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derinwrites · 1 day

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The Three Commandments

The thing about writing is this: you gotta start in medias res, to hook your readers with action immediately. But readers aren’t invested in people they know nothing about, so start with a framing scene that instead describes the characters and the stakes. But those scenes are boring, so cut straight to the action, after opening with a clever quip, but open in the style of the story, and try not to be too clever in the opener, it looks tacky. One shouldn’t use too many dialogue tags, it’s distracting; but you can use ‘said’ a lot, because ‘said’ is invisible, but don’t use ‘said’ too much because it’s boring and uninformative – make sure to vary your dialogue tags to be as descriptive as possible, except don’t do that because it’s distracting, and instead rely mostly on ‘said’ and only use others when you need them. But don’t use ‘said’ too often; you should avoid dialogue tags as much as you possibly can and indicate speakers through describing their reactions. But don’t do that, it’s distracting.

Having a viewpoint character describe themselves is amateurish, so avoid that. But also be sure to describe your viewpoint character so that the reader can picture them. And include a lot of introspection, so we can see their mindset, but don’t include too much introspection, because it’s boring and takes away from the action and really bogs down the story, but also remember to include plenty of introspection so your character doesn’t feel like a robot. And adverbs are great action descriptors; you should have a lot of them, but don’t use a lot of adverbs; they’re amateurish and bog down the story. And

The reason new writers are bombarded with so much outright contradictory writing advice is that these tips are conditional. It depends on your style, your genre, your audience, your level of skill, and what problems in your writing you’re trying to fix. Which is why, when I’m writing, I tend to focus on what I call my Three Commandments of Writing. These are the overall rules; before accepting any writing advice, I check whether it reinforces one of these rules or not. If not, I ditch it.

1: Thou Shalt Have Something To Say

What’s your book about?

I don’t mean, describe to me the plot. I mean, why should anybody read this? What’s its thesis? What’s its reason for existence, from the reader’s perspective? People write stories for all kinds of reasons, but things like ‘I just wanted to get it out of my head’ are meaningless from a reader perspective. The greatest piece of writing advice I ever received was you putting words on a page does not obligate anybody to read them. So why are the words there? What point are you trying to make?

The purpose of your story can vary wildly. Usually, you’ll be exploring some kind of thesis, especially if you write genre fiction. Curse Words, for example, is an exploration of self-perpetuating power structures and how aiming for short-term stability and safety can cause long-term problems, as well as the responsibilities of an agitator when seeking to do the necessary work of dismantling those power structures. Most of the things in Curse Words eventually fold back into exploring this question. Alternately, you might just have a really cool idea for a society or alien species or something and want to show it off (note: it can be VERY VERY HARD to carry a story on a ‘cool original concept’ by itself. You think your sky society where they fly above the clouds and have no rainfall and have to harvest water from the clouds below is a cool enough idea to carry a story: You’re almost certainly wrong. These cool concept stories work best when they are either very short, or working in conjunction with exploring a theme). You might be writing a mystery series where each story is a standalone mystery and the point is to present a puzzle and solve a fun mystery each book. Maybe you’re just here to make the reader laugh, and will throw in anything you can find that’ll act as framing for better jokes. In some genres, readers know exactly what they want and have gotten it a hundred times before and want that story again but with different character names – maybe you’re writing one of those. (These stories are popular in romance, pulp fantasy, some action genres, and rather a lot of types of fanfiction).

Whatever the main point of your story is, you should know it by the time you finish the first draft, because you simply cannot write the second draft if you don’t know what the point of the story is. (If you write web serials and are publishing the first draft, you’ll need to figure it out a lot faster.)

Once you know what the point of your story is, you can assess all writing decisions through this lens – does this help or hurt the point of my story?

2: Thou Shalt Respect Thy Reader’s Investment

Readers invest a lot in a story. Sometimes it’s money, if they bought your book, but even if your story is free, they invest time, attention, and emotional investment. The vast majority of your job is making that investment worth it. There are two factors to this – lowering the investment, and increasing the payoff. If you can lower your audience’s suspension of disbelief through consistent characterisation, realistic (for your genre – this may deviate from real realism) worldbuilding, and appropriately foreshadowing and forewarning any unexpected rules of your world. You can lower the amount of effort or attention your audience need to put into getting into your story by writing in a clear manner, using an entertaining tone, and relying on cultural touchpoints they understand already instead of pushing them in the deep end into a completely unfamiliar situation. The lower their initial investment, the easier it is to make the payoff worth it.

