Question 1 (from @Goose): [Can you talk about] the perils of falling in love with your main character (plotwise)?

Yes! In fact, I just this week had an issue with that very thing. Writing is a tricky proposition: You have to fall in love with the thing you’re writing, or you wouldn’t be able to go back to it every day and push on a little further; at the same time, you can’t be so in love with it that you become blind to even its most obvious faults, like the people who keep marrying Newt Gingrich. The key to this, as with all things, is time and distance.

I’ve been writing a book with three main storylines and four main characters. This week I threw one of these main storylines (and two characters) out of my rewrite, representing about a third of what was in my original manuscript. I did this because it was actually siphoning off my main story, to the point where I was actually bunting on the climax of the main character’s storyline so he could go aid in bringing about the climax of this other storyline.

Now: I could (and did) say to myself, “But maybe that means the other storyline is the real main storyline!” It was not. I was in love with this (now gone) storyline because I knew it would hit certain emotional buttons for the reader. The reader would have no problem falling in love with the two characters from this (now gone) storyline. Except they are not who the book is about, ultimately. And I was leaning on them because I wasn’t doing the hard work of making my main character so interesting and so engaging that you’d want to follow him anywhere, even when he was selfish or terrible to people. It’s like a band adding crazy instrumentation or production techniques to distract from the fact that a song is unable to stand on its own.

Here’s a fact: Your main character IS your story. If you’re not serving your main character, you’re not serving your story. But serving doesn’t mean letting them run away with the whole deal. Serving means doing what’s best for them, even if they don’t realize it at the time. It’s a little like having kids. They may not know what you’re doing right now or why, and they may resent you, but later they will appreciate it. Unless what you’re doing is  locking them in a cupboard or bonus room.

This is why a little healthy skepticism about whatever you’re doing is key. Check yourself, and frequently. Does this make sense? Is this what I set out to do? If it’s not, is it better than what I set out to do? You may not be the best judge of this, which is why, again, you have to show your work to — and discuss your work with — other people.

Question 2 (from @isplotchy): How does one approach writing a BOOK? A book is overwhelming. How does one tackle that? Example: I’ve made short films, written short scripts, but the idea of a feature film script is daunting. Very large and scary.

Let me ask you this: Have you ever driven a car or received an education? I’m guessing yes, so let me ask a follow-up question: Did you just do each of these things all at once? Or was it a gradual process?

Here’s the thing: We all know how to tell a story. It’s not only something we learn from our earliest days as newborns, I believe it’s probably in our DNA at this point. That’s how long narrative has been alive in the world. It’s only when we sit down to write a story that we suddenly freeze up, as if someone has asked us not only to drive a car for the first time, but also to assemble it from a massive tarp full of loose parts.

But here’s the thing part 2: Even if you were (weirdly) forced to assemble a car from parts, there are only so many ways a car can go together in the end in order to be a car, no?

Luckily, you do know how to tell a story. It’s in you. So I think what we worry about is telling a good story. And while I don’t know that everyone can tell a good story, I do know that if you have a good character who wants something in an interesting way, and if you understand that you have to either not let that character have that thing at any goddamn cost — or that they may ultimately have it, but only at a high cost — then you can probably write a good story. I’ve left out language, of course, which is the camera (and editor and sound guy and score and props master) of literature, but it really does start with a character and what they want and what they fear.

In terms of the mechanics of it, the best illustration I know is the one used by Anne Lamott in her book Bird By Bird. When she was young, her brother was trying to do a huge school project on birds, and he was just stuck and frustrated and furious. And their father simply sat down, put a hand on his son, and said, “Just take it bird by bird, buddy.” I think of that every time I sit down to work.

I wrote a book. Now I’m writing another one. The first was a collection of stories. Which is really just a collection of scenes. Which is a collection of moments arranged in paragraph form. Which is a collection of sentences. Which is a collection of letters, and you only have 26 choices there if you’re writing in English. (Cherokee, on the other hand, has 84 distinct symbols. Sorry again, Cherokees!)

