Modesty Is For Suckers

Don’t eat caramel apples when you have a loose crown.

I learned this lesson long ago, after biting into a caramel apple knowing, like Snow White and her fateful apple, it would end in disaster. Why? Oh, I don’t know. Why do any of us step onto that pretty path, knowing it’s the wrong one to tread? Is it the exhilaration of tempting the Fates? Thinking maybe, this once, they won’t be looking?

It seems to be a recurring theme in writer-world–one I’ve fallen into time and again. In fact, I did it recently with the novel I’m working on Walk With Dreams. “You’re going too far with this plotpoint, Terri!” I heard my inner-editor murmur. She didn’t speak loudly enough when she should have hit me with a 2 x 4. I ended up delete-delete-deleting.

D’oh! If you suspect that what you’re doing is going to lead you into peril–Don’t do it!

“Oh, look at the shiny plot bunny!” Don’t do it!

“I’m going to switch around the motives of my protag and antag in the middle of the book! What a killer twist that would be! Don’t do it!

“I’m continuing with my story about Lucas Moonwalker, an orphaned boy seeking his destiny, and the half-man, half-machine villain who is really his father. I’ve never seen Star Wars. It’s not copying if I’ve never seen it.” Don’t do it!

“I’m going to nudge that agency I sent my manuscript to last week. They’ve had it long enough.” Don’t do it.

“Ooo, look! A hairpin. Ooo, look! An electrical socket. I wonder what’ll happen if…ZAP!” Don’t do it!

Though I used to do it quite a bit, I’ve learned to recognize it and back away from the electrical socket sooner, rather than later. When I did it with A Time Never Lived, ended up with 30K words of a manuscript in the recycle bin. With this last time, only about 2K words ended up wasted time–but it was still a day of writerly-time I’ll never get back.

Many writers hate deleting work so much that they won’t do it at all, and end up going in circles. I betcha dollars to donuts that most stalled work has more to do with a plotline winding out of control and an author unwilling to ditch it than anything else. I am the queen of delete, I have to say. It doesn’t bother me to toss a week’s worth of work into the recycle bin. Ok, that’s a lie–it does bother me, but I do it anyway.

Do you? Can you?

My fantasy work is quite long, between 135K and 144K words. That’s pretty standard for epic fantasy. Though there are those who will argue, and attempts have been made to do “epic” on a small scale, I’ve yet to see something that satisfies me. “Epic” requires big ideas, world building, intricate characters and plots and, thus, many words. Epic or not, 135K is most certainly a novel. And yet, Seeking Carolina is only 70K words, but it’s still a novel. As far as romantic women’s fiction goes, I’m well within the word-count boundaries. If it had come in at 135K, I doubt it would have sold; the genre tops out at about 90K. Books tend to be categorized by word count, and I get it–it’s one of the easy markers of what’s inside the covers. But the word count is a result that comes about from something more, something less easily defined, but definitely present.  And here is where my rant begins…

By all outward appearances, a novel is a work of fiction of around 70K+ words. A novella tops out at around 40K words, and a novelette at about 17K. Shorts can have as few as 2K words, and up to about 12K. Flash-fiction varies, but generally as few as 100 and as many as 1500 words. These numbers vary, I’m aware, but this is where the general consensus lies. But the stories themselves are not about word count. They are art forms, separate and distinct, and the novella is getting the shaft.

A smaller word count will naturally cut down on how many plots one has going, characters involved, points of view used. The longer the word count, the more intricate one can be, the more inventive. Plots and characters have more room to stretch. Those differences between the forms are simple logic that result in certain word counts.

Novelette used to carry the connotation of being something light, fluffy and trite. Now it labels works of fiction that are more than short stories, but less than novellas. If the aim of a short story is to focus on a single narrative with the greatest economy of words (thus tight focus on plot, pov, theme, etc) then a novelette goes that one step further. It can push beyond the necessary boundaries of a short story to bring a larger scope. I must say that, by the day’s standards, I can’t quite figure out what constitutes a novelette. In method and form, it is so close to short story on one end, novella on the other that I’m finding that the only consistent difference is word count.