Two important notes here: one, not all audiences view investment in the same way. Your average reader views time as a major investment, but readers of long fiction (epic fantasies, web serials, et cetera) often view length as part of the payoff. Brandon Sanderson fans don’t grab his latest book and think “Uuuugh, why does it have to be so looong!” Similarly, some people like being thrown in the deep end and having to put a lot of work into figuring out what the fuck is going on with no onboarding. This is one of science fiction’s main tactics for forcibly immersing you in a future world. So the valuation of what counts as too much investment varies drastically between readers.

Two, it’s not always the best idea to minimise the necessary investment at all costs. Generally, engagement with art asks something of us, and that’s part of the appeal. Minimum-effort books do have their appeal and their place, in the same way that idle games or repetitive sitcoms have their appeal and their place, but the memorable stories, the ones that have staying power and provide real value, are the ones that ask something of the reader. If they’re not investing anything, they have no incentive to engage, and you’re just filling in time. This commandment does not exist to tell you to try to ask nothing of your audience – you should be asking something of your audience. It exists to tell you to respect that investment. Know what you’re asking of your audience, and make sure that the ask is less than the payoff.

The other way to respect the investment is of course to focus on a great payoff. Make those characters socially fascinating, make that sacrifice emotionally rending, make the answer to that mystery intellectually fulfilling. If you can make the investment worth it, they’ll enjoy your story. And if you consistently make their investment worth it, you build trust, and they’ll be willing to invest more next time, which means you can ask more of them and give them an even better payoff. Audience trust is a very precious currency and this is how you build it – be worth their time.

But how do you know what your audience does and doesn’t consider an onerous investment? And how do you know what kinds of payoff they’ll find rewarding? Easy – they self-sort. Part of your job is telling your audience what to expect from you as soon as you can, so that if it’s not for them, they’ll leave, and if it is, they’ll invest and appreciate the return. (“Oh but I want as many people reading my story as possible!” No, you don’t. If you want that, you can write paint-by-numbers common denominator mass appeal fic. What you want is the audience who will enjoy your story; everyone else is a waste of time, and is in fact, detrimental to your success, because if they don’t like your story then they’re likely to be bad marketing. You want these people to bounce off and leave before you disappoint them. Don’t try to trick them into staying around.) Your audience should know, very early on, what kind of an experience they’re in for, what the tone will be, the genre and character(s) they’re going to follow, that sort of thing. The first couple of chapters of Time to Orbit: Unknown, for example, are a micro-example of the sorts of mysteries that Aspen will be dealing with for most of the book, as well as a sample of their character voice, the way they approach problems, and enough of their background, world and behaviour for the reader to decide if this sort of story is for them. We also start the story with some mildly graphic medical stuff, enough physics for the reader to determine the ‘hardness’ of the scifi, and about the level of physical risk that Aspen will be putting themselves at for most of the book. This is all important information for a reader to have.

If you are mindful of the investment your readers are making, mindful of the value of the payoff, and honest with them about both from the start so that they can decide whether the story is for them, you can respect their investment and make sure they have a good time.

3: Thou Shalt Not Make Thy World Less Interesting

This one’s really about payoff, but it’s important enough to be its own commandment. It relates primarily to twists, reveals, worldbuilding, and killing off storylines or characters. One mistake that I see new writers make all the time is that they tank the engagement of their story by introducing a cool fun twist that seems so awesome in the moment and then… is a major letdown, because the implications make the world less interesting.

