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Let Us Help You
September 20, 2018
Often, this blog is dedicated to writing fiction. This week, we’re going to look at writing nonfiction – specifically, books that are designed to showcase the author’s expertise and knowledge in a specific industry.
Inexperienced writers think it’s easy. It’s no different to writing an autobiography – after all, all the material is there. Just spill it out onto the page, and that’s it. Perfect. Ready for some lucky reader to digest.
As somebody who has written for over thirty years, and who’s worked obsessively to get things as good as possible before submitting them anywhere, this belief infuriates me. I don’t say this to bignote myself. But too many people have the preconception that writing – any writing – is just a dump (and you can take that colloquially).
No other vocation is treated with this dismissiveness. I don’t waltz into surgical theatres and announce that I’m ready to perform brain surgery, because I’ve had an idea about doing a brain surgery for the last ten years. I don’t suggest that I could stroll onto centre court at Wimbledon and take on Roger Federer, because I can visualise myself as a great tennis player.
These – and other vocations – are skillsets that take time, practice, and experience to develop. Writing is a craft. It frustrates me that some writers can be so haphazard with their form. Actually, it not only frustrates me, but I hate that some writers believe that the nucleus of their idea is so brilliant, that it’ll wow every reader into ignoring things like prose, structure, grammar, spelling, punctuation, and everything else that goes into writing.
I would hesitate to see a professional whose book was slipshod. Why would I value their expertise if their book is terrible? If you’re a plumber, and your book lacks clarity and is full of errors, why would I trust you? If you can’t take care with your book, why would I believe you would in your chosen speciality?
Obviously, in these cases these professionals may not be aspiring authors. They may want a book as part of branding. They may want it to showcase their expertise. And that’s fine. But care has to be infused into the product, as well as the efforts that go into the writing. This intimidates some because they don’t have any background that relates to writing.
But that’s where a simple thing called learning kicks in. You wouldn’t decide to work on your car’s engine without first learning something about it. Sure, you could go in and experiment, but success is unlikely. You’d probably just ruin the car. Then where do you go? Figuratively and literally?
There are practices that writers can learn. A simple question to ask yourself is, In one or two simple sentences, what is my book about? If your answer turns into a rambling discourse and your audience begins yawning, you don’t know yourself what your book is about. You’re trying to find the way yourself – and that’s fine, but as preparation. When you sit down to write, you should have a good idea what you’re going to write about. In fiction, you can feel your way. In this sort of nonfiction, you need to know.
This is one of the primary reasons we’re running our Book-Writing Boot Camp, a two-day workshop in October. Now you might be thinking, Well, here was the point of this blog – here’s the hard sell. Well, I would be lying if I didn’t admit to an element of that. But a bigger part of the truth is that we care about the book you want to write.
There are others out there who don’t. They’ll tell you they do. They’ll flatter you and seduce you with sweet whispers of how the market needs your book, how what you have to say needs to be out in the world, how this can lead to greater fame and fortune. Well, you know what? (And this comes from somebody who subcontracted for such places in the past.) They’re full of shit. They’ll tell you what you want to hear because they want your money. Watch how many of these places will be open and friendly before you’ve paid any money, and how they’re unreachable once they have it.
Another issue is that lots of these people have little-to-no-idea about how writing – and publishing – works. They may understand on a superficial level – enough to help you produce a book. But that’s really just about achieving their objective: getting your money and giving you a product. They don’t care about that product. They don’t care about its quality. They’re fast food vendors: in, out, next!
We care here. We care because we’ve seen authors burned and gouged of hard-earned savings, we’ve seen people manipulated and lied to, and – as artists ourselves – we hate it. We hate that people can be treated like that. We hate that people are going in with good intentions and being screwed into spending thousands upon thousands of dollars on things they don’t need and exorbitant print runs, while also surrendering royalties and rights that should be rightfully theirs if they’re self-publishing.
At Busybird Publishing, we’ve always been about wanting to help you tell the story only you can. We want to try and help you find it. We want to arm you with as many tools as we can – and fast-track your development as a writer – so you can do justice to whatever vision you’re nurturing. And, at the end of it all, we want you to walk away happy, content, and educated, and proud of what you’ve done.
