Tag Archives: editing

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Writing, Zombies Need Brains

Monday Musings: A New Anthology and Submission Advice For Writers

By now you might have seen the posts across several social media platforms: There is a new Zombies Need Brains Kickstarter campaign underway. For eleven years now, ZNB has been publishing quality short fiction from teams of established professionals and new voices found through open calls for stories. We’re doing three anthologies this year, and before I get to the advice part of the post, I wanted to take a bit of time to tell you about them.ZNB Kickstarter image

The first anthology is Were- 2, and is edited by Joshua Palmatier and S.C. Butler. The original Were- anthology came out in 2016, and featured stories about were-creatures other than werewolves. This new anthology has a similar theme. I wrote a story for Were-, one I still love, called “A Party For Bailey.” For my were-creatures I chose bears, and that’s all I’ll say. I’m sure you’ll love Were- 2 — its anchor authors include Randee Dawn, Auston Habershaw, Gini Koch, Gail Z. Martin and Larry N. Martin, Harry Turtledove, Tim Waggoner, and Jean Marie Ward.

This year’s second anthology is Skull X Bones. It’s a pirate anthology that I will be co-editing with Joshua. We will be looking for speculative fiction stories of any sort (fantasy, paranormal, science fiction, horror), as long as they focus on pirates. Our anchor author lineup includes Rod Belcher, Alex Bledsoe, Jennifer Brozek, C.C. Finlay, Violette Malan, Misty Massey, and Alan Smale.

Finally, Joshua will be solo editing a follow up to the Ampyrium anthology that was published earlier this summer. Ampyrium is a shared fantasy world that debuted in seven novella-length stories written by Patricia Bray, S.C. Butler, Esther M. Friesner, Juliet E. McKenna, Jason Palmatier, Joshua Palmatier, and me. The new anthology, Ampyrium: Merchant War, will have anchor stories from all seven of us, plus another seven stories (or so) from an open call.

So, as a long-time ZNB editor (Skull X Bones will be my sixth ZNB anthology), and a longer-term ZNB author (in addition to those I have edited, I have written for a half dozen ZNB anthologies), what advice can I offer to writers hoping to sell stories to one collection or another? Each ZNB anthology receives literally hundreds of open call submissions. Usually we take seven or eight stories. So you want your story to stand out in good ways.

1) Pay close attention to the anthology themes. When we ask for stories written, say, about pirates, that doesn’t mean the story should merely mention pirates or have one corsair as a background character. It means pirates, of whatever sort, should be so central to the story that without them, the narrative does not exist. For an anthology like Ampyrium: Merchant War, you should probably plan to read some or all of the first anthology, to familiarize yourself with the setting and the themes of those original tales. Speaking as an editor, I can tell you that I reject more stories for not being on theme than for any other reason.

2) Read the submission guidelines. This is important for ANYTHING you submit to any market. All editors are swamped with stories and short on time. We want to find great stories, obviously, but we also want to get through our slush piles. When I get a story that’s written in a tiny font, or that is single-spaced (which makes a story MUCH harder to read), or has wonky margins, or a weird font color, I tend to start reading it with a negative attitude. The writer in question has already ticked me off by ignoring the guidelines, and now I’m looking for one more reason to reject the story and move on to the next one.

You don’t want that. You want to do everything right in terms of formatting and following directions, so that I read the story with an open mind, so that I accept or reject the story purely based on the quality of the writing and narrative elements. Follow. The. Guidelines.

3) Proof your story. Then proof your story. And then proof your story again. Look, typos happen. All of us who edit for ZNB are also professional writers. We all have typos in our own books and stories, and chances are we could read through them 100 times and still not catch every little error. But that said, again speaking as an editor, finding two or three typos on the very first page is much like receiving a story that didn’t follow the GLs (see above). It makes me wonder if the author of the story cared enough to edit. Taking pride in our work means, in part, making our manuscripts as clean as possible.

4) Think about your narrative — and how it relates to the theme — as broadly as possible. Joshua has said, in offering advice on panels, “Your first idea is not necessarily your best idea.” And he’s right. Sometimes, a great idea comes to us immediately. Those moments are magical, but relatively uncommon. More often, our first idea is the most obvious one, which can mean that it will be similar to the ideas of lots of other writers submitting to the anthology. Let your ideas for your story steep a bit. Give them time to take you in truly innovative directions.

5) Develop your ideas. My second most common reason for rejecting a story is that the idea of the narrative failed to move beyond just that: an idea. A story is more than a cool premise. A story is about characters, be they human or fantastical or alien. A story brings some sort of change or progress to the lives of those characters or to the world around them. If your synopsis of the story you’re submitting doesn’t include something about characters, their lives, and the way things change for them, chances are you need to rethink your story. And I would add this — generally speaking, if the word count of your story is under 2,500, it probably needs more development. We rarely take stories that are shorter than that, not because we want you to pad your word count, but rather because it takes time to develop a plot into something more than an idea.

The open call for stories for this year’s ZNB anthologies will begin soon after the Kickstarter ends. So, first things first: We have to fund the projects. We are already a quarter of the way to our goal, which is great. But we still have a long way to go, and we need your help!!

Thanks, and have a great week!

