Any Questions?

I watched the film Prometheus for the first time this week, and it was an experience that left me pondering the use of confusion as a story mechanic. Make no mistake, Prometheus is confusing, and it's the kind of confusing that makes you wonder how much is intentional and how much is just bad filmmaking. Part of this is because the film ties in with the Alien series and there's a natural impulse for the viewer to try to slot the pieces of the franchise jigsaw together as they watch. But for every moment of recognition ("Hey look, it's the ship they found in Alien!") there is another ten minutes of wondering about the bizarre character motivations or trying to reconcile the evolutionary lifecycle of a hostile alien species.

What's strange about Prometheus is that, viewed from the right angle, the confusion actually adds to the experience. The whole film is filled with characters asking questions about the origin of life, creation and evolution, to the extent that the viewer's questions start to form a continuum with that. And mystery is a compelling thing – it's the narrative engine that drives a vast number of stories. What's tricky is finding the right level of mystery to keep your reader or viewer engaged, without driving them away.

One look at the credits for Prometheus should have tipped me off to what was going to follow, as the co-screenwriter is Damon Lindelof, creator of that giant TV puzzle-box Lost. From the very first episode of the series - when the characters crash landed on a mysterious island - it was clear that Lost was going to give rise to many more questions than answers. I don't think any TV show before or since has required so much from the viewer in terms of memory and analytical thought. The show featured flashbacks from different points of view that dovetailed and overlapped – it was almost like being given a weekly assignment as you tried to assemble the fractured chronology of the characters' backstory. As if this wasn't enough, later seasons piled on the pain by adding flashforward sections and then (to cap it all) time travel. But until the whole thing collapsed under the weight of its own complexity, watching Lost was a uniquely exciting experience.

Perhaps part of the problem Lost had was its very popularity. The need to keep such a lucrative show on the air meant that the writers were simply unable to answer some of the big questions that viewers had. It's also instructive that when they did solve many of them in the final series, a lot of the audience were disappointed by the answers they gave. Making the resolution of a mystery as compelling as the mystery itself is a difficult thing to pull off, it's also a major reason why stories can falter badly in their third act.

So is confusion in storytelling a good or bad thing? I think it depends, to a very large extent, on how you position your story and set the expectations of the audience. Prometheus followed (while chronologically preceding) a set of fairly straight-ahead genre sci-fi movies. When watching a film like Aliens you are focused on very immediate action movie questions like: "What's that noise?" or "Are they going to die?" or "Why can't I get a job as a human fork-lift truck?" And although you do have some of the same questions in Prometheus, it's easy for those to get buried amongst the pseudo-philosophical debate. Perhaps we'll have to wait for the inevitable sequel to see if there really are coherent, satisfying answers out there in the depths of space, or if Lindelof and Ridley Scott are making it all up as they go along. For now though, I'm happy to think back to those first few series of Lost, and remember that, sometimes, it's fun to be confused.

Nick.

Dyslexia Seems to be the Hardest Word

It's Dyslexia Awareness Week, and I wanted to discuss a fascinating event called "Seeing the World Differently: a Celebration of Reading and Dyslexia", which I went to last night. It was hosted by Booktrust and Hot Key Books, and featured author Sally Gardner talking about her own severe dyslexia and how it lead her to cast a dyslexic as the protagonist of her latest novel, Maggot Moon. This choice doesn't come across as preachy or worthy, in fact as Sally tells it, she wasn't even aware that her protagonist was dyslexic until her publisher pointed it out to her. She had simply chosen to tell the story in a certain way, and her character's perspective on the world was intrinsic to this. She reacted quite strongly when it was suggested to her that she write more books featuring dyslexic characters, and it was clear she didn't want to fall into the trap of becoming an issue-based writer. More than that, she clearly has a very organic approach to the creative process, and her characters need room to develop without restrictions and predetermined "labels".

By having a dyslexic voice at the core of her novel, Sally is tapping into a long-standing trend for exploring "otherness" in children's fiction. Consider, for instance, the use of autistic heroes in books like The London Eye Mystery or The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. Here are characters that allow the reader to experience the world through the eyes of someone utterly unlike themselves. Done well, this technique can transport the reader into a world more unusual and mysterious than any fantasy epic.