“It was all a dream” twists often fall into this trap. Contrary to popular opinion, I think these twists can be done extremely well. I’ve seen them done extremely well. The vast majority of the time, they’re very bad. They’re bad because they take an interesting world and make it boring. The same is true of poorly thought out, shocking character deaths – when you kill a character, you kill their potential, and if they’re a character worth killing in a high impact way then this is always a huge sacrifice on your part. Is it worth it? Will it make the story more interesting? Similarly, if your bad guy is going to get up and gloat ‘Aha, your quest was all planned by me, I was working in the shadows to get you to acquire the Mystery Object since I could not! You have fallen into my trap! Now give me the Mystery Object!’, is this a more interesting story than if the protagonist’s journey had actually been their own unmanipulated adventure? It makes your bad guy look clever and can be a cool twist, but does it mean that all those times your protagonist escaped the bad guy’s men by the skin of his teeth, he was being allowed to escape? Are they retroactively less interesting now?

Whether these twists work or not will depend on how you’ve constructed the rest of your story. Do they make your world more or less interesting?

If you have the audience’s trust, it’s permissible to make your world temporarily less interesting. You can kill off the cool guy with the awesome plan, or make it so that the Chosen One wasn’t actually the Chosen One, or even have the main character wake up and find out it was all a dream, and let the reader marinate in disappointment for a little while before you pick it up again and turn things around so that actually, that twist does lead to a more interesting story! But you have to pick it up again. Don’t leave them with the version that’s less interesting than the story you tanked for the twist. The general slop of interest must trend upward, and your sacrifices need to all lead into the more interesting world. Otherwise, your readers will be disappointed, and their experience will be tainted.

Whenever I’m looking at a new piece of writing advice, I view it through these three rules. Is this plot still delivering on the book’s purpose, or have I gone off the rails somewhere and just stared writing random stuff? Does making this character ‘more relateable’ help or hinder that goal? Does this argument with the protagonists’ mother tell the reader anything or lead to any useful payoff; is it respectful of their time? Will starting in medias res give the audience an accurate view of the story and help them decide whether to invest? Does this big twist that challenges all the assumptions we’ve made so far imply a world that is more or less interesting than the world previously implied?

Hopefully these can help you, too.

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airas-story · 1 day

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The Confabulation Complication

“It’s called confabulation,” Stephen said, not quite looking in Tony’s direction. It was… disconcerting. Confusing.

Tony hummed, trying not to let his frustration with the situation show. “Sounds like a party.”

Pepper let out a pained noise. “Tony.”

Tony winced a little, because Pepper had been crying almost since the moment he’d woken up. He didn’t like it when Pepper cried, but he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to fix this.

Especially when… when he wasn’t actually sure what was wrong.

“It is the creation of false memories,” Stephen continued, still not looking at Tony. “As compensation for the loss of real memories.”

Tony froze, because… because confused by the situation or not, he was smart enough to put together the pieces. He stared at Stephen for a long moment before glancing at Pepper.

Stephen looked painfully awkward, Pepper looked devastated. “So,” Tony started slowly, looking back at Stephen. “When I asked for my kiss and you looked like I was talking gibberish, it wasn’t because you were sticking to the ‘No making out while in the hospital’ rule and it’s because you and I… don’t kiss.”

“We are not together, no,” Stephen agreed. Was he… was he even Stephen? Did Tony… Did Tony actually know him at all? So many of his memories didn’t match what Stephen was telling him.

He looked away. “And Pepper?”

Pepper’s smile was tremulous. “We do kiss,” she said.

Everything felt surreal. “I… I thought…” He tried to search his memories, but he didn’t know what he was looking for. He remembered kissing her, but that was… a long time ago. “You broke up with me.” He knew that.

Didn’t he?

“We got back together,” Pepper explained. “Both times.”

Both times. He only remembered her breaking up with him once.

Tony… Tony didn’t know how to deal with any of this. “We’re together,” he said, trying to wrap his mind around it. He glanced at Stephen. “And we’re not.”

“Never have been,” Stephen said, he still wasn’t looking at Tony.

It… hurt.

Conceptually he knew it shouldn’t. Because he and Stephen… they weren’t a thing, apparently. But Tony was having a hard time making himself believe it. The memories were stark and visceral. Laughing with Stephen, kissing Stephen, curled together on the couch with Stephen doing their separate work.

