my case, dialogue is trimmed, sometimes in great big clumps. A scene reads unbelievably smoother when dialogue is crisp and clear. One of my favorite scenes, emotionally, takes place fairly late in Silent Hero. I won't spoil the story by giving the background, but here's the exchange between Glenn Sorensen and Amy Rivera:

Her expression reminded me of a witness about to testify: serious, apprehensive, but ready. But I wasn’t ready. Not even close. I asked, “Where are you staying?”
“At the Blackstone.”
“Why are you in Chicago?”
“To see you.”
“How did you find me?”
“I hired a guy.”
“Are you a whore?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
“I need to think. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll pick you up at the Blackstone, in the lobby at seven.”
“Okay.”
I rose and slid into my jacket. “Goodnight, Amy.”
“Goodnight, Glenn.”

Note that description is minimal and attribution is non-existent after Glenn's first comment. Attribution is an ongoing question.
Tom said, "Where is the ball, Sue?"
"Spot ran away with it," Sue replied.
"For God's sake, you were to keep it away from him, remember?" Tom barked angrily.
"Oh, damn, I forgot," Sue said sheepishly.

Surely we don't need this much attribution. I'd argue that the scene works with:
Tom looked at Sue, eyes narrowed, jaw set. "Where is the ball?"
"Spot ran away with it."
"For God's sake, you were to keep it away from him."
"Oh, damn, I forgot."

But, if there is any chance that the reader becomes lost in dialogue, far better to pause for some attribution rather than create the annoying "who the hell is talking?" emotion.

Similarly, dialogue should stand on its own without explanation to the extent possible. It is surely not necessary to write:
-"You are the dumbest ass that ever lived," Tom said derisively.
Has anyone ever been called a dumbass underisively?

The scene might require:
-His boss stood, crimson rising at his color. "You are the dumbest ass that ever lived."
Because it's also possible that the context was:
-Tom grinned, shaking his head at a friend who had apparently fallen in love with a woman reputed to have slept with half the football team. "You are the dumbest ass that ever lived."

In either case, a well developed scene might have already perfectly explained the context of the comment, in which case it could stand alone. The key, I think, is less not more. To overwrite is to bog the story and to insult the reader.

Please visit me at www.BillCorbin.com

Handling an Erotic Scene

In a previous post, I admitted that a writer--like this one, for example--can generate erotic moments purely for his own enjoyment. There's nothing illegal about it, but there is a certain amount of insult to the reader. There are some things I should do in the privacy of my own mind, right?

Next I asked myself whether to include erotic scenes at all. Many writers don't enter that pounding surf, so to speak. Without doubt, some readers are uncomfortable with the intrusion of a stranger's erotic descriptions, even if the writer is sincerely striving to advance the story. I decided that eliminating sexuality for that reason would be dishonest writing. Sexual longings (and attendant joy and anxiety) likely stands as humankind's most shared emotion, behind food, drink, and the desire to make things better for loved ones.

So I decided that Corbin characters might well ponder sexual situations and might explore the fruits, even unwisely if story relevant. This decision led naturally to the question of how graphically to write. While green as fictional grass, I thought that backing away from all grunts, groans, sweat, and body parts would also be dishonest writing. So I generated a few scenes that were serious eye-blinkers. Some readers enjoyed; some were okay; some were appalled, but some said, in effect, "Hey, buddy, that kind of detail is an insult to my imagination. I have a mind that will make your scene more erotic FOR ME than you can possibly write it."

Once I saw that truth, the writing became much more enjoyable, and much less likely to embarrass my mother, sister, or children. Here is a specific example from Accidental Soldiers. Darlene Forrester has returned from a trip and is spending the evening with her boyfriend. They've been apart too long:

She drank two glasses of wine, then another, though small. Shane slowly coaxed the one beer he allowed himself. As the credits rolled on their romantic comedy, she declared it time to execute a plan she had hatched while flying back from Boston. She slipped into the bedroom alone where she rummaged through his closet to find a sleeping bag. She unrolled the bag onto the bed, slipped out of all clothing, and tucked herself deep inside.

“Hey, Shane,” she called. “Come in here a minute.”

He walked through the door, his expression mixing frown and surprised half-grin. “What in the world are you doing?"

