Have you ever struggled to understand new software on your computer? I’ve just spent several frustrating days this way. The package I installed has six different programs and I’ve Googled and YouTubed away a great many hours trying to figure out how these fancy tools can help me get my job done. Eventually, I decided to try to concentrate on learning one program. This was more successful, and now my project is (more or less) complete. This strategy could also be applied to writing.

There are many literary techniques a writer can use to tell a story. But how many writers are ever going to excel at plot, dialogue, point of view, metaphor and everything else in the colorful literary toolbox? You’re better off trying to master one thing at a time.

Say you’re writing about estranged lovers meeting in a café. Concentrate just on the dialogue, or descriptive detail or metaphor–whatever. Choose one element and get it right. If your reader is drawn in by your gripping dialogue, she won’t notice if your description’s a bit thin. We notice specific instances of excellence more than we note broad adequacy. Let’s get away from writing a moment and consider gardening. Walking the dog one recent fall day, I passed a tidy yard with border plants neatly lining the front path. Nice, I thought. The lawn of the next house was littered with leaves and stray toys, but on the porch was an urn the size of a wine barrel, overflowing with scarlet geraniums. “Wow!” I told the dog.

To improve your writing, choose one thing to excel at. Which, come to think of it, is good advice for mastering life. And software.

Ah, NaNoWriMo. There are a lot of neat things about trying to write a novel in one month, and maybe the best is experiencing the joy of self-expression. Even if you don’t complete a novel worth publishing (and I seriously doubt anyone can in the space of 30 days), you’ll get yourself well on the way if you start December with a good-sized draft. Or, maybe you’ll find out you don’t want to write a novel, after all. Either way, this is valuable. But one side benefit I never hear much said about is the fact that novel-writing – regardless of the quality of the end product – produces better readers. (And everyone who enters NaNoWriMo is also an enthusiastic reader, right? I mean, why would people try to write books if they didn’t also read them?)

I know someone who recently took up sculpting. She chisels hard lumps into shapes that give the illusion of lovely, soft forms. Because of this new pursuit, she notices the shape of everything. Once ordinary objects – a fencepost, a rock, an apple – now fascinate her. She studies areas of light and shadow, angles and lines. It’s as if a whole new world has opened up around her, she says.

In a similar way, a person who writes begins to notice new things in the books she reads. Look at the way this author builds tension, she might think to herself; see how this other author uses dialogue to build character. To read like a writer is to notice the light and the shadows and the lines of a story. Write a novel – good or bad – and you’ll never read one quite the same way again.

You’ve heard this many times: If you want to write, you have to read. Read widely, outside your usual genre and notice how different authors utilize various literary techniques. If you’re doing NaNoWriMo this month and find that the endeavor opens up a whole new literary world for you, you’ve spent your time well.

For more on NaNoWriMo, read this post from last year.

What kind of ghost story do you like? If you want to write a great ghost story, you need to understand the answer to this question.

I know what I like: stories that fall into a sub-genre of ghost fiction often referred to as psychological ghost stories. In this kind of fiction, emphasis is on the mental state of the victim rather than on the actions of a ghost. I’m led to wonder about the reliability and mental stability of the protagonist and I don’t really know if the ghost is “real.”

On the other hand, if it’s obvious from the beginning that the ghosts are real, I lose interest quickly. My interest flags because I don’t believe in ghosts. At least, I don’t think I do. Still…

It’s in this ellipsis that I begin to doubt. I worry. My guts tense and my breath turns shallow. And I’m drawn, gripped with dread, into the story, where I will stay until the end.

Last night, I began to watch a horror movie, Insidious. Within the first few minutes, the overtones of horror were so heavy-handed and cartoonish, I turned it off. Maybe it would have been a good flick but I figured that, in order to enter into the world of that story, I’d have to suspend a lot of disbelief. I prefer, instead, a movie like The Sixth Sense, in which the world, if tragically violent, still operates as the world we expect and it’s only gradually that viewers are led to consider that other forces may be at work.

Think about what you like to read and why you like it. Which ghost movies do you love to watch again and again even though you know the end? I’ve watch Sixth Sense three times, just to admire how the screenwriter builds the story.

For more on ghost stories, see my post What Makes a Ghost Story a Great Read?

In Report on Business today, there’s a review of The Innovator’s DNA. I blog on “all things literary” so perhaps you’re surprised I’d comment here on a book published by Harvard Business Review Press. But I’ve added this book to my very long to-read list because I think the creativity of great business minds has relevance to writing.