Sally has spent a lot of time collaborating with Hot Key to create a really striking electronic version of the novel for the iPad. This allows the text to be read as a linear e-book, and also with a whole host of media to enhance the story. Beautifully presented in a style that riffs on the illustrations from the print edition, the iBook allows the reader to take illustrative comprehension tests and view embedded videos that reproduce the way a dyslexic would see the book. Ever heard a dyslexic say that the text won't stay still on the page? Well here, it really doesn't!

The iBook index

A test of memory

(Click through to see larger versions of the screenshots)

Sally came across as being quite rebellious, and she wears her dyslexia as a badge of honour, even as she railed against the word itself (it's deeply ironic that dyslexia is such a difficult word for dyslexics to spell!). She certainly feels that being able to see the world in a different way is an advantage for her, and she has a visual imagination that I really envy. Although I have no trouble reading or writing, the pictures in my head are more like bad smartphone videos compared to the Full HD 3D extravaganza that she carries around with her. And this feels like the wider point of Dyslexia Awareness Week, to stress that we shouldn't feel sorry for dyslexics or to try to make them more like the rest of us. Who's to say, after all, that we are right and they are wrong? Instead, it should be about celebrating the diversity of viewpoints that conditions like dyslexia gives us, and improving the school environment so that dyslexic children are given the same opportunities as everyone else.

Nick.

Sweating the Small Stuff

Writing well is all about the mastery of fine detail: the feel of cold asphalt on your cheek, the taste of fresh blood in your mouth, the angry squawk of a distant ambulance threading its way through rush hour traffic. It's only by inching from moment to moment, from word to word, that a book gets written at all. But it's easy to get so immersed in the small stuff that you lose sight of the bigger picture.

This could easily be a lead-in to a discussion of plot structure or theme, but today I wanted to focus on agent submissions, because this is an area where a passion for the finer details can overbalance into neuroticism. I can remember, in the early years, spending hour after hour revising my covering letter each time I was rejected, convinced that this was the reason my genius was so under-appreciated. But I think that every time I changed it, it got a little worse. The original letter had an offbeat and quirky style that suited the book I had written, whereas the later versions became bland and flavourless.

Unwittingly, I think agents feed our obsession for detail when they present very specific submission criteria on their websites. This is intended to make the agent's life easier when assessing submissions and to school the hopeless so they don't try to present their latest novel by writing it in felt-tip on the back of a tortilla wrap. For the semi-professional author however, these criteria turn into a challenge of epic (not to say neurotic) proportions:

• This agent wants a two-page synopsis – can I just double-space my standard one-pager?
• Why don't I have that font on my Mac?
• Will they hate me forever if I send something that's twenty-five words over the limit?
• Surely they can't really mean "send no attachments?"
• How thin can I make the margins on this document before it becomes completely unreadable?

This kind of micro-manuscript-management can easily distract a writer from more important considerations like:

• Is my book ready to submit?
• Does this agent represent the kind of book I've written?
• Could I actually work with this person?

Pulling back to take in the bigger picture can really pay dividends in the search for an agent. Much like applying for a job, it's well worth taking the time to target agents strategically, according to who they are and what kind of work they enjoy. Then, you can at least indulge your perfectionist tendencies on a directed basis, rather than getting hopelessly wound up with no hope of success. Beyond a certain level of competence, though, I don't know how much crafting the perfect submission really helps you – an agent will make an instant gut reaction about your work on the first page, because that's their job. If they don't love what you've written, then no amount of proofreading is going to fix that.

Nick.

The Naming of Things

To paraphrase T.S. Eliot: The naming of things is a difficult matter, it isn't just one of your holiday games. A fictional world can be massively enhanced by good, consistent naming or ruined when the names of things just don't seem to fit. I'm not just talking about character names here, but every noun describing something your characters need to interact with. In a contemporary setting, this may be limited to company/brand names, fictional book titles, songs, TV programmes etc. In a science fiction or fantasy setting, the naming opportunity may extend to everything in the world!