She decided, again, that she liked the way Shane looked: five-ten, a bit on the stocky side, with powerful arms and shoulders, short brown hair, intense brown eyes, and jutting jaw. A turned down mouth added to his aura of solemnity, but this moment had swept some seriousness out of his expression. She peeked over the curled up edge of the sleeping blanket, her eyes dancing. “Remember Manitoba?”

Now he grinned broadly. “Oh, yes. I remember Manitoba.”

She loved the memory: a wilderness camping trip, more his kind of adventure than hers, but she had tried, valiantly. She forded streams, hiked rough terrain, and learned to fly fish. She even helped clean their catch of rainbow trout, although mostly with her eyes shut. On the first night, in the near total darkness of their tent, she whispered, “Hey, Shane, I want to get in your sleeping bag with you."

“For a little Canadian passion?” came the return whisper.

“No. I’m freezing my ass off, and you’re like a furnace."

He helped her get warm. Later they shared some Canadian passion, although it involved something like a Chinese fire drill—in a single sleeping bag, in a pitch-black tent, trying to get out of clothes and find a place to put them. Afterward, they had snuggled for several warm, delicious minutes. He said, “Thanks for being here with me.”

“I love being with you.”
He said, “Thanks for helping me learn to laugh.”
She said, “Thanks for helping me learn to love.”

“Get me warm, Shane.”

---
Please visit me at www.BillCorbin.com

Photo: Corbin at Home


Please visit me at www.BillCorbin.com

Just For Fun - A Corbin Short Piece

This blog has boldly claimed that I can spin a creative story. Here's a try at showing it's true--a short exercise requiring that I take an unusual point of view:
----

Crazy Carlos and Me by Bill Corbin

By any logic, this whole thing should not have happened. I had been in complete and comfortable control since 1968 when Carlos argued for joining Alpha Tau Omega. Fortunately, I correctly sensed the sin oozing from every pore of that place. At the time, Carlos felt that a bit of sinning wouldn’t hurt. “For God’s sake, Carl,” he whined, “we’re nineteen years old. We know neither the taste of strong drink nor the touch of a wayward woman.” I reminded him that we were in college for our mind not our willy. He relented. We graduated from the School of Finance with a focus in accounting, and life began to flow smoothly, something like fine wine, in my opinion anyway.

Of course, Carlos didn’t submit completely. He groused and grumbled when we picked Maudie to marry. My God, man, he said, she’s a virgin, we’re a virgin, no one knows what the hell they’re doing. And I don’t think she cares.

Over the years, Carlos inspired us to pick up an occasional Penthouse. He came up with the fantasy themes for our frequent solo flights, as he called them. It was surely Carlos who inspired us to slink into Victoria’s Secret and buy the red camisole that turned Maudie’s face redder than the camisole. I had warned Carlos she’d never wear it. She never wore it. Carlos grew silent and sullen. Decades slipped by, quietly, smoothly. Then Maudie died.

We were sitting in our vintage leather Barca-Lounger, sipping tea, reading Time magazine. Life was lonesome, of course, but not intolerable. We volunteered at church, played an occasional chess tournament, smoked a pipe with our tea. Not bad. But there it was: a Harley-Davidson ad—-in Time magazine for crying out loud--just to the right of the article about political campaign reform I had been perusing. Carlos emerged from slumber, on fire. Damn, he exclaimed, look at that cherry red hog.

I didn’t know we even knew the word hog as it applied to an oversized machine being ridden by a hunky model that looked like James Dean. I said, Get a grip, Carlos; this is Carl here, reminding us that we’re fifty-four years old. If you recall, as a kid we were nervous about the safety of English bicycles, with those thin tires. We don’t need a hog in our life.

But something had happened; something profound. He said, Kiss my half of our ass, Carl. You and your conservative bullshit have put us on a comfortable but cracked Barca-Lounger, drinking sweet tea, puffing a goddam exotic pipe, reading a Time magazine that—-thank God, or Satan, or somebody—-has a life-altering ad in it. And we are going to, by God, alter this miserable frigging life.

So before I could help us regain our senses, we had gone hog shopping and were riding around – scared witless, in my case – on an outlandish red, chrome-encrusted monster. I just couldn’t make it seem right, not to mention safe. We had lost our hair by then, except for a carefully trimmed gray fringe. Our cheeks were pink and soft. Our body was pink and soft. I never dreamed that our pink and soft body would know the feeling of leather riding pants, a matching studded jacket, and (I’m almost embarrassed to admit this) a bright red bandana rakishly tied around our balded pate.