According to the book’s three authors, really creative people – like Steve Jobs, for example – don’t just have brilliant minds, they often engage in the following behaviors:

• Associating – Innovators rarely invent something entirely new; what they do is recombine ideas in new ways. This reminds me of something Michael Chabon told an audience at a recent AWP conference: writing is all about similes – similes span the distance between writer and reader. Chabon and other skilled writers find new ways of showing us something is like something else.
• Questioning – It probably won’t surprise you that innovators love to ask questions. Why is something done in a certain way, and how might that be challenged? Steve Jobs asked himself why a computer needed a fan and that led to a nice, quiet Macintosh. Fiction writers continually ask themselves questions, and one of the most important ones is What if? What if you woke up one day and you were a giant beetle? (The Metamorphosis, by Franz Kafka.)
• Observing – Business innovators are intense observers of customers, products, services and technology. As a journalist writing profiles of business leaders, I would note gestures and any personality quirks of my subjects to help give me (and readers) more insight into what made them successful. Smart writers watch people – everywhere, all the time. Why do writers take their work to cafes? Yeah, sure, I go for the double-fudge-nut-squares, but I also find inspiration in watching the other patrons around me.
• Networking – Innovators search for new ideas by talking to people who may offer a radically different view. Jobs talked to “the crazy guys” at Industrial Light & Magic…and Pixar was born. Smart writers seek out those who can provide an alternative point of view on a subject. This is true with both fiction and nonfiction. Because he takes the time to talk to people in all walks of life, Alain de Botton is one of my favourite writers.
• Experimenting – Innovators visit new places, seek new information, and try new things. Early on, Jobs took a calligraphy class; later, part of the draw of the Macintosh was its beautiful typography. Experimenting works for writers, too. Decades ago, I attended a workshop that espoused an approach to women’s health that turned upside down everything I’d assumed about self-care. That experience led to one of my first magazine articles.

If you have any other behaviors to add, please comment!

As a follow-up to my earlier post on What We Write About When We Write About Sex, I’m adding a few more points to consider:

• There are various awards for bad writing that’s funny and one of the most entertaining is the Literary Review’s Bad Sex in Fiction Award. Here’s a line from The Shape of Her, by Rowan Somerville, the “winner” for 2010: “like a lepidopterist mounting a tough-skinned insect with a too blunt pin he screwed himself into her.” Somerville, who is British, accepted his prize with grace: “There is nothing more English than bad sex, so on behalf of the entire nation I would like to thank you.” Great sport, that Somerville, but if you aren’t English and want to avoid writing about sex badly, you might want to re-think using the imagery of a butterfly collector in your love scenes.

• Speaking of love, there may be none at all; sex can be lust between enemies, for example. Nevertheless, “making love” is a euphemism–one of many–we often use to describe the act. My favourite euphemism (and great metaphor), from Shakespeare’s Othello, is “the beast with two backs.” But euphemisms can lead to purple prose and unintentionally hilarious metaphors and similes. (See the butterfly collector, above.) Also, IMHO, many euphemisms are just too cutesy-poo and have no place in fiction for adults.

• Here’s something that troubles many: What should we call body parts? Yes, the grown-up terms are “penis” and “vagina.” But would your characters refer to each other’s parts this way? Don’t forget who is having this sex, and write it “true” to them. And keep in mind that using anatomically correct terms can give your scene a clinical feeling.

• “How far should you go” in writing about sex? That depends on how far you go in other scenes. If your novel contains scenes of graphic violence, your scenes of intimacy will also have to be graphic. Also, consider your audience. Readers of romance, for example, want emotional detail while readers of crime fiction might want more of the physical.

• Go wild. If worry about making a fool of yourself in print is giving you writer’s block, try an approach that works with most writing—compose your hot scene with the assumption that no one but you will ever read it. You can always tone it down later.

• The above points are paraphrased tips from writers I’ve heard speak at various writing conferences. If you want to learn more, here’s a book I recommend: The Joy of Writing Sex, by Elizabeth Benedict.

Know of any other good guidebooks or web sites on this topic?  Please let me know.