I will freely admit to making a rod for my own back when it comes to choosing names. Just this week, I've been unable to move forward with a rewrite of my latest book until I worked out new names for my two main characters and (more importantly) nicknames that both made sense and fitted thematically with the world I'm trying to evoke. I also came up with three fictional brand names and a company slogan into the bargain. So this seemed like a good time to discuss what I think is most important about naming (as ever, your results may vary). Here is a list - in no particular order - of considerations I have when choosing a name for something:

• Sound – Of course, the sound of all language is important, but with names it's especially key to me how the word or phrase trips off the tongue. Whether I want it to be easy or difficult to say, depends on the context – is this character a whimsical Professor Dumbledore or a no-nonsense Jack Reacher? I find myself terribly drawn to alliteration when naming things, and I think this is related to the pleasing sound it makes. Well, pleasing to me, anyway.
• Subtext – So much about class, ethnicity, attitude and environment can be expressed by the choice of a name. Sir Stanley de Winter is a very different person to interact with compared with Alfie Higgins, for instance. I find baby name lists from previous decades incredibly useful when choosing names for my child characters – try The ONS or this interactive tool. In a totally fictional world, names are a brilliant shortcut when world building. If instead of saying can opener, you call it a cannibaliser then that could imbue the environment with a certain gallows humour. Call it an aluminium cylinder dissection device and you make a very different impression.
• Familiarity – This is a double-edged sword. I want the reader to feel comfortable with the name I've chosen, but I don't want to choose a word or phrase that reminds them strongly of another book or film. This is a particular issue when choosing a title, of course – I don't want there to be another very similar book popping up on Amazon every time someone searches for mine. When naming companies or brands, it can be quite hard to find one that someone hasn't used already, and obviously you have to be careful not to write anything (even if it is fictional) that could cause someone to sue you – especially when you didn't mean to defame them.
• Contrast – A lot of fun can be had by setting up names in deliberate contrast with each other. No dystopian saga would be complete without its two opposing sides – The Perfect and The Broken or The Powerful and The Weak. Names can also be contrasted - give the protagonist a really boring everychild name to reflect the world from which they're trying to escape (Harry Potter anyone?) while bestowing other characters with more colourful epithets. Or how about having a really flamboyant character who has decided to be that way to escape the expectation of a boring name? Parents can often be cruel with naming, and that must inevitably affect the child – the film director Duncan Jones makes very different films than you would have expected if he'd stuck with his birth name (which was Zowie Bowie!)
• Believability – The extent to which a name is believable depends of the context into which I'm placing it. In a broad, slapstick comedy novel, the characters will all have broad, slapstick names (except for the straight man, naturally). In a gripping work of contemporary political fiction, everyone will have very mundane, serious (and slightly posh) names, and spend a lot of time swilling a double Glenfiddich around the glass while musing on constitutional democracy (yawn). Sound also has a big role in believability – can I picture someone actually saying that word? Or would they burst out laughing?

For me, sorting out the names of my elements upfront is the equivalent of making a strong opening in a game of chess. It gets some niggling decisions out of the way early, and lets me decide on the tone and direction of the game to come. I also know something about all of the pieces in play, which helps me to second-guess the conflicts that will inevitably arise.

But then again, perhaps you work completely differently? I'd love to know.

Nick.

All Change

If there's one thing that continues to amaze (and frustrate) me as an author, it's the way that everything can change for a writer in just a second. It can be a flash of inspiration, an excited email from a publisher or the melancholy moment of release when you decide to give up on a book and move on. There can be few other careers so dependent on these sudden, unexpected shifts of fortune, and our inner drama queens love to spin out these moments and feature them prominently in our personal narratives. Hold tight, because I'm about to do exactly that!

I had my last moment of sudden change a month ago, with this blog. Despite a run of what I considered good posts, my page views were down and my enthusiasm was flagging. Perhaps, after three years, it was time to admit that I had run out of ideas and quit before I started repeating myself. After all, personal blogging is SO last decade, and it seemed like time to concentrate my efforts on my fiction rather than whoatemybrain.com. So I dithered for a week (as I'm wont to do), wrote half of a post that I hated and watched Friday come and go without blogging. As I predicted, my inbox did not fill up with outraged readers who were wondering where my weekly post was. It seemed that nobody cared – least of all me.