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, teaching, The Chalice War, The Chalice War: Sword, Writing

Monday Musings: The Emotional Challenge of Writing

Whenever I work with writers who are at the outsets of their careers — whether I’m editing their work for freelance or for an anthology, or teaching them in a workshop, or just talking shop on a convention panel — I try to stress the importance of delving deeply into emotion when telling our stories. There are so many elements that make a book or story effective. We want to create fascinating worlds, imbue those worlds with breathtaking magical systems or mind-bending imagined technologies, and give those worlds rich, complex histories, cultures, and religions. And, of course, we want our plots to be twisty, unpredictable, fun, and, ultimately, deeply satisfying.

At the end of the day, though, the key to a successful story, at least in my opinion, thirty novels and nearly as many years into my career, is character. Every other element of our storytelling can be perfect, but if our characters are flat and our readers don’t connect with them, we can’t consider our narratives successful. On the other hand, imperfections in our world building and our prose and even our plotting can be overcome with believable, memorable, relatable character work.

And I would argue that successful character work demands that we tap into the emotions of the people about whom we’re writing (even if they’re not technically “people”). Emotion is a writer’s bread and butter. Emotion is how we connect with readers, how our readers come to love (or hate) our characters, how our characters give meaning and purpose to our narratives. Emotion is everything. Without it, we might as well be writing shopping lists, or relating our stories in bullet points.

Why am I telling you this? Many of you aren’t writers, and probably don’t care about the craft of writing. And those of you who are writers have probably heard me talk about this stuff before. As I said at the outset, these are points I make at every opportunity, because I deem them so important to the success of any story.

Infusing our prose with emotion, capturing and portraying the feelings of our characters, using emotion as a tool to propel our plots — all of these things are really hard to do well. Writers spend entire careers perfecting the techniques. But sometimes — for me right now — it can be an overwhelming challenge simply to mine our own emotions so that we can draw upon them in our writing.

“Write what you know,” writers are often told. As a writer of fantasy, I approach this bit of wisdom with a healthy dose of skepticism. If all of us ONLY wrote what we “know” the literary world would be a drab, boring place. But “write what you know” does have some relevance for emotional writing. All of us have felt anger and contentment, fear and resolve, love and hate, sadness and joy. We are emotional creatures. And by drawing on our own emotional experiences and memories, we can bring authenticity and power to the emotions we impart to our characters.

The problem is, sometimes we don’t want to go there.

The Chalice War: Sword, by David B. CoeIn the last year, I have written two pieces of original short fiction. That’s it. I haven’t written a novel since I finished The Chalice War: Sword, late in 2022. I have recently started work on a tie-in project (I can’t really say more than that, right now), a novel. It is coming slowly, and because I am essentially playing in someone else’s world, the emotions I’ll be mining are somewhat removed from my own. I spent the first half of last year doing a bunch of editing, for myself and for others, figuring that when those projects were through, I would dive into a new book of my own.

Then our older daughter’s health took a dramatic turn for the worse, and that was pretty much it. I couldn’t write fiction anymore. I didn’t want to write fiction anymore. Because my entire existence outside of writing was about pain and grief and loss, and the last thing I wanted to do was a deep dive into my own feelings for the purpose of bringing life to new characters.

Now, a couple of things. First, fear not — this is NOT a permanent condition. I will write again, books and stories both. I have ideas I want to explore and projects I want to complete. I’m just not ready yet. And second, notice I said, “I couldn’t write FICTION anymore.” I did not stop writing; I have not stopped being a writer. Not entirely. I am writing posts again, and I have been journaling all this time. I have also been writing to friends. In all of this writing, I am processing and prodding. I may not be willing to delve deeply into my emotional world at this time, but I’m not ignoring it completely. I’m being careful. The way we might favor a twisted knee or avoid contact with a bruise on one side.

Because I am bruised, wounded. And I am far from alone in this regard. Lots of you write with and through emotional pain all the time. Which, I suppose, brings me to my final, larger point. Another thing writers are told constantly is to write as much as possible. “Professional writers write.” I’ve said this myself. And it’s true. But it doesn’t mean we can or should always be forcing ourselves to work on the next thing we want to sell. At times, we need to write for our own purposes. At times, we write not to make money, but to survive, to heal, to find peace. At times, we can only ask so much of ourselves.

This is such a time for me. As much as I would like to be “productive” again (whatever that means) I’m simply not there yet. Emotional writing may be our professional currency, but it’s not always possible. Admitting that, honoring that, is a step toward healing.

Have a great week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Reading Books Several Times

Under Heaven, by Guy Gavriel KayI have just started reading a book that I have read at least one time before. Maybe two. It is Under Heaven, by Guy Gavriel Kay, a terrific historical fantasy set in a world modeled after Tang Dynasty China. The truth is, I read many of Guy’s books more than once. I read books by other authors multiple times as well, and I would recommend that others do the same — writers AND non-writers.

My first time through any book, I read for plot. Yes, I pay attention to the writing, to the character work, to the creation of setting, to the mechanics of narrative and pacing. But I also tend to rush my reading just a bit, as I am eager to know what happens next. On a second read, I can slow down and appreciate those elements of craft that I know I missed the first time through the book.