Your characters want to have sex and you’re quaking at the thought. But fear not: At a recent writers conference, I sat in on a panel discussing the scenes that can give anyone severe writers block, and I took notes for you. Bloody Words 2011 panelists Mallory Wilkins, Tess Gerritsen, Denise Dietz and Caro Soles came up with several tips, and here are some of them, rephrased as questions you might ask yourself:

• Why are your characters having sex? Bestselling author Tess Gerritsen, who’s written romances as well as thrillers, points out that a sex scene can be an opportunity to show a character in a new way, revealing things that would be difficult to see in any other kind of scene; for example, in the case of a male character, how he treats a woman in bed can convey a lot.
• What leads to sex? It’s not all about the act itself. What precedes the scene? How does the sexual tension build? If characters aren’t having sex for the first time, there may not be a lot of tension but you can show what they do to get in the mood. Do they feed each other raw oysters? Do they like Michael Buble crooning in the background? Do they make out to Fox News?
• What happens after sex? A sex scene is a good way to introduce complications. When two characters who should not be having sex go ahead and do it anyway, it can create big problems for them and other characters. It can also have an impact on the main goal of the novel; if two characters are on opposing sides (for example, a cop and a criminal), sex between them will muddle things wonderfully.
• When should two characters succumb to their attractions? The answer can depend on the genre. In general, sexual tension fades when characters have sex; this means that in a romance, you don’t want these two falling into each other’s arms too soon—in fact, maybe not until the final pages. If the novel is a thriller or mystery, the main tension in the book will not be sexual, so you can “spend” a little tension earlier on.

For more on writing about sex, watch for my next post. Meanwhile, anything to add on the topic? Please comment.

When I’m trying to teach people how to read like a writer — a worthwhile skill for both writers and dedicated readers — I often suggest they read a book or ten outside their usual genre. Let’s say your bedside table is usually piled high with blue books; if you try a few pink or green, you might discover something you didn’t realize about plotting or descriptive detail. Some literary techniques stand out more in a different color. The same principle can apply to writers conferences. If you usually write (or read) literary fiction, try a conference for science fiction writers. Attend a panel focused on a genre you don’t usually write in, and you could find yourself enlightened in ways you hadn’t imagined.

I don’t write romance (and haven’t read any in decades) and don’t plan to. Yet, several years ago when a major conference of romance writers hit my hometown, I signed up for it. And I’m glad I did. Here’s why:

• Story insights – There were several speakers with tips on just what makes a great romance, and while some of this advice has no relevance to general fiction, much of it is applicable to fiction of any kind. The talks made me think more about the elements of story that genres have in common, and this in turn strengthened my understanding of story in the big sense. Always a good thing, whether you want to write a story or read one with more insight.
• Exposure to a new writing community – These romance writers, published and aspiring, were hugely supportive of one another and not only that, they knew how to have a good time. It was a pleasure to be in this warm and fuzzy place for awhile.
• Genre techniques can be used in many stories – I may not be planning to pen a romance, but that doesn’t mean I won’t one day be writing a story in which romance plays a big part. Knowing what works in the genre of romance can help you write a love scene or better assess one written by someone else.

The above points apply to the mystery genre as well. There’s a conference for mystery writers coming to my town soon—Bloody Words 2011—and I’m planning on attending at least part of it. I’ll let you know what I learn.

One of my favorite novels, John Colapinto’s About the Author, is basically one long sordid confession from a wannabe writer, Cal, about how he falsely claims literary stardom. Recently, writing in National Post‘s Afterword, author Rebecca Eckler confessed to seriously messing with book displays in an Indigo bookstore. Author is close to 300 pages and Eckler’s column a mere 700 words, but both employ literary tactics that put readers, squirming, into the shoes of the narrator. You and I can use similar methods to make the bad behaviour of our characters captivating.

A great shameless confession needs a main character with a goal—a driving, overall quest—as well as short-term goals related to it. In Author, Cal’s overall goal is literary success, while his objective in a particular scene is to get a date worth writing about. Eckler’s overall desire is to have people buy her book; in the scene she relates, she wants to raise the profile of her book in a certain bookstore.

There’s no story without obstacles. For Eckler, it’s the discovery that her book isn’t displayed prominently. In one scene in Author, Cal is so distracted by his roommate he can’t compose a decent paragraph. Once we know a character’s goal and obstacles, we’re on the way to feeling empathy for him (or her) as he tries to fix his problems.

We worry observing him do outrageous things (things we ourselves would never do, right?) to achieve his goal. The character digs himself into a deeper and deeper hole and we want him to save himself…sort of. He has to suffer first. Eckler, for example, pretends to be an ordinary customer and asks a salesclerk if he’s heard whether the novel in her hand is any good; the guy looks at her photograph on the back cover and she’s busted. Her shameless behaviour causes her nothing more than embarrassment. In Cal’s story, the stakes are far higher.

As you can see, I’m partial to shameless confessions of the literary variety. But shameless behaviour by a character in pursuit of any kind of prize—be it fame, love or even chocolate donuts—can go a long way in making me turn pages. And don’t you feel the same way?