All of which brings us to the present time. We’re at the Brown County State Park where, annually, we Harley-Davidson aficionados gather to rumble and grunt greetings and attempt to whip aging hormones into some semblance of activity. So with Carlos firmly in control and me watching fearfully, we rumble up to a pack of young lady-bikers gathered in front of a green-shingled shelter house, kickstands down, just lounging. We scan the group, our expression as cool and casual as we can make it. But I’m not cool or casual worth a damn. The oldest among them is twenty-five tops, and black or blond or auburn curls are falling toward tube-topped cleavage that would have been inspiring on a movie screen but is terrifying from five feet away. I try shutting our eyes, but Carlos is clearly in charge. He says toward the group, “There’s enough food in my saddlebag for a picnic for two. Anyone interested?”

So I scream at Carlos. You are crazy; they’re going to laugh out loud and call us an old fart if not a dirty old man and–-

But before I can say another word, a raven-haired young thing looks at us with twinkling blue eyes and says, “I’m kind of hungry, honey.” Then she cranks up her Harley, revs it three times, and says, “Lead on.”

So Carlos has us rev three times, turn sharply and roar down this dirt lane at about fifty miles per hour. Raven hair and her red tube top and her oh-my-God cleavage are close behind, and I’m screaming at Carlos again. Forget about it, you idiot, she’s going to eat our food and hit us with a pipe wrench and steal our money or something horrible.

But Carlos just says, Shut the hell up, Carl. You pitiful son of a bitch.

We find an isolated spot beside a small pond. We spread a tan blanket emblazoned with a brilliant red H-D logo, and we spread a pretty damn good spread. I had noticed we were food packing heavily this morning, but hadn’t even wondered why. Now I knew. Her name turns out to be Heather. She’s sweet in a life-hardened way so I quit worrying about her robbing us. Truthfully, I thoroughly enjoy the picnic part. She seems interested in us. We talk about all kinds of things. She knows more than I thought a girl so young would know. We laugh easily.

Then Carlos speaks directly to me. Carl, we’re going for it. I don’t expect you to approve of this decision, but I’m requesting that you shut the hell up while we try. We argue briefly. I tell him we’re going to be hurt again. Like in high school. He says he doesn’t care. Life is going by. He wants to live some of it. I agree to shut up.

So Carlos has us whisper into Heather’s ear and, to my amazement, she says we’re cute and a kiss would be fine. And, miraculously, a red tube top is soon beside an empty wine bottle and shortly after that black leather riding pants and red bikini panties are beside the tube top and Carlos is going to town and Heather is moaning and I’m screaming, Carlos, Carlos…I love you, man. You are a genius. Lead on!

###
Please visit me at www.BillCorbin.com

How Can a Good Person Write "Evil" Stuff?

My first draft of the novel that became Accidental Soldiers included no profanity beyond an occasional hell or damn. But the book included characters from life's very seamy side. It felt dishonest as I was writing it, as if I was refusing to let my characters be realistic because of fear that I might offend conservative readers or God or my mother.

Then I read an incredible little book called "If You Want to Write" by Brenda Ueland, and I saw a new light. A writer must write truthfully, and truthful includes honestly depicting characters and scenes. To shrink back out of fear that some readers will disapprove of language or behavior is to let the joy be sucked out of the creative process--and it likely leads to timid, unenjoyable writing.

Predictably, some readers asked, in effect, "How can you, supposedly a Christian, possibly use the Lord's name in vain? Or how can a mind that isn't evil possibly write a scene involving unrepentant adultery?"

My answer is simple, but I now realize that non-writers may not believe the answer: Bill Corbin did not swear or commit the adultery. Bill Corbin created characters that he made as real as he knew how to make them. Some of them swear. I put them into conflict-filled life situations in which adultery is a possibility. Some might succumb to temptation. That's simply how life works. I've chosen to write adult contemporary fiction. Adults sometimes do adult things.

It's odd to me that anyone would think that a "good person" can't write evil. Evil is all around us, vividly depicted in the media, even in the Bible. Only a person sequestered in a distant abbey could be unaware how evil speaks and behaves. It's a short leap of writer's imagination to depict how evil people think and feel.