This is actually true for me of watching movies and television shows as well. I am a story teller by trade, and I learn something new about story, about dialogue, about pace and point of view, each time I experience a show or movie or book. With Kay’s work in particular, I find that I cannot gain a full appreciate of his magnificent prose and his explorations of character in only one reading. I need to dive back into a book a second, and maybe even a third time to explore it thoroughly.

I will admit that there are also books I have read not two or three times, but ten or twelve. This goes beyond learning craft. The story becomes something more — something akin to literary comfort food. The world of the book is a place I go — familiar, safe, predictable but also beautiful and nurturing. It’s like listening to a favorite old album; the well-worn melodies and lyrics bring peace and transport me to an earlier time.

I also will say that when I edit a story or novel, either for an anthology or for my freelance editing business, I ALWAYS read through the manuscript twice. I edit and make notes both times through, but invariably I find things on the second pass that I missed on the first (in part because I am more distracted by plot on the initial reading). And invariably as well, I find at least a few comments and criticisms that I offered the first time through that are “fixed” by later developments in the story.

There is an old saying that I repeat with some frequency, short and to the point: “Writers read.” We read for any number of reasons. To learn the marketplace and see what others are doing with the old tropes of our chosen genre or subgenre. To support our colleagues and friends in their pursuit of fame and fortune, or at least subsistence and an escape from obscurity. And we read to learn all we can about this marvelous and confounding career path we have chosen.

For that last, one reading is rarely enough. When we find a book that captivates us, that makes us envious of the skill and eloquence of the author, that makes us want to improve our own craft so that we might elicit from our own readers what the author has elicited from us, we are well served to go back and study the text in depth. My friend Faith Hunter often tells of her early reading of fantasy books, as she was making up her mind to write in the genre. She would take notes in the book margins, use highlighters of different colors coded to draw her attention to character development, setting, narrative structure, etc. She made herself a student of the genre, and in doing so mastered it, setting up her subsequent, well-deserved success.

I don’t mark up my books in that way, not because I think it’s a bad idea, but because I’m a little (maybe not so little?) compulsive about keeping my books pristine. But I do study the techniques of other writers. That is why I read certain texts over and over. And that is why I recommend you do the same. Even if you’re not an aspiring writer, there is much to be gained from such exploration. It is akin to pausing in a museum to look more closely at a painting, to study the shape and pattern of brush strokes. Sometimes appreciating fully the work of a story teller means taking the time to scrutinize their approach to telling that story.

Keep writing!

Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, The Chalice War, The Chalice War: Cauldron, The Chalice War: Stone, The Chalice War: Sword, Writing, Zombies Need Brains

A Word of Thanks, and a Bit of Bragging

My summer of releases continues tomorrow!!

So far this year I have had releases in May (The Chalice War: Stone, the first book in my new Celtic urban fantasy), June (The Chalice War: Cauldron), and July (Artifice and Craft, which I co-edited with Edmund Schubert, and Dragonesque, which includes my short story, “Reenactment”). Now we’re into August, and tomorrow sees the release of The Chalice War: Sword.My Summer 2023 releases

Yes, I say all of this with tremendous pride. I have been productive over the past year. And over the past three years, going back to 2021, I have published four short stories, edited three anthologies, and produced five novels and a trilogy of novellas. That’s nothing to sneeze at. The truth is, my work has been a balm and a welcome distraction from other things. Being productive has been a form of therapy for me.

I want to thank you all so much for your support of my work, and of me personally. I’m more grateful than I can say. The past few years have not been easy, but your interest in my new books and stories, and your willingness to read my blog posts and social media screeds has meant the world to me. No, I’m not going anywhere. I have more projects to work on, more blog posts to write. But I wanted to pause and say thanks. I wish all of you the best.

Angry Robot Books, Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Islevale Cycle, Radiants, The Chalice War, Tor Books, Winds of the Forelands, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Beginnings, Middles, and Endings, part IV — Keeping Our Plots Tight

Today, I bring you one more “Middles” post in my several-weeks-long feature on “Beginnings, Middles, and Endings.” You can find past posts in the series here, here, and here.

I made the self-evident point a couple of weeks ago that the vast middle of any book is by far the largest segment, which is why I have spent a few weeks on the subject. At the same time, though, there are as many different ways to approach the middle (and the beginning, and the ending) as there are books to be written, which is to say there’s an infinite number. And so there are only so many specifics I can offer. This, it seems to me is especially true of the middle. Beginnings share a common purpose — we use them to hook our readers. Endings seek to cap off our narratives, tie off loose ends and, perhaps, hint at additional story elements to come in subsequent volumes.

The purpose of the middle is to tell the story. How’s that for vague?

As I say, the middle can take readers literally anywhere. That said, though, I believe strongly that every scene in the vast middle has to serve a narrative purpose. This is one reason why I tend to rely on an outline when I write. Even if that outline is rough and purposefully sketchy, it helps me organize my thoughts and plan out my story. I don’t do it because I’m OCD. (I mean, I am OCD, but that’s not why I outline. Or at least it’s not the only reason. Okay, moving on . . . .) I do it because I don’t want wasted pages in my manuscript. I want my pacing as taut and clean as it can be.