Maybe you’re not a long-narrative guy. Maybe you were born to work in the short forms, and there’s honor in that. No money in it, but plenty of honor. You know who worked strictly in short-form their whole lives? Charles Schultz. Alice Munro. The crazy motherfuckers who wrote the Bible. We love the short forms.

(My two cents about the short forms, by the way: They may be small, but don’t write them small. They need to rumble and ring just the same as a novel. And don’t have characters just looking at each other at the end. If you do, you’re probably not done.)

Or you are a long-narrative guy and what you need to do is just start somewhere and go from there. Start in the middle if starting at the start gives you a touch of the tingly panics. Start at the end. Think of the craziest or worst situation you can imagine and then ask yourself: Who would do that? Who would get themselves into that situation? And then work backwards and solve yourself a mystery. By the time you get to the front, you’ll be at least partway to a story.

The Face in the Woodshed Window

Some thoughts about Debenham’s Woodshedding—advice which is deceptively simple to hear and very hard to practice. But first, step over here, and I’ll let you in a little on this “being an early reader” business.

I’m honored to be one of Matt’s early readers. Most of the reasons are completely selfish, but so far I’ve been clever enough to disguise my self-interest as fellow traveler. Matt is the most conscientious and talented short story writer I know personally. I suspect he may turn out to be the same sort of novelist, in which case, I’d advise Caissie to take out a substantial term life insurance policy on Mr. Cake for Breakfast, because I’ll kill him if he’s as good a novelist as he is a short story writer.

All incriminating evidence aside, getting to see Matt’s drafts before they become Matt’s stories is a privilege. I get to read him first. You get to wait a year or maybe two. Or even ten. I am assured he is human, and not some Murakamibot of immaculate drafts. (See also: “I wandered into a baseball outfield and decided, ‘Hey, why don’t I become a bestselling and critically acclaimed author?’”)

I also get the immense pleasure of thinking about his work with Matt, of dreaming along a bit, and writing him a letter, which is among my greatest “working” pleasures in life. And then, of course, I get to see his stories when they’re published, and I am astonished when I do. I’ve never seen him lose anything raw and vital. Never a step backwards. He’s willing to destroy an early draft to try see it all again.

I will never forget reading The Book of Right and Wrong for the first time on a cross-country flight. I was stunned by the progression from draft(s) to prize winners. I don’t think until I read the published collection that I had a full appreciation of his work.

First off, I was relieved. Every time you read a friend, you think, “Oh, please, please, please, let me like this.” The stakes go up when it’s in print. After the flood of gratitude for how good the book was came the fear: Shit, this guy’s really working! I’ve got to get off my ass and get serious. There is nothing so motivating as seeing someone you like and respect flat out kick your ass. (And yes, in case you’re wondering, you’re in a mortal, artistic deathmatch with your friends. But that’s a different letter.)

While I’m “helping” Matt, I’m secretly stealing from him. I always learn from his choices. What you don’t get, and I do, is the benefit of seeing what he’s kept and what he’s killed. I’ve hidden out, a stowaway spook in the eerie after hours of Debenworld, when all the David Lynch characters scuttle about, fixing the place up for the tourists. (Mostly, as you might imagine, they’re wearing D&D costumes. Orc drummers, paladin rhythm guitarists, etc. [Never seen a furry, for the record.] Anyway.)

Of course, everything he says I do for him as a reader, he returns. I am not as patient as he is, and I have, at times, sent him “bleeding-on-the-plate” when I owe him the perfect medium he’d probably prefer. I am eager for encouragement, insecure about the work, desirous of a sniff test to see if the work merits the next hundred hours. I am impatient. I am certain silence is an ill wind. Just when I’m sure he is pinned by the dilemma of being honest or soft-pedaling it, I always get a generous letter which makes the work better or helps me come to the conclusion it may be better to abandon camp. Mind you, he’s never said, “glue factory” about a draft, but it’s his questioning that helps me see where it could, and then should, go.