My first reaction to my new-found liberation was excess. My erotic scenes became steamier, my character-language rawer. But reader critiques helped me see two important truths. If I want to show that a character is rough-hewn and profane, he doesn't need to say the F word nine-times per paragraph, even if he conceivably might in real life. I'm pounding unnecessarily on the reader's ears and sensibilities, and I do believe a good writer pays attention to reader ears and sensibilities. In the case of eroticism, less can be more, and I can avoid making readers grimace if they don't enjoy graphic depiction of every grunt, thrust, and body part. So I spent considerable rewrite time creating erotic scenes in which the reader's imagination can fill in the details.

I also learned--via a harsh but accurate female critique--what prurient means in writing. If a female character undresses because that character would likely behave accordingly in that scene, that's honest writing. If she undresses because Bill Corbin's imagination wants to see her naked, that is prurient writing and it deserves harsh critique. It's interesting to see the difference in movies. Without doubt, nudity makes sense in some situations. But it's easy to recognize scenes in which the director seized the opportunity to see the star in her/his skivvies or less. [As a classic example, check the movie called Working Girl in which Melanie Griffin vacuums her apartment in the near-nude.]

As I higher level corollary, I believe it's reasonable that a reader evaluate a work as a whole, and question the writer's central message regarding good and evil. If the fruits of evil are negative, we can have a valuable cautionary tale. If evil is glorified, the reader can reasonably decide that, I don't want to spend chunks of my life being reminded that evil reigns in too much of the world.

Note that I would defend the possibility that an honest writer who honestly feels that evil triumphs can write a solid book to that effect. But ultimately the reader decides whether to continue reading.

A Writer and His Characters

My twisted path to four complete novels was educational in all kinds of ways, but better understanding characterization is the nugget most valuable. Long story short: I finished three complete manuscripts before pausing to study the craft of fiction. Therefore, I was the not-so-proud owner of three truly crappy manuscripts. Fortunately, I had received major reader encouragement that the storylines were solid, so it made sense to rewrite the original three rather than launch off on new projects.

In the case of novel number one, first called Geezers, Inc., I had already rewritten once. The new title became Gray Ghosts, Inc., and I had tried a whole new approach to the start, and to the stakes involved in the central conflict. In try number one, I opened with fiftyish pages told first-person by Jim Brantley as he becomes associated with an unlikely band of crusaders. In try number two, I opened with thirtyish pages told in tight third person from the point of view of young Darlene Forrester as she becomes associated with our unlikely band of crusaders.

Then I studied the craft and I realized that Gray Ghosts, Inc. (now Accidental Soldiers) is supposed to be a suspenseful thriller, and you don’t open with 50 or 30 pages of meandering discovery. The story should just start. Action begins. Go team go.

But I had an enormous benefit as I developed try number three. I knew Jim Brantley. I knew Darlene Forrester. I knew about their parents, their hobbies, their goals, their quirks. I knew them, probably better in many ways than I know some people that I call friend. And suddenly whole new scenes could come together in my mind and on the paper. I simply put people I knew in new situations, and they did what they would do. The feeling was both exhilarating and liberating.

Silent Hero begins in the era of my youth and also includes characters that I soon felt I knew. On several occasions, Glenn Sorensen and Amy Rivera made decisions that I hadn’t anticipated in advance. When first they rode off on their own, I asked myself, “What the hell just happened?” And the answer is, in my opinion, one of fiction writing’s great joys: two people, real in my mind, had made the decisions they would make, no longer limited in their scope by my personal thinking. [As an aside, but we’ll blog on this separately, this is also the reason that readers should not declare writers evil, corrupt, or otherwise Satanically possessed when a bad character behaves badly. Of course bad characters behave badly. They did in the Bible. They do in good fiction. They’re real in the author's mind, but they aren’t the author's mind.]

While writing the first draft of The Alphabet Affair, I knew intuitively that I needed reader sympathy for Jackie Billings who stumbles into a helluva mess. That draft included a long chapter that detailed several mini-scenes from early in Jackie’s life. I’ll close this blog with two of those scenes as they appeared in that version. Once again, the scenes had to go because The Alphabet Affair is classic adventure-suspense-thriller, but I felt I knew Jackie as I rewrote, making the process vastly easier.

