Why You Should Share Secrets

Starting a story at the back end is a fad in novels right now. Some authors like it because they can keep all their cards hidden until the last chapter, where they flash them in a shower of color and go out in a blaze of glory. Writing a story from the back assumes a lot of your reader. It assumes that you are a good enough writer that your reader won't mind being kept in the dark. It assumes that you have a plan, and that you're not just stringing your reader along until you come up with something. It assumes you won't hold their ignorance over the heads of your readers. It assumes that you can create enough suspense in the first ten pages of your novel to draw them back, even though you're carefully keeping them from intentional connection.

Writing a story from the back makes a reader feel ignorant. It's a dangerous game. People who read on their own time aren't obligated to keep picking your book up—it's even less likely that they will if it feels belittling.

Plan carefully before you write a story that leaves your reader in the dark. If you do, be sure to give them little secrets to string them along and make them feel like part of the process.

They'll appreciate you more—and tell other people about you.

How to Be a Better Storyteller

A bad storyteller could tell a crowd the most exciting news piece of the year (the breaking of a 108 'curse,' for instance), and put his audience to sleep. A good storyteller could talk about a trip to buy a package of napkins, and hold his audience's rapt attention. It isn't the story that makes the story good, worth reading, interesting; it's the storyteller. When he starts to tell a story, he resumes the responsibility to guide, to entertain, to make the audience feel like they didn't waste their time.

In light of that responsibility, how do you become a better storyteller?

#) Practice. It's the number one advice for getting better at everything. You don't get better unless you try. Trying takes time. Practice telling your story—develop your craft. Try different words different places, use bold expressions, make dramatic story-telling moves that you're scared of. Tell your story in the mirror. Tell it to your mom (and then someone who loves you a little less, for more critical feedback), tell it in the dark, tell it to the flock of birds at the pond. The more you do it, the better you'll be.

#) Watch/read/listen to other people. It's hard to develop a craft well in complete solitude. The lucky thing about developing your art is that sharing is allowed. If someone else does something that you admire, that's completely brilliant, try it. Tweak it, change it, make it yours, but don't be afraid to grow by imitation. Other people come up with amazing strategies. Using them isn't wrong—it's like adding a tool to your tool-chest.

#) Say what matters. In this busy, flustered, over-worked and under-rested society, people only want to listen to things that matter to them. If they don't see any reason to listen to what you're saying, they won't listen. Think about what people want to hear, think about what matters to them. They want to hear virtue, kindness, human triumph through herculean struggle. They want to hear stories that make them cry, or roar with laughter, stories that end with a warm feeling all over, or the bright resolve to be a change in the world, to make a difference.

#) Pay attention to your audience. If they're not paying attention, or you're not getting any feedback, if 7 of the 12 people are sleeping, maybe it's time to reconsider how you're telling your story, and change things up.

Being a storyteller is a privilege; being a good storyteller is a gift. Appreciate the privilege and the gift, and do your best to be better. The world could use more of those people (us).

Make it Short

A long piece of writing is not automatically good, and a short piece isn't inevitably bad. It's about the preparation and the content. Instead of spending hours writing a lot, think careful about what you're writing. Practice writing less, better. See Seth Godin's blog for today.

How to Automatically Be a Better Writer

Writing is like singing. Or winking. Or driving. Hypothetically, everyone is born with the ability to do it—but only some people are good at it. However, like all those other things, there are tricks to get better. Here are five of them: #) Read. Nothing gets you in the mood to write more effectively than reading other writers who wrote great things. Read voraciously—read everything. Read ads, read books (classics, not classics, fiction, non-fiction), read the back of cereal boxes. All the text you see was written by someone; some of it is good, some of it is awful. Learn to see the difference, so you can do better when it's your turn.

#) Write constantly. Nobody ever got better at anything without practicing. Writing is like a muscle. If you're not exercising it, it'll be flabby and weak, and all the kids at the playground will laugh when you fall off the monkey bars on the second one (Morbid. Maybe not true. But what if it is...).

#) Let other people read your writing. It's scary. It's daunting. It's opening yourself up to criticism, and worse: what if they don't like it? But if they don't like it for a good reason, then you can make it better. And once the scary part is over, you'll be a better writer. And indebted forever.

#) Write more. So maybe this is a dead horse I'm beating. But maybe, just maybe, it's the most critical aspect of getting better. It takes babies weeks to learn how to walk. They're not experts on the first try. It likely takes longer than that to be an excellent writer—but you never know until you start.

#) Follow the rules. The old adage, "Rules are made to be broken," is not true for learning how to write. Excellence comes from mastery. Mastery comes from practice within the guidelines. Once you're an expert, you can bend and tweak and twist the rules, because you know how they work and what they're there for. Until then, learn them. Practice them. Obey them.