Give it a thought if you want to tackle the prospect of writing a book.
You have a message only you can share.
Let us help you.
The Magic 8
September 6, 2018
I’ve edited all sorts of books. And I’ve dealt with all sorts of authors. Like any good editor, I’ve had to adjust my approach depending on what and who I’m editing – that’s part of the skill-set: reading my author and finding the best way to connect with them, and working out the sort of editing they expect.
Some editing rules, though, are universal. They overlap and intertwine until they become inextricable, and form the basis of good editing and good editing practices.
So here are those rules, from me to any prospective editors out there …
8. Be diplomatic and courteous.
I shouldn’t have to write this. I really shouldn’t. It should be a given. But I will write it: be diplomatic and courteous at all times.
This can be difficult when deadlines are pressing and your life impacts your head space. You might have relationship issues, debtors might be calling, your health might be bad – none of that matters when dealing with an author. Even if they don’t deserve it, even if they’re tremendously antagonistic, diplomacy and courtesy must prevail. The moment you’re not diplomatic and courteous, you risk souring the relationship, and that can make proceeding with editing impossible.
Being diplomatic and courteous doesn’t mean you need to be a pushover or sycophantic. It’s simply a level of behaviour to maintain when you’re discussing editing and what needs to be done.
If you’re a writer, think about how you would like to be treated if the positions were reversed.
7. Be constructive, not destructive.
Comments such as You should fix this, or, This is stupid, or the ever-popular, I don’t understand what’s going on aren’t helpful, and will just confuse, insult, or antagonise an author. You can think as many of these things as you like. Just don’t articulate them in any form to the author. These are destructive comments.
Think about how you can be constructive. Every issue has a solution. So if a character commits an action that is unbelievable, instead of writing, Like this character would really do that! it would be something like, Perhaps you could consider strengthening this character’s motivation. If possible, provide an example how that can be done that demonstrates what you mean.
Or you might think the plot is absurd. So? You haven’t been retained as a critic. You’ve been retained to help make the plot as sound as possible. Think about how you can do that.
6. Don’t rewrite.
This is not your job. You’re an editor. You may be a writer in another life. You may have ten books published, and five screenplays adapted to film, but in this role you’re an editor. You haven’t been retained to go in and rewrite, ghostwrite, or overwrite the text.
Sure, you can offer examples. You should offer examples. These can be detailed. But just remember it’s the writer’s job to write their own story. You are being retained as navigator, albeit one who is trying to get the author to the destination they – not you – want to reach.
So when suggestions occur to you, ask yourself, is it the editor in you speaking or is it the writer? If it’s a writer, thank them politely, then dismiss them – they’re not welcome here.
5. Never assume you know what the author’s trying to do.
Simple, huh? No. Not really. And it’s because this would seem so simple that assumptions happen.
Check with the author what their intent is. Sometimes, they don’t know, so a conversation helps them work it out. This isn’t as uncommon as you might think. An author might start a novel that’s meant to be a love story, but it might morph into something else – or a number of different things.
Other times, they might think it’s one thing, not realising that it’s become something else. A good author will confess if they have it wrong. A discussion will help you both clarify what the author is trying to do, and how to bring the writing back into line.
Then there are those other times that, well, the author knows exactly what they’re doing and is working hard to get there. Assume they’re doing one thing while they’re actually doing another, and take a guess how the editing is going to work out? If you’ve inferred it’s a love story and they’re writing a contemporary drama, it’s likely they haven’t successfully communicated their intent, the weight of their story is wrong, or you’ve simply misinterpreted it.
At least now, you can both work to the same vision.
Never assume.
4. Get in sync with the author’s voice.
It’s imperative to identify and recognise an author’s voice. JRR Tolkien wrote languorous prose that spanned pages in description and sounded very formal and noble, with just the hint of mischievousness. Cormac McCarthy’s is succinct, sharp, and a little bleak. You wouldn’t edit McCarthy by telling him that he needs to expand on his description and to sound more like Tolkien – that’s not his writing. But if Tolkien wasn’t doing justice to some vista, you would’ve asked him to expand on it.