Shapers of Darkness, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Romas Kukalis)I am currently reading through my Winds of the Forelands series, editing OCR scans of the books in order to re-release them sometime in the near future. Winds of the Forelands was my second series, a sprawling epic fantasy with a complex, dynamic narrative of braided plot lines. At the time I wrote the series (2000-2006) I worked hard to make each volume as coherent and concise as possible. Looking back on the books now, I see that I was only partially successful. I’m doing a light edit right now — I’m only tightening up my prose. The structural flaws in the series will remain. They are part of the story I wrote, and an accurate reflection of my writing at the time. And the fact is, the books are pretty darn good.

RADIANTS, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Belle Books)But when I hold Winds of the Forelands up beside the Radiants books, or the Chalice War novels, or even my Islevale Cycle, which is my most recent foray into big epic fantasy, the older story suffers for the comparison. There are so many scenes and passages in WOTF that I could cut without costing myself much at all. The essence of the storyline would remain, and the reading experience would likely be smoother and quicker. — Sigh — So be it.

Again, the purpose of outlining, and the purpose of revising and editing, ought to be to make our work as concise and focused as possible. I can think of several books by big name authors that have in their vast middles scenes that meander, that serve little or no narrative purpose, that (in my opinion) actually detract from the larger story. I won’t name the books or authors, but chances are you have come across similar scenes in books you’ve read. Maybe you’ve encountered the same ones I’m thinking of. This is the sort of thing we want to avoid. Big name authors can get away with doing this occasionally. Authors seeking to break into the business, or mid-list authors looking to move up the ladder, simply can’t.

So, how do we avoid those superfluous, serve-no-purpose scenes?

Well, as I’ve said already, one way to avoid them is to outline. I know there are many dedicated so-called “organic writers” out there, and I respect that. Again, I outline loosely, precisely because I want to maintain the organic quality of my writing. Still, outlining really can help keep us from straying from our crucial plot points.

So can something called Vernor’s Rule. This is a writing principle I have discussed before in various venues. Allow me to explain it again here. “Vernor” is multiple Hugo-award winning author Vernor Vinge, who is best known for such books as A Fire Upon the Deep and A Deepness In the Sky. For a time, he and I had the same editor at Tor Books — that editor is the person who first told me of Vernor’s Rule.

Vernor’s Rule goes like this: There are basically three things we authors do as storytellers. We advance our plots, we build character, and we fill in background information. (Yes, this oversimplifies things a bit, but if you think about it you soon see that all we write can be placed under these three broad headings.) Every scene we write should be doing at least two of these things simultaneously. Preferably, each scene should do all three things at once. If a scene only accomplishes one of these things, or — heavens forbid — none of them, our narrative has stalled and we need to rework the scene.

Got that? If not, read the paragraph again — it sounds more complicated than it is. Really. It means essentially that writers need to multitask all the time. Every scene, every passage, ought to accomplish several things at once. That’s how we keep our narratives moving. That’s how we tackle the vast middle.

Next week we start endings. As it were.

Keep writing!

Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Invasives, The Chalice War, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Another Letter To My Younger Self

Dear Younger Me,

Yes, it’s me again — Middle Aged David. Upper Middle Aged David, actually. I know I wrote to you earlier this week. I remember doing so. I’m not so far gone quite yet. But I thought you might benefit from a second letter focused on the professional side of things. As I told you on Monday, we did wind up having a career in writing, just as we dreamed when we were a kid. And, also as I told you, our professional life hasn’t followed precisely the path we envisioned. That’s fine. We’ve had a good ride so far. But there’s stuff you should know, stuff I wish I had known.

I suppose all of it can be summed up in two words — and I hate to resort to cliché, in a writing post no less, but it really is true. Shit happens. It does, it does, it does. And it has happened to us. More than once.

The biggest mistake I made — we made — early on was assuming our career trajectory would be linear, a progression toward greater and greater success, higher and higher advances, bigger and better sales numbers. That may be true for a select few, but for most writers a career follows a meandering, uncertain path. Some books and series are more successful than others — commercially and critically. I call that early expectation of ever-improving circumstance our biggest mistake not because it somehow led to a disappointing outcome for one project or another, but because it caused me — us — so much pain. When our career hit that first speed bump, I took it personally. I felt I had failed, and also that the industry had failed me. I was confused and angry and sad and, most of all, terrified at the thought that this first disappointment would mean the end of our professional journey. I didn’t yet understand the nature of a creative life.

And so I say to you, Younger Me, learn resilience. Grieve for those lofty unmet ambitions, but then move on and try again. Learn moderation. Don’t let commercial and critical success carry you too high, and don’t let poor results drive you too low. Success will follow failure, which will follow success, and so on. If you can — and I know it’s so, so hard — learn to let go of expectation entirely. We don’t know which books will soar and which will flop. We love them all, which is why we go to the extreme trouble of writing them in the first place. And finally, learn contentment. Love the stories you create on their own terms. Find success in the completion of a good tale, in the realization of an artistic vision.

Take every promise made to you by an editor and publisher with a grain of salt. It’s not that they don’t mean what they say. Okay, SOME of them don’t mean what they say. But mostly, they simply can’t anticipate all that might happen. Producing a book is no small feat. A thousand things can go wrong. Editors and publishers often tell us, as if gospel, that a certain thing is going to happen on a given date. And that is, at the moment, their best guess of what will happen. Pencil in the date. Don’t commit it to ink. Because, as we have established, shit happens.