Some writing authorities advise developing a set of short stories for main characters. At the least, writing detailed bios. I think both make sense, but the short stories make most sense. If you know how your characters behave, you can put them almost anywhere, and they’ll do their thing. [Another aside—I now believe this general idea is the key to avoiding writer’s block. We’ll blog on that later, too.]
Here’s Jackie (unedited since that initial try, so bear with me):

September 28, 1974

By the time she was eight years old, Jacqueline Sue Morris seemed more mature than her mother. Madeline Morris loved to sing; she loved to dance; she enjoyed a drink. Henry was a good man, but fourteen years older than his wife and a bit stern. People said he changed after the Korean War.

Finding opportunities to sing and dance was a problem in Greenville, Ohio, but Madeline did her best. She was active in Little Theater, of course. A pretty damn good Lola in Damn Yankees, in her own opinion anyway, although some scumbag local critic said her legs were too short. There was an annual Kiwanis-sponsored adult review in the high school auditorium. That was a highlight. Dayton was only thirty miles away, so she sang at a couple clubs there – free of course, but it gave her a place to belt out songs like Won’t You Come Home, Bill Bailey. She wished Henry would come with her, but he never did.

After school one afternoon, she rounded up Jackie and younger sister Mia, who had just turned six. “You’re starting dance lessons next week, girls. It’s all set.”

“Goodie,” said Mia.

“Why?” asked Jackie.

Their relatives would not have been surprised by the reactions. They called Mia a little Madeline. She was petite, fair with curly auburn hair, cute, impish, able to light up a room. Jackie’s hair was dark. She was slender, tall for her age, apparently taking after her dad. People said she’d be pretty someday, but she was gangly and her teeth would need braces.

“Because it’ll be fun, and for a great mother-daughter act for the Kiwanis show,” explained Madeline.

Jackie Morris took her dance lessons and performed with her mom. But it made her feel self-conscious. Mia loved it. With their mother dressed like a third sister, they wore matching blue tutus to sing and dance to Good Ship Lollipop. For Jackie, the only good moment was the last one. After their bows, she could see her dad, the tallest man in the third row, smiling, clapping, focusing on her. She formed her lips into a little kiss, just for him. He did too, just for her.


February 15, 1976

The Morris family lived in a tall two-story house on a wide, tree-lined street. Their house was old, like most of the houses in Greenville, with a roof that seemed to point in all directions. The garage wasn’t attached. Their dad’s woodworking shop was there. He spent a lot of time in his shop.

Jackie was a month past ten years old. Mia was seven. It was eight o’clock in the evening. Jackie was upstairs, at the little desk in her room, reading Jane Eyre, making notes. “Jackie, Jackie, come quick. Something’s wrong with Daddy.” It was a shriek, a shriek unlike anything Jackie had ever heard. Her heart began pounding, hard. She flew through her door and down the stairs. Mia was waiting at the bottom of the steps. Her eyes were wide, frantic, tears were starting to bubble. She seemed to be flapping her arms like an injured bird. “Come quick. Come quick.” She turned and ran toward the kitchen, Jackie close behind. They both skidded on the linoleum floor. Then through the kitchen and out through the back porch.

“Where’s mom?” Jackie gasped.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

The small side door into the garage was open. They rushed through, colliding at the entrance. He was lying on his back beside his lathe. He seemed twisted somehow. His skin was bluish-gray. His face was all wet. His shirt, too. Mia stood by his head, eyes even wider. Jackie fell to her knees by his chest. She shook his shoulder, gently at first, then harder. “Daddy. Daddy. Please wake up…Please…Please.”

He didn’t stir. Jackie tried to remain calm. “Wait with him, Mia. I’ll get help.”

Jackie ran to the phone on the dining room wall and dialed zero. In small towns you dialed zero.

“Operator.”

“Help us. Emergency. At the Morris House. 701 North Howard. My daddy. Oh, God. It’s my daddy. Hurry. Help us.”

Jackie ran back to the garage. There was no change, except that Mia was on her knees now, sobbing. “Wait here. I’ll meet the doctor.” Jackie ran through the garage door, down the side alley. Waited on the front sidewalk. Trying to breathe. Trying not to cry. Praying to the God she heard about every single Sunday.