But the novella…the poor, misunderstood novella. While outwardly seeing a surge in popularity, the novella has essentially lost its true meaning.

The novella is not the just another step between short fiction and long. Word count is a necessary result of the form itself, not the definition of it. So forget about word counts and how they’ve come to define the form. While novelette is etymologically small novel, the word novella comes from the Italian word for new. It was, at the time of its conception, a new art form, the first inklings of which appeared in serial form around the 10th century (Arabian Nights, Decameron), but not being given established rules of structure until the late 18th century.

It is this structure that defines a novella, not word count. There are no designated chapters in a novella, rather they are presented as a whole divided by white space to designate a significant shift. Plotwise, it ends quite close to where it begins. In fact, little can and usually does change if at all. The form concerns itself more with the character development, the evolution (or devolution) of that character, than it does on plot conflict. The internal vs. the external. Novellas usually end on the moment of climax, on the brink of change.

It’s not just about word count, and that’s what bothers me, because what passes for “novella” these days bears little resemblance to the art form it is. A scene from a longer work is not flash-fiction. A chapter from a novel does not make a short story. And something between short story and novel does not make a novella. It’s no more about word count than Haiku is. If that is all you make it about, you lose the essence of what it is at its core and thus, you lose it entirely.

I know, I know–novella sounds so much more literary than novelette (the “ette” putting it on par with luncheonette, launderette, toilette, cigarette–all being “small” and trite.) It is a losing battle, one I’ve been steadfastly arguing for many years. It’s just a shame to lose this art form for word-count marketing and disdain for “ette.”

Let’s get something straight at the very beginning–when I write about grammar, I’m talking about the written word, not the spoken. Spoken language and written language are, whether the most prescriptive of us alive can stand it or not, two different things. It is my opinion that the written word needs to follow grammar rules the spoken word can let slide. Let us also get straight that American English and British English are also two different beasts. I am fully aware that the Brits use that and which pretty much interchangeably, even though their basic grammar on the matter is the same, and they prefer which, while Americans overuse that (before a verb, ie: She knew THAT she had to go home, rather than, She knew she had to go home.) The Brits also love the past imperfect at the moment–a huge no-no for American writers–but that’s a horse of a different color, and changes with the tide.

Disclaimer noted!

I’ve written on this subject before, and I admit to gakking past posts to write this one, but that and which apparently and continously remain a challenge to writers everywhere–and I don’t mean those of us who write professionally. The internet reminds me of this on a daily basis. It is one of my pet peeves, and something I am a stickler about seeking out and destroying.

The rule:
THAT is used with a restrictive clause, part of a sentence you can’t get rid of without changing the meaning, because it restricts some other part of the sentence. For example:

Mice that don’t like cheese will never fit in with mouse society.

It doesn’t matter whether or not this statement is true; what does matter is the that don’t like cheese cannot be taken out of the sentence without losing the meaning. It’s a restrictive clause. Without that clause, the sentence says that no mice will ever fit into mouse society. With the clause, it’s only those unfavorably disposed to cheese that won’t.

WHICH is used within a non-restrictive clause, part of a sentence that can be left out–not which can be left out–without changing the meaning. Non-restrictive clauses require a comma, or commas. It’s an easy indicator. Restrictive clauses don’t usually require commas.

The building, which stood on the corner of 1st and Grandview, was demolished during the Great Mouse Rebellion.

Which stood on the corner of 1st and Grandview is the non-restrictive clause. It is an added bit of information that can be removed without actually changing the meaning of the sentence. The building is demolished during the Great Mouse Rebellion. The clause is an aside, a bit of information that, while clarifying, isn’t necessary. And there is your biggest clue–if you can take out the clause without changing the general meaning of the sentence, use which.

The above is an example of a non-restrictive clause plonked down in the middle of a sentence. The ones tagged on to the end get a little trickier.