Thieftaker, by D.B. Jackson (Jacket art by Chris McGrath)All those great ideas you have for jacket art? They’re not as great as you think they are. Seriously. We are a writer. And we’re very, very good at that. We are NOT a graphic artist. We are NOT a marketing expert. I remember when the first Thieftaker novel went into production, I had what I thought was SUCH a wonderful idea for the jacket art. A can’t miss idea. PERFECT for the book. It wasn’t any of those things. The moment I saw Chris McGrath’s image for the book, which WAS brilliant and wonderful and perfect, I understood that no one should ever put me — us — in charge of selecting jacket art.

INVASIVES, by David B. Coe (Jacket art courtesy of Belle Books)On the other hand, do trust in your story ideas. All of them. Even the old ones that haven’t yet gone anywhere. At some point, you’ll have an idea for a story about three kids living in the subway tunnels beneath New York City. And you won’t have any idea what to do with it. You’ll give up on it. Don’t. It will become Invasives. At another time, you’ll write a story about two women interacting with Celtic deities and trying to protect an ancient, transcendently powerful magical artifact. That one, too, will seem to languish. Trust the story. That book just came out. It’s called The Chalice War: Stone. Believe in your vision.

If a publisher promises more than you think they can deliver, under terms that seem way too good to be believed, be skeptical. Very, very skeptical. Chances are, they CAN’T deliver. Chances are those terms can’t be met. We’ve been burned a couple of times. ’Nough said.

Over the past twenty-five-plus years, I have tried to thank Nancy every single day for making our career possible. And I’ll continue to thank her. But I might have missed a few days. Fill in the gaps, will you?

Most of all, keep doing what you’re doing and I’ll do the same. No, we haven’t gotten all we wanted, we haven’t achieved every goal. But we’re doing okay, and as much fun as you’ve been having early in our career, I’m having even more now. It keeps getting better.

And yes, the rumors are true. We’re editing now, and we like it. The dark side really is more powerful . . . .

Best wishes,

Older David

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Tor Books, Winds of the Forelands, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Looking At Our Old Work With Compassion

Rules of Ascension, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Gary Ruddell)I continue to read through and revise the books of my Winds of the Forelands epic fantasy series, a five-book project first published by Tor Books in 2002-2007. The series has been out of print for some time now, and my goal is to edit all five volumes for concision and clarity, and then to re-release the series, either through a small press or by publishing them myself. I don’t yet have a target date for their re-release.

Last week, I wrote about the number of passages I have found in the first book, Rules of Ascension, that are repetitive or overly explanatory. My younger self had yet to learn the simple lesson of trusting one’s readers, and, by extension, trusting oneself. We often don’t need to tell our readers as much as we think we do. We can trust that the groundwork we have set in place will make clear the plot points, character backgrounds, and world building details we want our readers to grasp and remember.

In previous weeks, I have written about the excess verbiage we often put into our books, at the expense of flow, clarity, and effective story telling. And yes, I have found a great deal of this in Rules of Ascension as well. Too many adverbs, too much passive writing, too many dialogue tags. This was only my second series, and I was still learning to write.

This week, though, I would like to shift my focus a bit, and, in a way, give my younger self a break. Because despite the many, many flaws in my early prose, I am also finding some things to enjoy and even admire about this early work.

I suppose it might strike some as self-serving — even egotistical — to look back on earlier work and say, “I like this; this is good.” The truth is, I find myself grappling with self-criticism for even contemplating praising my own work. Hence this paragraph. But I had a text exchange the other day with a dear friend, someone I have known for decades. And he pointed out to me — in a somewhat different context — that extending ourselves grace and compassion, not to mention forgiveness and understanding, can be incredibly difficult, but also profoundly important.

Children of Amarid, by David B. Coe (jacket art by Romas Kukalis)We are often our own most unrelenting critics. This is certainly true for me in other elements of my life. I am hard on myself. Too hard. And, on a professional level, I am the first to notice and criticize flaws in my writing. So reading through old books in preparation for re-release is often an exercise in self-flagellation. It was with the LonTobyn reissues that I did through Lore Seekers Press back in 2016. And it is again with the Winds of the Forelands books.

Then as now, I had to force myself to acknowledge the good in the novels. Because I was hyperaware of instances of clumsy prose and heavy-handed story telling. I still am.

But . . . .

The Winds of the Forelands books marked a turning point in my career. I had enjoyed some success with the LonTobyn Chronicle, and with this new project I wanted to take my writing to the next level. I challenged myself in several ways: I featured a protagonist who was, at least at the outset of the saga, really difficult to like. I built a world that was exponentially more complex and intricate than what I had constructed for LonTobyn. And I wove together numerous plot threads, creating an ambitious (and, I believe, ultimately successful) narrative that I wouldn’t have dared to attempt with my first series.

Weavers of War, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Romas Kukalis)As I have read through this first book in the story, polishing and trimming the prose, I have rediscovered that narrative. I remember far less of it than I would have thought possible. Or rather, I recall scenes as I run across them, but I have not been able to anticipate the storyline as I expected I would. There are so many twists and turns, I simply couldn’t keep all of them in my head so many years (and books) later.

So, I constantly find myself thinking, “Oh! I forgot this! What a cool twist!” If I’m being honest, I have to say that it’s quite gratifying.