The emergency vehicle was there in less than ten minutes. He was alive. They let the girls ride with him in the back of the big van. He still seemed too blue. But they could hear his breathing through the oxygen mask. They could see his chest rising and falling, really fast. But then it stopped. It stopped. The men pushed frantically on his chest, blew into his mouth. The van sped up, siren screaming. They reached the hospital. They rushed him inside. Jackie and Mia followed but had to wait in an entrance lobby.

A sad-eyed man dressed in green hospital cotton came through wide double doors. “We need to find your mother.”

At Henry Morris’ funeral, Jackie listened to the prayers and the assurances that her father was in a better place. She didn’t understand it, not any of it. She didn’t understand God, or what prayer was for. The preacher said God must need a brave soldier to guard the gates of Heaven. God already had a million soldiers. She only had one dad.

---
Please visit me at www.BillCorbin.com

Rejection is a Writer's Friend!

Human nature hates rejection. People go through life never daring to reach for the stars because their inner child (or whatever the hell it is that speaks to us) can't stand the possibility of rejection. So we don't dare to fully love or fully commit to seeking a job position. We may not even share our real feelings with those we call close friends--thereby denying ourselves the real joy of close friendship. Why? Because we can't stand the possibility that our deepest feelings will be viewed negatively; another form of rejection.

Now let's turn to writing, the absolute passion of my life for the last five years, and part of my livelihood for the past thirty years. Writing can be pure enjoyment, just as many personal hobbies can be pure enjoyment. And hobby writers need not deal with rejection. But many writers, deep down, want to be read. The reason may be financial, although in my experience, few writers are wise to give up their day job in anticipation of becoming the next John Grisham. Some writers simply want to share their feelings. Some want to entertain via the printed page. Some believe they have gifts to give in terms of knowledge or enlightenment. Whatever the reason, many writers want to be read.

Here's the rub. The minute we writers become serious about being read, we are doomed to a variety of rejection. And I will boldly say two things:
- Unless the writer embraces rejection, the joy will soon leave the process.
- Viewed correctly, the rejection is our best teacher and motivator.

I personally collected my ritual seventy-five or so agent rejections before I finally secured an agent. In many cases, the rejection was so swift and impersonal that I doubted anyone had seriously considered my work. But in several cases, I was told, clearly, that my writing was not strong enough for consideration in the big leagues. [Many of us writers have an odd vanity. We were, for example, decent high school baseball players. But for the past twenty years, we haven't played anything more serious than recreational softball. So we suddenly decide to walk into Yankee Stadium and ask to be considered for starting shortstop. Baseball doesn't work that way, and writing doesn't work that way, and it took me awhile to figure that out. Whether there's any hope at all is another topic that I'll address in another entry.]

So the real writers' marketplace will teach us and inspire us while it rejects us. And, painful to say, we likely deserve every bit of rejection we receive. In 2000, I finished the first draft (102,000 words) of a novel I called Geezers, Inc. It had a pretty darn good story line that had enough intrigue that I secured several agent reads. But looking back, the writing quality was abysmal. So personally I had a good news/bad news beginning. The good news was confidence that I could conceive a competitive storyline, intriguing by New York standards. The bad news was reluctant (and slow) acceptance of weak skills in the craft of fiction writing.

So I went to work, hard, to develop the skills. And there's some good news there, too, because it is definitely possible to vastly improve in the craft. Today I have a published novel called Accidental Soldiers that grew out of perhaps four major rewrites of Geezers, Inc., and I will boldly argue that it's a pretty damn good novel by any standard.

The second kind of rejection must be eagerly sought. We must find readers willing to be honest with us. (Close friends and family members are rarely the answer for obvious reasons.) And when our critique partners tear apart our work, we must listen eagerly. The big picture reasons is straightforward. We have secured part of our dream: a reader. That reader is telling us how he/she reacted to our work. That reaction is their truth. We must honor it even if we hate every part of it.

"This character didn't work for me at all," she says. "You gave me five reasons to think she was conservative, and in Chapter Nine she's drunk out of her mind at a disco. That just won't work, and frankly from that point on I didn't trust any of the characters."