Let’s hear it for great endings. Sure, you need a captivating beginning and a meaty middle—readers probably won’t see that ending without them—but if the last page is weak, the whole story, every single scene that came before, fades with a whimper. For a strong ending, the main character(s) must resolve the central quest with a win, lose or draw. Or maybe a win, lose AND draw. A lot of great stories end with all three conclusions and The Social Network is an excellent example.

The final moments of the movie deal with a lawsuit against Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg. In one sense, the end is a draw because Zuckerberg has to pay off another key player and both characters end up with a lot of money. But Zuckerberg is really the winner of this battle; he’s the guy who ends up with the most marbles. On the other hand, he’s also a loser in that he’s driven away his only real friend, Eduardo Saverin. So, Zuckerberg doesn’t get what he wanted so badly at the beginning of the movie: social connections. Friends. Because he loses at this–the central quest of the story–it’s the sense of loss that overpowers everything else. However, it’s because the ending also includes win and draw aspects that the entire story is more “layered,” richer and more complex. The ending is what turns this story into one people continue to think and talk about after it’s over.

Story endings that stay with me the longest include a win, lose and draw, but give most weight to what’s been lost. Do you react the same way?

What makes this ending even better is the delicious irony of the last scene. I don’t know how the book by Ben Mezrich ends, but the script by Aaron Sorkin concludes with a shot that’s not only pitch perfect but encapsulates…well, everything, on all levels. If you haven’t seen the movie, watch it. Yes, the acting and directing are much of the reason this movie has such a high profile in this year’s Golden Globes and Oscars. But if you’re interested in how to create a great story (on a screen or page; the principles are the same) watch this film for its damn fine writing.

Let me know if you liked The End. For further reading, try this review of Social Network on filmschoolrejects.

I don’t believe in ghosts. Well, 95 percent of me doesn’t. But I do love a great ghost story, or rather, I love a great psychological ghost story, in which the emphasis is on the mental state of the victim rather than the actions of a ghost (a ghost that may not even be “real”). When you don’t know whether the apparition down the hall is a spirit or a figment of the heroine’s imagination, how can you not turn the page? Of course, some ghost stories are better than others. Here, IMO, are elements the best ones share:

1.     There’s gotta be a ghost. Vampires, werewolves, ghouls, shapeshifters and other monsters are all very well, but
true ghost stories require spirits of the dead…or at least the strong possibility such spirits exist. You and I may scoff/chuckle/scream at the antics of fanged bloodsuckers and furry alpha males, but we all know we’re going to die and sometimes in the middle of the night comes that nagging question, What about that afterlife, anyway? Tales of the dead crossing over into this world offer intriguing possibilities.

2.     Setting gets a starring role. In all great novels, to varying degrees, setting affects mood, theme and even plot. Ghost stories take this one step further. Setting becomes as crucial as the main characters. Think of the haunted house. Step inside its door and it’ll spar with you as much as the next antagonist. And while many ghost stories take place in old mansions, they certainly don’t have to.  What matters is that the setting—a house, a small town or another confined, claustrophobia-inducing arena—is a force to be reckoned ith. The skilled writer makes this apparent gradually, detail after unnerving detail.

3.     Suspense is key. Did you get that last point, gradually? The writer doesn’t scare us senseless on page one. He doles out details that, alone, could be argued away. That door that suddenly slammed shut? A breeze, perhaps. The noise in the middle of the night? Maybe a stray dog outside the window. But then rain seeps inside the wall and leaves a stain that looks like the face of that infant who died long-ago at birth…and as the story progresses the cumulative effect of all this stuff starts to give all the characters, and the reader, a growing sense of dread.

4.     I want mystery. A ghost needs a good reason to be unsettled. Perhaps there was an injustice that went unpunished. We want to know what it is that bothers our spirit so. And while we may never be certain—in fact, I’d argue that a ghost story more than any other genre benefits from a sense of uncertainty in the conclusion—by the end of the book we better have at least some idea of the reason for all that haunting.

5.     Give me some emotion. In good fiction, we identify with the protagonist, imagining ourselves to be in his shoes. In good ghost stories, we feel we’re inside the skin of that poor sod walking alone down that long, dark hall. In great psychological ghost stories, we feel trapped inside the mind of the main character—our heart races when we hear that bump in the night, we shiver with alarm at a cold
draft under the door, we gasp after a whiff of something that smells like rotting flesh. Like our heroine, we don’t know whether any of this is real or the product of imagination and we share her terror.

Examples of great psychological ghost stories? Three I recommend are The Haunting of Hill House, by Shirley Jackson, The Turn of the
Screw, by Henry James, and The Little Stranger, by Sarah Waters.

If you have examples of well-written psychological ghost stories to recommend, please comment.

UPDATE: Read more  on this topic: How do you write a great ghost story?