I have written here before about the importance of self-defining our successes. Artists in general, and writers in particular, are subject to business models and creative traditions that depend largely on external markers of success or failure. Royalty statements and sales numbers, print runs and new contracts, reviews in journals, reviews on Amazon, awards, etc. We look outside ourselves for affirmation. If it comes, great. But if it doesn’t, many of us label our latest endeavors “failures.” Or, worse, we label ourselves that way.

To my mind, one of the secrets to enjoying, or perhaps enduring, a career in writing, is learning to self-define what it means to succeed. We need to take satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment from the things we can control — hitting our deadlines, writing books we know are good, managing to craft that difficult scene or plot point in just the way we had envisioned.

Which brings me back to where I began. Rules of Ascension will benefit from the polishing I’ve done. The other four books in the series will be better when I complete similar revisions on them. But these are good books. They’re exciting, suspenseful, poignant. They’re written with passion and a keen eye for detail. The character work is strong, the plotting tight, the world building compelling.

I say this not to brag, but to affirm something I wish I’d been able to say as a young writer, too obsessed with those external measures of accomplishment to look beyond a poor review here or a disappointing sales report there: These books were a success. And I’m damn proud of them.

I look forward to reissuing them so you can enjoy them, too.

Keep writing!

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Tor Books, Winds of the Forelands, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Trust Yourself. No, Really.

Rules of Ascension, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Gary Ruddell)Trust your reader.

This is editor speak for “trust yourself.” It is something I say often to many of the writers I edit.

But what does it mean?

I have had my own lesson in “trust your reader” in recent days as I have begun the long, arduous task of editing for reissue the five volumes of my Winds of the Forelands epic fantasy series, originally published by Tor Books back in the early 2000s, when I was still a relative newbie. My editor at Tor used to tell me all the time to trust my readers, and so I assumed — naïvely, it would seem — that back in the day he and I had caught all the instances where I didn’t trust my reader. But no. It seems there were so many of these moments, that he had to engage in a sort of editorial triage, catching only the most egregious and leaving the rest.

Yes, I know. I still haven’t defined the phrase.

Seeds of Betrayal, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Gary Ruddell)As I say, “trust your reader” is essentially the same as “trust yourself.” And editors use it to point out all those places where we writers tell our readers stuff that they really don’t have to be told. Writers spend a lot of time setting stuff up — arranging our plot points just so in order to steer our narratives to that grand climax we have planned; building character backgrounds and arcs of character development that carry our heroes from who they are when the story begins to who we want them to be when the story ends; building histories and magic systems and other intricacies into our world so that all the storylines and character arcs fit with the setting we have crafted with such care.

Bonds of Vengeance, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Romas Kukalis)And because we work so hard on all this stuff (and other narrative elements I haven’t even mentioned) we want to be absolutely certain that our readers get it all. We don’t want them to miss a thing, because then all our Great Work will be for naught. Because maybe, just maybe, if they don’t get it all, then our Wonderful Plot might not come across as quite so wonderful, and our Deep Characters might not come across as quite so deep, and our Spectacular Worlds might not feel quite so spectacular.

And that would be A Tragedy.

Shapers of Darkness, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Romas Kukalis)Okay, yes, I’m making light, poking fun at myself and my fellow writers. But fears such as these really do lie at the heart of most “trust your reader” moments. And so we fill our stories with unnecessary explanations, with redundancies that are intended to remind, but that wind up serving no purpose, with statements of the obvious and the already-known that serve only to clutter our prose and our storytelling.

The first few hundred pages of Rules of Ascension, the first volume of Winds of the Forelands, is filled to bursting with unnecessary passages of this sort. I explain things again and again. I remind my readers of key points in scenes that took place just a dozen or so pages back. I make absolutely certain that my readers are well versed in every crucial element (“crucial” as determined by me, of course) in my world building and character backgrounds.

Weavers of War, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Romas Kukalis)As a result, the first volume of the series was originally 220,000 words long. Yes, that’s right. Book II was about 215,000, and the later volumes were each about 160,000. They are big freakin’ books. Now, to be clear, there are other things that make them too wordy, and I’m fixing those as well. And the fact is, these are big stories and even after I have edited them, the first book will still weigh in at well over 200,000 words. My point is, they are longer than they need to be. They are cluttered with stuff my readers don’t need, and all that stuff gets in the way of the many, many good things I have done with my characters and setting and plot and prose.

I have always been proud of these books. I remain so even as I work through this process. People have read and enjoyed all five volumes as originally written despite the “trust your reader” moments. I actually think most readers pass over those redundant, unnecessary passages without really noticing them. They are not horrible or glaring (except to me); they’re just annoying. They are rookie mistakes, and so I find them embarrassing, and I want to eliminate as many as possible before reissuing the books.

But our goal as writers ought to be to produce the best stories we can write, with the clearest, most concise narratives and the cleanest, most readable prose. “Trust your reader” moments are a hindrance — one among many — to the achievement of that goal, and so we should be aware of the tendency and work to eliminate these unnecessary passages from our writing.

Mostly, we should remember the translation — “trust your reader” means “trust yourself.” Chances are we have laid our groundwork effectively, establishing our worlds, developing our characters, setting up our plot points. If we haven’t, a good editor will tell us so and will recommend places where we can clarify matters a bit.