Your instinct in this case may be to call your critique partner an absolute idiot who must have been reading Chapters Four and Five with her eyes shut. You may feel personally attacked. You may feel almost mortally wounded at an emotional level because the untrusted character is really you in many ways. But you MUST embrace the criticism, mine it for any value it has, then decide whether to edit your work accordingly.

Note that you don't necessarily decide to change your work. It is not possible to please every reader. I'm amazed at the extent to which readers can differ in reaction. For example, one views my Jackie Billings (The Alphabet Affair) as a legitimately struggling wife trying to deal with a smothering husband. Another views Jackie as a wanton slut. In the final analysis, you must be true to your story and be willing to accept the barbs of those who don't buy in. But in every honest critique, there is gold to mine and we writers should eagerly mine it.

Please visit me at www.BillCorbin.com

The Four Novels

An obscure old philosopher once said, "If you blow not your own horn, your horn may never blow," or something like that. In that spirit, I will boldly claim that I've developed not one but four novels that will provide first-rate, page-turning enjoyment. My confidence is reader-based, not ego-based. [My authorly ego was beaten into submission years ago.] Over the years, I have distributed hundreds of manuscripts to my "test-readers." Now I'm receiving real input from book purchasers.

I would be honored if you would check out the novels, covered in depth (and purchasable) at www.BillCorbin.com.

Here's a cut-paste from the summary page of my website, providing a readers-digest summary of the storylines. The website includes preview copy from each book.

Silent Hero: An innocent young man’s life is turned upside down when he falls in love with a woman whose family is rumored to have criminal connections. [Available now.]

Players and Pawns: A young woman rising in a corrupt corporation risks her value system and, unwittingly, her life at the altar of career advancement

Accidental Soldiers: Restless retirees form an organization aimed at fighting business corruption, but unwittingly attack a crime syndicate, with deadly results.

The Alphabet Affair: A woman fights valiantly to save her marriage and the lives of those she loves, after an indiscretion causes her family to be stalked by a team of ruthless adventurer-conmen.


Visit www.billcorbin.com

A Writer's Educational Journey

I have pretty decent writing credentials: involved in four different magazine start-ups where I served as reporter, editor, and publisher. Author of eight non-fiction books, most notably The Edge Resume and Job Search Strategy, initially published in 1993, still in print (rights sold to another publisher in 1999) -- approximately 25,000 sold at $23.95.

And on a dark and stormy morning in the spring of 2000, I sat down to try fiction. Nothing as sensible as a short story, of course. I had a novel in me. I was sure of it.

Three months later, I finished the first draft of a manuscript that--unfortunately for me, in MANY ways--had an incredibly strong premise. My non-fiction agent was eager to read. I sent it off. She told me, reasonably kindly, that it stunk out loud. I didn't really believe it, so I shopped the manuscript via query letter to perhaps fifty potential fiction agents. The premise secured me several manuscript reads. (No small trick in today's publishing world.) But the conclusions were remarkably uniform: very weak in the craft of fiction.

With remarkable arrogance, in hindsight, I tried another novel. The results were the same. I actually started a third novel before the light truly dawned. I needed to study the craft. As a fiction writer, I was an amateur violin player surprised that the Boston Symphony wasn't eager to have me join up.

I went to work, frenetically: classes, seminars, books, critique groups, and finally a wonderful coach named Christine DeSmet of U of Wisconsin who helped me, page by page, on a paid basis.

The writing improved. My confidence improved. And in the period from mid 2003 to mid 2005, I recrafted and polished the original three novels and wrote a fourth.

Unfortunately, by that point, the NY writing scene had virtually closed itself to the first time writer. Without question my work was stronger. My premises were more compelling than in 2000. But my percentage "reads" plummeted. I decided to reconcile myself to the reality that today's publishing world is almost hostile to the new novelist.

I helped organize a start-up publishing enterprise called Beckett Highland Publishing, initially committed to presenting my four novels to the reading marketplace, but also committed to finding other writers whose work deserved to be discovered.

At this point, the novels are available for sale. My readership is growing slowly but steadily. Best of all, real readers who have no reason to blow smoke are calling the work first-rate fiction.

At this point, we're developing alternative marketing strategies for the initial four novels, while I begin work on a folder full of new projects.

So, that's the summary of how I got to this point -- also well told on www.BillCorbin.com. But, for the benefit of writers, I'll share in upcoming blogs the extent to which hard work as much as inspiration has been the key.