An author’s voice is their best weapon. Don’t believe me? How many times has voice rescued a bad story? And how many times has a lack of a voice mauled a great story? You need to help the author tell their story in their voice – not yours, or some neither-here-nor-there mishmash of yours and theirs.
Again, the danger here is that lots of editors are also writers, and that writer-side butts in, wanting to phrase things in their own voice. You should be practising telling it to shut up. That writer-side isn’t welcome here. It should have its own forum to sing, rather than invading somebody else’s concert.
3. It’s okay to say nothing.
What? you might think. But I’m meant to say stuff! Well, yes, if stuff is there to be said.
Blank margins scare editors. Editors fear that a blank margin will suggest they’re either not reading the text, or they’re reading it and missing stuff. So they comment. But the truth is that the copy might be okay. In fact, it might be good. It’s okay to say nothing. Or, if you really need to, say something positive – compliment the author. Authors love compliments. And it helps the editor build a relationship with the author.
Don’t be afraid of the blank margin and scribble in it for the sake of scribbling.
2. Don’t continue arguing a point.
A piece of writing might legitimately have an issue the author either refuses to address, or rationalises away as being fine. It happens. So what’s the solution? Continue arguing your point?
You could. Will it get you somewhere? This has to be addressed on a case-by-case basis. Persuasive arguing might flip Author X to your viewpoint, but antagonise Author Y until they grow defensive not only about the point you’re arguing, but everything else.
You need to decide. Sometimes, that’ll mean making the call that, no matter how right you might be, the author is not going to concede.
So instead of continuing to argue, let it go and move on.
1. It takes a strong editor to admit they’re wrong.
Everybody is fallible. Editors are no exception. Sometimes, you might get it wrong. You might misread a scene – and not because the scene itself isn’t clear, but because you misinterpreted it. Or you might suggest something that doesn’t work. Either way, there’s no reason to bluster ahead. Or to rationalise why you got it wrong. Concede the mistake. It’s okay.
Most authors (and I write most, because I’m sure that there’ll be authors out there who take the mistake as a sign of ineptitude) will appreciate their editor’s honesty and humility.
But a strong editor will acknowledge any errors of their own.
As you can see, these rules should apply regardless of what and who you’re editing. They’re all about preserving the author’s intent and helping the author get to the destination they’ve chosen.
[untitled] is back!
August 23, 2018
Hey, writers, Klurisa here, the new chief editor of [untitled], letting you know [untitled] is back! (Whoah! – the crowd goes wild).
Oh! I love a great short story. Don’t you? Some of my favourite reads are short stories. And, honestly, I’m not swayed by genre. I love all sorts, from horror to romance, sci-fi to fantasy, contemporary to historical. As long as I’m transformed into the character’s time and place.
I want to know if you’ve written any memorable short stories? Really? (My eyes widen.) Are they published? No? Great! I bet they’re good – are they good? (I ask rubbing my hands together.)
Because …
[untitled] submissions are open from 3 September – 31 October 2018.
[untitled] is a short story anthology series. It’s all about fantastic stories you can lose yourself in – ones that stay with you long after you’ve put them down. And it’s my mission over the next few months to help find those stories from Australian writers in any genre and share them in [untitled] Issue 8.
So if you want to be a part of it get crackin’.
But wait! Before you send in your short story, take a look at these tips:
- Short stories are not a place to meander – so don’t take too long to warm up, but don’t rush it either.
- A captivating start is a must – it doesn’t need to be full of action, but it does need to grab (and hold) the reader’s attention.
- Don’t ignore setting and description. Take the time to create a sense of place and time – just don’t overdo it.
- Flesh out your characters enough to make them interesting. We will only be with them for a short while.
- Make sure you story has a beginning, middle and end – even though it’s short, it still needs to be a complete story. It shouldn’t be the first part of your novel.
- Be yourself. Use your own voice to tell us the story only YOU can tell.
- Read and follow the submission guidelines (very important). Word count will be checked.
- And, of course, ensure you edit and proofread before submitting.
Check out our submission page here and our previous issues here!
We look forward to reading your submissions!
Klurisa Hastings
Chief Editor
[untitled]
Only Just the Beginning
August 9, 2018
Writing a novel is a journey, not only for the characters and the world you create, but also for yourself. That’s what I find anyway, especially when writing fantasy.