So, remember that less is usually more, that showing is almost always better than telling, that most times when we stop to explain stuff we rob our stories of momentum.

And most of all, remember to trust yourself. You’ve earned it.

Keep writing.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Eliminating Excess Verbiage, Part II

Last week, I revisited an old Magical Words post I’d done about eliminating excess verbiage in our writing, putting a new spin on the discussion. As promised, I would like to continue that conversation today.

Before I dive back into the topic, though, I would like to address what might seem like a basic question: Is more concise always better? To my mind, concise is ALMOST always better. I can imagine situations — perhaps when writing a period piece, or trying to do something stylistically with a particular narrative voice that we want to be stuffy and verbose, or scattered and therefore wordy — in which concision is not a desired goal. But those are pretty specific instances. For the most part verbosity is not a style, but is rather a hindrance to effective storytelling. In general — and again I will accept that there may be a few exceptions to this — wordiness gets in the way of flow, of clarity, of linguistic precision. Others might disagree, and I would be open to debating the issue over beers. But I am skeptical of any argument that presents excess verbiage as a virtue.

In last week’s post, I covered passive writing, distancing phrases, and using mannerisms of speech in our prose. Let’s move to this week’s topics.

Adverbs: Yes, there are Adverb Authoritarians out there who will tell you that every adverb is an abomination, that none of them is necessary. I disagree. Used sparingly, adverbs can add to our prose, refining the meaning of our sentences and bringing more clarity, not less. Having said that . . . . A few years ago, when I edited the three volumes of my LonTobyn Chronicle in preparation for their re-release, I found way, way too many adverbs in the text, and I eliminated ninety percent of them. For the most part, adverbs add clutter, and often wind up being redundant.

So often, in my own older work as well as in the stories and books that I edit for others, I have found constructions like these: “He glanced at her briefly.” “She tapped lightly on the door.” “They ran quickly across the field.” None of those adverbs (“briefly,” “lightly,” “quickly”) is necessary. A glance is always brief; that’s why it’s a glance. A tap is light by definition, as opposed to a “knock” or a “rap” or a “pound.” And running suggests relative quickness. You rarely hear anyone say, “They ran slowly” (unless they happen to be commenting on my running speed . . .). Again, I would be reluctant to say “never use adverbs.” But I would say before using them, make sure the word is needed. More often than not, I believe you’ll find they add little to your narrative.

Weakening words: I am SO guilty of this one. I constantly need to look through my work to weed out words like “somewhat” and “a bit” and “slightly.” Or else I start phrases with things like “He found that . . .” or “She tended to . . .” All of these words make my prose mealy and soft, wordy and weak. It’s not that EVERY phrase has to be definitive and strong. Of course there are times when we want to soften a statement or qualify it in some way. Words and phrases like these become problematic when they occur as crutch words, as things we throw in without thinking because we can’t find a better way to write the sentence. And all writers do this on occasion. I have a list of manneristic words and phrases that crop up in my prose. When I finish the first draft of a manuscript, I do universal searches for all the crutch words on that list and I do my best to eliminate as many of them as possible. And too many of them are weakening words like these.

Beginnings and starts: These are a bit like passives, in that they clutter up and weaken verb phrases. Instead of “He ran,” we write “He started to run,” which says essentially the same thing with less power and in twice as many words. In almost all instances, we don’t need to be told that a character “started” or “began” to so something. A few sentences ago, they weren’t doing it. Now they are. We can assume that somewhere in the interim, they started doing it. This really isn’t complicated.

Now, as with many of these other issues, some instances of “started” or “began” are necessary. There are moments when the initiation of a certain action is, in fact, significant and worth noting. But those moments are pretty rare. For the most part, in my experience editing other people’s work and revising my own, I find these phrases to be empty and unnecessary.

Dialog tags and name checking: I could devote an entire post to writing decent dialogue and tagging speakers in subtle, effective ways. Actually, I’m sure I have written such a post. Still, it’s worth repeating a few key points. We don’t need tags for every line of dialogue. I often go through early drafts of my work and take out tag after tag after tag. As with other writing “rules,” I don’t subscribe to the “never do this” approach to dialogue tags. There is a place in good writing for “She said” and “He asked.” I’m merely pointing out that we often overuse these phrases. I would suggest you read through your dialogue and remove any tags that are not needed to clarify who is speaking when. In conversations between just two characters, that will be most of the tags. In conversations involving several characters, tags become crucial clarifying tools, requiring us to keep a far higher percentage of them.

“Name checking” refers to having one character address another by name in written dialogue. In most cases, we simply should not do this. Don’t believe me? Go ahead and initiate a conversation right now with a friend or a partner or someone else in your life. And use their name in every other sentence. “How was work today, Nancy? Did you have lots of meetings? Who were they with, Nancy?” Etc. It won’t take you long to realize that you sound ridiculous.

Now try doing it every fifth sentence. That will sound ridiculous, too. Trust me. Aside from moments when we’re calling to one another from another room, or something of that sort, Nancy and I can go for days without using each other’s names. Most of us are like that. Name checking makes our characters sound weird and unrealistic. And it clutters up our prose.

Keep writing, whatever your name might be!

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Writing

Professional Wednesday: When To Fight an Edit, and When To Let it Go

I know my knee-jerk response is not always my wisest response.