Do these things and you'll become a better writer, maybe without even realizing it.

What other people have said.

Why Your Writing is Special

Nothing tempts an editor like an invitation: "Would you mind looking this over, and giving your input?" It's like handing a kid a lollipop, or giving a reader a book. Conversely, nothing discourages an editor like disregarding his edits, or asserting that you knew better already. In a lot of jobs, we grant professional expertise. We don't tell the guy who's operating it how to move his crane (unless we want it to crash into our apartment complex), we don't lecture the chef of the four-star restaurant about his spice choice, and we don't stand up and tell the defendant how he could be doing better. In most instances, training and education brings the professional authority.

Writing and editing are different. Everyone (hopefully) learned to read and write at a young age. Almost everyone wants to write a book, the same amount of people want to edit something that will become famous, and everyone has opinions about what word goes best where. Being a professional writer or editor could seem like being a professional grocery bagger; not too different from the next guy in line.

What's a writer to do? In a market that's burgeoning and expanding like an irritated puffer fish, trying to succeed as a writer is like trying to wax an angry elephant. Not impossible—but very difficult, time consuming, and frankly, painful. Everyone is doing the same thing, and trying to make their work stand out; but so often, it doesn't. In a market that's full to the overflowing, it's hard to feel different.

But take heart. There is something different about you: You're the writer.

And you are the only you. You know what your life has been, and you can write about it in a way no one else can. You think in a way that can be refreshing to other people, because they haven't heard it before. This alone doesn't make you famous—there's also practice, natural aptitude, talent, writers block (lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of writers block), and hours and hours of frustration, trying, and hard work.

But don't lose hope. After all this is mastered, or perhaps just practiced, your writing still has something special. It has you.

A Case for Sunday Dinner

Every week, my grandma hosts Sunday lunch (dinner, not supper). All the aunts and uncles and cousins are there, and Grandma makes a pot roast or chicken, with all the fixings, plenty of them.The scent drifts down the hallway to the garage, and in the kitchen the smell mingles with hustle and bustle. Someone is always talking, there's food set out on the kitchen table ready for the dining room, and small grandchildren run about with toys in hand. The kitchen is the hub, the boys lay around in the living room, and Grandpa dozes on the couch waiting for lunch. A granddaughter bangs keys on the piano; none related, no melody. Just glee. When dinner is steaming on the long seasonal tablecloth in the dining room, grandma calls everyone in. Each sits in his or her own chair, the same for years. After Grandpa prays, dishes fly. Within twenty minutes everyone is done eating, the little ones are roaming, and the boys are asking for dessert. Grandma always has it, plenty for everyone.

It is the quintessential Sunday dinner; hubbub, food, community, generations, noise and confusion. It is tradition, Sunday Dinner—but no one is there for the food. If it was, everyone would make their own meal and stay home. It's for the experience. The togetherness, community, hubbub, and all the week's fresh talk.

Grandma changes the food week by week. If she didn't, after weeks of the same meal (even though no one really comes for the food), everyone would be sick of it. Sunday dinner isn't about the food—but it does matter.

Technically, writing isn't about the fixings—but the fixings do matter.

If Grandma had everyone over and said there was no meal prepared, the mood would turn sour fast (behind the polite "Oh-it-doesn't-matter"s. Even if something isn't actually necessary, we notice (and experience varying levels of displeasure) when it's missing.

You can write a story without creativity; it's the bare bones and basics of what happened, like a bullet point list. Or, you can write a story with all the excellence of careful craftsmanship. The details of the story won't change—but the reader's enjoyment will be far greater.

Everyone wants to read a well written story, even and balanced. The details without the colors are monotonous; the colors without the details are frivolous.

Write colors into your details, like a good Sunday Dinner. Your readers will thank you.

What colors do you write with?

Why Fall is Writing Weather

Fall is writer's season. Winter is full of short days of gray skies and cold wind, punctuated by the short thrill and glitter of a fresh coat of snow. Winter is reader's weather; all it begs is a cozy blanket, a hot beverage, and a thick spine. Spring is a universal sigh of relief, across profession and personality, as the heart and the soul remember that cold is not the only temperature. Summer is working and playing weather—for playing just as hard as working. But fall, fall. Fall belongs to the writer. The crisp nights, the sun-warmed noons, the leaves that rustle louder and louder as they change colors. The colors that defy even imagination and leave us stunned with their humble beauty. Fall is the writer's because everything about fall is worth writing about. The sunrise that creeps later and later into the morning, so those of us who sleep past 6am can actually see it some days; the smell of dust and must and fresh chill, and the steady stream of leaves wandering to the ground that prove Isaac Newton right once again.