Oh, did I mention that he sends me short stories and now I send him novels? Moving right along.

This woodshedding business of his. It’s necessary. First, there’s a value in not sending a piece out too soon. If it sits, you’re liable to see its problems yourself, before it’s been burned with an editor or forty. Second, you don’t want a piece published that you wish you’d kept in the woodshed. Far worse than rejection is the desire to retract a published piece. Finally, you owe it to your trusted early readers.

Here’s why. You need to remember your trusted readers can’t read a piece again for the first time. They will consent to read it a second time, a third, maybe even a sixth (I’m looking at you, “Depot Island”), but the only time they will encounter the piece as your Reader In The Wild will encounter it? The first time you send it to them. This is the purest reading you will get. This is when they dream. After that, workshop mode kicks in. Pen uncaps, the analytical mind clicks into place. You want to give them the best first read you can possibly give them because it is the purest reaction you will get. (I’m gradually learning to do this.)

So where do you find your trusted readers?  Matt has good advice on this, and I think his instincts are right. Workshops are both useful and inherently flawed. Roughly eight out of eleven student workshop members in a given class will be utterly useless to you. Personalities, lack of respect for their work, nine cats, oh, they’re batshit crazy.

One will probably so outstrip your talent that you’d never presume to try and strike up a longer relationship. Concede.

Of the two remaining, you’ll want to look for the one whose work you genuinely admire. You must admire their work. You must have moments when you read their work and think, “Damn, I wish I had written this.” It doesn’t matter if they’ve been published ten times. You must respect it. Without this, you will never honestly trust their reading of your drafts. On some level, you have to believe they possess the ability to do what you’re doing better, or at least as well through their own lens. If you find this person, email them. Stay in touch. Ask them if they will read you and offer to read them.

There are other ways to find people. People at readings in the audience. Writing letters to writers you admire, especially those published in journals and small presses. Indie lit websites like The Rumpus and HTML Giant.

Facebook seems terrible to me, but Twitter is actually interesting in that it depends almost solely on voice. If you follow and are followed by people who can tolerate, or even enjoy, your voice in 140 character bursts, you might find yourself in good company eventually. If you’ve never met these people face-to-face, it can also somehow feel like a more “legitimate” reader than your nearest friends and family. I have found not only one incredibly insightful and generous reader this way, but also a publisher of a forthcoming novel. The point is not to “get your social media guru on” (die! die! die!) but remain open to voices and human connection. You may be surprised by what you get.

When Matt and I attended the Bennington Writing Seminars, the very first sub-zero semester in 2003, Robert Bly and Donald Hall gave a reading in VAPA, one of the winter venues for both faculty and student readings. Of all the readings I have been to, none have so encapsulated what I most admire and covet in the writing life.

I hadn’t known how long The Bly & Hall Show had been reading one another’s work, how many letters they had exchanged, how many decades they had been doling out criticism and support. They knew one another when they were shivering students in the blue dorms of their first forays into poetry. Now they were elder statesmen; Bly sonorous, Hall haunting.

That night at Bennington, they read in a kind of round-robin format as I recall (and I may be wrong). They didn’t discount the audience, but they were in some fashion reading for one another. It might have been the lighting, all pooled forward, the deep seats in the dark. While one took the podium, the other copped a chair in the front row, gently heckling and praising.

Bly, upon hearing Hall finish a poem late in the reading, said: “That’s a beautiful line. Let’s hear that one more time.”

Hall read the final stanza again.

“Beautiful,” Bly said. “I haven’t the damnedest idea what it means, but it’s a beautiful, beautiful line.”

Eric Raymond is a working writer in San Francisco. He is @pontiuslabar on Twitter. 

photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/itsgreg/