All of us who have gone through the editorial process are familiar with the conundrum: We want to work with our editors. We want to cultivate reputations for being easy to work with, cooperative, flexible, etc. No one WANTS to be known as a prima donna. At least almost no one. But then we find that our editor (or our copy editor, or our proofer) has altered something we didn’t want altered, killed a darling we weren’t willing to sacrifice. What do we do? Do we dig in our heels in order to keep the original wording, carving “STET” (editorial speak for “let it stand”) into the manuscript with a bloody blade? Or do we give in, though it hurts physically to do so?

Put another way, when do we as writers fight for wording we want, and when do we acquiesce?

Over the past few years, I have been both editor and writer on a number of stories and novels. I have felt the sting of having passages I have written, passages I care about, altered by an editor, and I have also had writers reject editorial feedback I have given that I know, with every fiber of my being, would make their work better. I haven’t enjoyed either experience, yet I have come to see that both are natural, even necessary, outcomes of the literary process.

At its best, the relationship between writer and editor is collaborative, cooperative. It necessitates compromise. Some of our darlings won’t survive the process. Some of the editor’s suggestions will be rejected. Early in my career, I worked with an editor who had far, far more experience than I did, and this editor expected that I would defer in most if not all cases. Our interactions often left me feeling bullied, and there were changes the editor insisted upon that I wish I had rejected. I have also, in my editorial capacity, worked with writers who refuse all suggestions. All of them. Neither extreme is likely to produce the best possible version of the story, which, of course, ought to be the entire point.

So, as writers, how do we decide how hard to push back, when to compromise, when to insist on our wording or approach? And as editors, how insistent should we be?

Let me begin by addressing that last question, because in many respects it’s the easiest to answer. In my capacity as editor, I feel it is my responsibility to point out to my writers anything and everything I can see that I believe needs to be fixed in order to improve the story or book. I will offer possible solutions — alternate wording or potential fixes for narrative issues, but none of what I suggest is meant to be the only possible approach. My purpose is to point out a problem. The author can fix it any way they choose. Or they can decide it’s not a problem. And, generally speaking, if an author decides the problem I have identified is NOT in fact a problem, I will respect that decision. Every now and then, if I believe the issue is serious enough and the author decides initially that they don’t agree, I will mention the issue again and explain why I think it matters, and how it might be addressed without changing too much. After that, I won’t say more. It’s the writer’s story, after all. Their name is on it, not mine.

And in my capacity as writer, I follow the same principle. It is my story. My name is on the byline, not the editor’s. Now, having said that, I also have to add that I accept the vast majority of my editors’ suggested fixes, and I always take seriously any problem they identify. Why? Because my editors are professionals and they know what they’re doing. Because we writers can’t possibly see every flaw in our work; we’re simply too close to it. Because I am far from perfect. And because I trust the process and I understand the editor-writer relationship is not adversarial; my editor’s goal is my goal: to make the story as good as it can be.

So how do I decide when to stick to my guns and when to give in on an issue of wording or style, plotting or character work?

1. I give the matter some time to percolate. The truth is, often when I disagree with something my editor suggests, my first impulse is to resist, to refuse, to insist on having things my way. And so, when reading through an edited manuscript, I will mark the issue as something to return to later. I essentially stick a pin in it. Because I know my knee-jerk response is not always my wisest response.

2. When I return to the issue, I try to see what it is the editor is pointing out. Remember I said earlier, in talking about editing, that editorial suggestions are just that: suggestions. They are a way of saying, “There’s a problem here.” Good editors do not add, “And you need to fix it my way.” So I try to see the issue my editor has identified, and for the moment I ignore their suggested solution. Much of the time, I can find edits that preserve the tone I want while also addressing the problem the editor has identified.

3. If, after some time and some careful consideration, I still find myself disagreeing with the edit, I ask myself how much it matters to the book. Is this issue worth an argument? Quite often, they’re not. I take pride in my writing and I craft each word, because I want my books and stories to read a certain way. But I know many of my readers don’t take the same care in reading a book that I take in writing it. That’s natural. So, are readers likely to notice if I change this in some way? If the answer is no, the issue is probably not worth fighting over. It’s just up to me to get over myself.

It’s worth noting here that, generally speaking, issues related to style and wording are important but not crucial. Questions touching on narrative issues — plotting, pacing, character — are fundamental, and so I am far, far more likely to insist on having my way in these instances. A few series back, I rejected a number of edits suggested by an editor because I knew they were wrong and I felt certain the edits they suggested would ruin the book. I got my way. And I never worked with that editor again.

4. Finally, if I have given myself time to settle down, if I have decided the issue is one I care about, if I have decided that making a change is going to impact materially my readers’ experience, I will insist on keeping the wording or narrative point as I originally wrote it. STET that sucker.

But as you can see, even with my conviction that we authors should always have the final word (It’s. Our. Book.) I do all I can to respect and take seriously the work done by my editors. It’s worth saying again: Editors and writers are allies. We work together to make a manuscript as good as it can be. Editors who push too hard, and authors who are too resistant to changing anything, undermine the editorial process. They may think they are scoring points in some ridiculous battle of ego and control. But all they are doing is hurting the manuscript, which benefits no one.

Keep writing.