So that would have been that. I would stop blogging without any fanfare and play the doomed martyr as I waited for somebody – anybody – to notice. Having watched Facebook friends slide out of view for various reasons (impending deadlines, sickness, personal stuff etc.), I've always been rather shocked how easy it is to forget and move on, how transient online relationships can be. And that, I was stubbornly sure, would be the fate of this blog.

For me, it was a moment of inspiration the next morning that changed things around. I'd gone out to a café to write fiction, but the blog thing was still nagging at me. There'd been a long running thread on the SCBWI Yahoo Group that dealt with the frustrations of an author's life and the pitfalls of speaking openly about rejection, pitiful advances and poor sales. My half-written post had touched on the subject, but I struggled with all the same problems that others had faced. How to moan without seeming negative? How to have my cake and eat it?

It wasn't a cake that inspired me, but a cappuccino (I find cappuccinos immensely therapeutic). If I used someone else's voice and not my own, then I could say anything I wanted to! And so fact and fiction merged, Sir Stanley de Winter was born and Etiquette for Authors became a roaring success. I was back in the blogging business.

I'm sure there are lessons in all this, if you care to look for them. I could wax lyrical about not trying to force creativity and waiting for the cosmic muse to nod in my direction. Or something. But what I've mostly taken away from this small experience is a reminder that the one constant in everything we do is change. You can't be perfectly happy and inspired all the time, but neither do you have to remain dejected and miserable. A change is gonna come.

Nick.

Sock Puppeting on the Oxford Words Blog

My blog post has a different flavour and a different location this week, as I've written a post for the Oxford Words blog inspired by the recent "sock puppeting" online book review controversy. Please pop over and leave a comment!

From sock puppets to astroturfing: the language of online deception

Nick.

When it's Better Not to Know

How much should you know about your own characters? On the face of it, that seems like a ridiculous question – as a writer you are expected to have control of your whole literary universe: plot, characters, everything. How-to-write books will give you helpful sheets to fill in, where you list everything from a character's hair colour to how many sugars they like in their tea. But do you really need to know? After all, it isn't as if you'll ever have to apply in the guise of your character for an iTunes account (genuine sample security question: "In which city were you first kissed?")

The reason I ask, is because I'm having a problem with a character in my own work-in-progress at the moment. While I've got into the head of the protagonist very quickly, I find this other significant character quite hard to get a handle on. Just the other day, he did something in a scene that both surprised the other characters and delighted me, and I wonder if I would have taken so much pleasure in his actions if I'd planned them in minute detail. I know (roughly) what he wants to do, but have very little idea why. Should I sit down and work that out?

I think not, because it strikes me that the joy of discovery is a key thing that keeps me writing. In the last book, I was discovering a world, in this one I am discovering a character. The occluded backstory of this character and the deeper reasons for his actions already feel to me like something that could span a series of books, so perhaps I'm actually protecting my future interest by not digging too deep. It feels too early for me to make a decision on why he is the way he is, and I want to observe him in many different situations (as a psychologist would) to find the truth behind his actions.

Of course, when I psychoanalyse my characters it's a reflexive process, because I'm actually analysing myself. It's already clear to me that this character represents another example of an archetype that appears in all of my novels to date – the anarchic individual who upsets the protagonist's world through their disregard for social convention. At a practical level, this character type serves to provide social comedy and to take the plot in unexpected directions. But what does it say about me at a deeper level? Do I secretly wish for someone to come into my carefully ordered world and turn the whole thing upside down? Or is it more about good structure, providing the kind of inciting event that Robert McKee insists is needed to put the protagonist's world out of balance, therefore giving the main character a strong motivation to fix it?

It seems that the more we write, the more we learn about ourselves, unconscious truths that can only be released by indulging our right brain in creative activity. Just as it's often a bad idea to comprehensively plot a book before you write it, so it can be a mistake to try to mould a character to fit your conscious expectation rather than your unconscious needs. So I say to myself: stop trying to know everything, embrace the mystery and trust your subconscious to fill in the blanks along the way. After all, in life, I find people who claim to know everything are rather boring to be around. And who wants to be someone like that?

Nick.