There are many schools of thought about the best environment for writing. Some prefer the middle of the night. Others want the calm of a long summer day. The gray of poverty to stimulate the imagination, the sparkle of riches to write about 'what is,' the open room with a desk and a chair and sheets and sheets of cream paper and a smooth pen. But left out of every description is the most important part: fall. Fall makes the soul sing when the body must continue routine. There is good to find in every season—but it's easiest to find in fall.

*What's your ideal writing place? I'd love to hear from you.

Making it Matter—P6

6 Steps to creating something that matters: Find other people who care about the same things, and work with them: 

Nothing fuels synergy like a common passion. Working with someone who loves the same thing as you not only gives energy, but also fuels creativity. There are twice as many ideas, twice as much excitement, twice the brain power to catch errors and mistakes. Usually the creator has blind spots—working on something long and hard takes concentration and effort, and by the time you've completed a project, you've made it as perfect as you can. Someone else who comes along can spot a problem from a mile away, and if you're humble and willing to accept correction, they can help brainstorm a solution.

Sometimes it's hard to work with people who are just like you; they might remind you of yourself, and it's not always pleasant to be confronted with all of your qualities (both positive and negative) mirrored in another. But the extra vantage point and different maturity levels are indispensable. You may feel like you're alone in your passion—but you'd be surprised how many people care about the same things, if you just look for them.

There are several benefits to creating together. We can create more, faster. We don't burn out from isolation. We think of different ideas, bigger ideas, ideas that one person can't do alone but two can do together.

Create together. Though it may be scary, it's worth it.

Making it Matter—P5

6 steps to creating something that matters: Be patient: Rome wasn't built in a day. In elementary school, you are given a project that may seem daunting, but you complete it by the next day. In actuality, it was fast, easy, and, even though you probably stressed about it a lot, it's likely it didn't take very long. Real life projects are not like that. Writing something worth reading takes a long time; even if you do the initial draft very quickly, refining something into a product (or a book, or a song, etc.) that's worth the consumer value takes time.

It's hard not to rush ahead and finish, and call a sloppy version complete because you're sick of it and you want to be done. But in the long run, it will be worth it. The better you make your work, the longer it will last. And when you're old and it's old, the more you'll appreciate having taken the time to make it good.

If it's worth doing, it's worth doing well. Even if it takes what feels like forever.

Making it Matter—P4

6 steps to creating something that matters: Create carefully: This is the internet age, the time that means you can write something, and less than 5 minutes later, publicize it so that anyone in the world can see it.This may seem like a dream come true to the masses, but is it really? It used to be a rigorous process to publish (and not only in the writing sense) anything at all. You couldn't record music in your home, you didn't just walk into the museum and hang your painting on the wall next to Van Gogh's (of course you can't do that today either), you couldn't bind together pages by hand, call them a book, and start selling it to the entire country. The standards were high. Creating took time, patience, and lots of hard work. Getting published by a publishing house meant months of revisions, discussion, communication, and sometimes scrapping your entire piece and starting over (this is a great article about that process with someone famous.).

Now, getting published is as easy as making something and posting it for the world to see—and before long, you're a sensation. The standards seem to be considerably lower now; but are they really?

Years ago, consuming art was a commitment. If you wanted to read a book, you had to buy it from a bookstore, or at the very least, request it from the library. Sometimes you had to wait, while they ordered it and it came in. In almost every case, there were less books (pun *relatively* intended), making the ones that you did acquire highly valuable. Getting a book was like finding an oasis in the desert.

Now, the commitment level for art intake is minimal, at most. I have access to most books or articles (or as many other written works as you can think of) on my computer. I can read them whenever I want, pull them up and comment on them, expressing my opinions. It is instant gratification, instant satisfaction. I don't have to wait for anything—if I want a hard copy of a book, Amazon will ship it to me, guaranteed delivery in two days. I have whatever I want.

This may seem nice, but underneath the cream cheese frosting, the carrot cake has a bitter twist. The old fashioned high standards were set by experts in the field, as they moderated content and searched for good value. Now the standards are set by... Me. And you. And your uncle, and my neighbor, and the man who cleans the gum off the sidewalk. We decide what we want (we always did that), we decide if it's good or not (we always did that), and we decide that it's not worth it to keep reading (we didn't exactly always do that). People used to read books even if they weren't the best, because it was all they could get their hands on. Now, we can get our hands on whatever we want. There is no limit to the literature that we can access, and so if we don't like you, or we think someone else wrote a better book about it, we're done with you. We have rocketed the standards to out of the atmosphere, because in becoming more eclectic, and having access to whatever we want, we've become literary snobs.

So create carefully; make your writing good, make it the best. Do your research, your homework, edit carefully, ask intelligent opinions and experts in the field. Because we're a tough crowd to please, and we want the best. And if you don't deliver, we're clicking the next link we see, and moving on.