“What are you even doing here, then?” Tony asked, feeling suddenly defensive. “You’re not still a practicing doctor, and I’m pretty sure there was no magic in that fight.” He wasn’t certain of that, because the memory of the fight was confused and messy.

That was probably something he should let someone know. Especially since he was, apparently, having memory issues of a different kind. He kept his mouth shut.

Stephen sighed. “You told me you had trust issues and asked if I would be involved in any future medical emergencies so much as I could be. You said that as far as doctors went, I ‘wasn’t bad’.”

“I…” He swallowed, tried to make sense of everything, but he couldn’t. “I’m checking myself out,” he said. They were in the compound—right? Was he actually sure about that?—it should be easy to get out of here.

He couldn’t deal with this.

“Tony, you should—“ Pepper started.

“Against medical advice if necessary,” Tony said. “I don’t want to be here.”

He wanted to be somewhere safe. Wanted to be in his lab where he could start trying to piece together the truth.

“Tony.” Stephen’s voice was gentle; Tony flinched. “There are tests that that the doctors should run.”

Instinct told Tony to give in, because this was Stephen. Tony always gave into Stephen when he used that sort of voice; Tony had made too many jokes about being weak for Stephen’s pretty eyes.

But apparently those memories didn’t actually mean anything, because they weren’t real. Tony had never made those jokes. It would be incredibly inappropriate to start now. He shook his head, ignoring the pulsing ache that came with the movement. “I’m not exactly dying right now. Any tests you take will only tell you things that you apparently already know. I want out.”

“We don’t know how bad the damage is,” Stephen said.

Tony ran a hand over his face. “Well, if I die from unexpected complications, you can both say ‘I told you so’, but frankly—“

“Tony.” Pepper sounded distressed. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t want to be here,” Tony repeated. “I… I need to be alone. I need to figure this out.” He ignored both Pepper’s and Stephen’s protests as he got himself unattached from the hospital bed.

They gave in.

Mostly because Tony didn’t give them a choice.

Stephen eventually disappeared in a portal—Tony’s instincts said to go with him, but those instincts were wrong—while Tony fled from the compound med wing he’d been trapped in.

The lab was gapingly empty when he reached it. It was a relief in some ways, in other ways it felt wrong. His body ached—he didn’t even fully remember what had happened to get him into the hospital wing, the fight blurred, especially near the end—and his head hurt.

“FRIDAY?” he asked.

“Yes, Boss?” she asked, her voice was careful and tempered, as though she knew he was vulnerable.

“Is it true?” he asked. “The whole… confabulation thing Stephen was talking about?”

“Yes, Boss.”

Tony swallowed hard. “So, I’m not in love with Stephen.”

“You and Doctor Strange are friends, boss.”

Friends. Friends. Right.

“And me and Pepper?”

“The two of you are engaged.”

Engaged. Engaged. Tony was engaged. To Pepper. He didn’t remember that. He remembered her breaking up with him. He remembered her telling him that he was just… too much for her. That she just needed him to stop. That had happened, right?

Tony had never been able to stop. Had she changed her mind or was this just another attempt at something that was doomed to fail?

Or was the break up he remembered even true? Tony thought he knew why she had broken up with him. But what if that was a lie too?

He struggled to breathe for a moment. Everything was messed up.

He wasn’t in love with the person he thought he was in love with; no, he was in love with someone he remembered moving on from.

He wasn’t in love with Stephen. That was just his brain lying to him.

He was in love with Pepper.

Pepper, who he could only remember hearing say he wasn’t enough and was too much and… and that they weren’t right for each other. But he wasn’t sure if that was even true. She had agreed they’d broken up, but maybe he was remembering wrong the reasons why. Because he was engaged. So he couldn’t have been too much and not enough and not right for her.

Right?

Tony didn’t know.

Because he didn’t know which memories were real and which memories were false.

He just knew that everything was wrong.

And now… now what was he supposed to do?

#ironstrange #stephen strange #tony stark #pepper potts #pepper/tony #amnesia and confabulation #which is a real thing #I however am taking liberties #may continue in a longer story #just trying to figure out how it would develop #wasn't sure whether to actually Tumblr post this one #because this is once again WAY too long

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