The building was demolished during the Great Mouse Rebellion, which was an unhappy event for anyone.

vs

The building was demolished during the Great Mouse Rebellion that was an unhappy event for anyone.

Can you see the subtle–and some will say, totally irrelevant–difference? With the comma + which, the above sentence says that the destruction of the building was the unhappy event, while the second–taking out the comma and replacing which with that–it says that the Great Mouse Rebellion was the unhappy event.*

Does it matter? To some it won’t. To some, it will. There nevertheless is a difference in meaning. And that brings me to my last and, for me, most important point–that tends to be a filler word, a word we lean on when connecting thought to image, image to thought. I don’t like filler words, even though I overuse that like a champion. It is invisible to me while writing first draft, and the first search I do when starting revisions. Which is almost always an aside, and thus, telly. Not only is it telly, it’s author intrusion. You’re waving a flag for your reader, pulling them out of the action to give them information better given another way.

Like adverbs, that and which are necessary. They’re beneficial. They can do the job when called for; just be aware of how often you do the calling.

(*And before you argue that the first sentence could say both, in fact, it can’t. The building being destroyed is the event–during the Great Mouse Rebellion is a prep-phrase modifier. The clause goes to the former, not the latter. It’s like knowing 5 + 5 x 5 + 5 = 35. You have to know what goes with what–and that is what commas and such are for!)

“…I’m being rude. I’m spoiling the ending, not only of the entire book, but of this particular piece of it. I have given you two events in advance, because I don’t have much interest in building mystery. Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. It’s the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me.

There are many things to think of.

There is so much story.”

This is from, The Book Thief, by Mark Zusak, wherein Death had just given away a huge plot point; this was his reasoning behind it. Death is absolutely right. It’s not about the big booming, softly sighing, gut-wrenching finish, but all that leads up to it that makes a story great. The coolest plot twist in the world isn’t going to atone for a mediocre build-up. And while a great build-up attached to an otherwise lackluster ending sucks royally, at least the author has entertained long enough to pull the reader to that ending. Of course, the reader might never pick up a book by that author again, but that’s another post entirely.

Whether as readers or writers, we’ve all heard the term “muddy middle.” It’s that part of the story not the beginning we’re all excited about writing, not the ending we all can’t wait to get to, it’s that middle part where the fun beginning gets tied to the exciting end. For some, it’s the hardest part. It’s when a reader will put down a book, or a writer will stall. Getting a reader hooked is hard, Keeping them hooked is harder.

I’ve picked up books because the opening hook is fantastic, only to be disappointed thirty pages in. My best example of this is Pillars of the Earth, by Ken Follet. It is, without a doubt, my absolute favorite opening scene of all time. It sets the stage for an exciting, intricate, well-paced novel and, despite the tome-ish size of the thing, I couldn’t wait to read it. And then it never happened. Don’t get me wrong! It was obviously a great book, it just wasn’t the book the opening scene set me up expecting. I have to say that, for me, it ruined the rest of the story. I just kept waiting for more of what I got in the beginning, and while I got flashes (usually involving Ellen, or her son, Jack) it just never fully realized.

Maintaining the momentum you set up at the beginning is crucial, no matter how difficult it is to one-up your beginning–and I don’t mean by bigger and bigger BOOMS; the stakes have to rise, whether physical or emotional. We can’t all get away with giving up our big finishes the way Death (and Mark Zusak) can. It has to fit. It has to be part of that build-up, or it comes off as contrived. And if you’re going to slam readers with a fabulous opening that sets up something that never comes, you’d better have the background and stamina of Ken Follet, whose success speaks for itself.

However hard it is, we have to make our middles as fabulous, more fabulous than the bookends of our stories. That’s how we keep readers who cheat and read the end of the book first. (You know I’m looking at you.) Like Death says, it’s the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest and astound.

What about you? Can you forgive a so-so story for a big-boom ending? A great story with a lackluster finish?