Currently, I’m on my thirteenth chapter, and aim to have my book finished by the end of the year. It’ll be my first big written project and to finish it would elevate my confidence levels immensely. Usually, and especially if I am passionate about a goal and I voice it enough to myself and others, I complete it. That is what is so exciting. Every moment I sit at my computer and write, traveling the roads I’ve paved out for my characters, the prospect of the end becomes all the more real to me and I become exhilarated to continue.
I find it interesting when certain situations land you opportunities you had no idea were possible, especially if starting from the beginning means not knowing which road to take. Graduating from high school, I scored enough to land myself into a Bachelor of Creative Arts (Film & Television) course at JMC Academy. This lasted for two years and I must say, aside from my Year 12 exams, they were certainly the most stressful two years of my life. Although enjoyable, I never felt at home unless I was writing and it was in the last year and nearing graduation that it finally occurred to me in screenwriting class that I had to do something in writing! I’d always had the imagination and stories would often play out in my head as I went to sleep. I never wrote them down, so I can guarantee that there are a number of lost stories floating endlessly through my brain.
I’m someone who lost myself twice – count three times if I include the years at high school where I felt academically I wasn’t as good as everybody else because often tasks weren’t set to my strengths.
After the first time, and as I recovered, there was a peak of Alison surfacing, and so when she disappeared again, I knew exactly what was happening. When the chance came, I dragged myself away from the horrible environment that had been the year of my graduation. Between grieving a loved relationship, losing my grandfather and being treated horribly by people whom I thought friends, I was a mess.
The more I treated myself with things I wanted to do – and I started writing my novel – I realised that, once again, I was surfacing and this time through experience and heartache, I was coming back much stronger and wiser than before. I started a four/five-day training regime at the gym, along with a mental health plan.
My journey didn’t stop there. I then signed myself up to two short writing courses in Gisborne. If the first class taught me anything it was that I was exactly where I was meant to be. I was going to write my story and I was going to finish it, no matter what. I was then speaking passionately to Adam – the bus driver who took me home from work that night – about just how much I loved writing and how I wished I would be supported in my change of career path at home. Through a connection he’d had with Kev, once working together and now knowing what he did, Adam suggested Busybird Publishing. I had to check it out.
So, my best friend and I travelled to Greensborough during that same week, and I was greeted by Les who was welcoming and taught me so much in just that single conversation.
I then landed the internship and am ever grateful for the opportunity for I know that I’m in the right place. Les, Blaise, Shell, Kev and Megan are all amazing people to be around and I feel that every Tuesday, Busybird is my safe place where I can just be myself.
I just love it.
Alison Achter
Editorial Intern
The Differences Between Writing Prose and Writing Screenplays
July 26, 2018
Lots of authors are interested in adapting their novels into screenplays. These authors usually fall into one of two categories:
- they have no idea how to do this
- they think they can just translate their prose into script format.
For writers who’ve never had no experience in writing screenplays, it’s better to be clueless than confident.
Books and films are completely different forms. Books often operate as cerebral entities – being inside a character’s head; being privy to their thoughts; witnessing their emotional responses, decision-making, and how events affect them. Film and television are visual mediums. Short of using a narrative/voiceover (not highly regarded in screenwriting unless it’s done exceptionally), none of these book drivers work in screenplays. Information has to be communicated visually. Some of that is left up to the actor, and their ability to express and relate what they’re feeling. But a bigger portion is left to the screenwriter, and how they set up their scenes so this is communicated.
Here’s a scenario: a protagonist comes home to find their partner, and all their belongings, are gone.
In prose, how is this handled? The protagonist comes home to an empty house. They might initially believe that their partner is out, so they call to them but there’s no answer. The protagonist checks the bedroom, and finds their partner’s clothes and things are gone. Maybe a note of condemnation has been left on the protagonist’s pillow. The protagonist realises that their partner has left them. There might be some context now, relating as to why this has happened – all the possible reasons that frame the situation for the reader’s interpretation. The protagonist is saddened, then angry, and tries to call their partner. Nothing. They question themselves. As they take responsibility and ownership of the situation, they break down.
Now, how about in screenwriting? All the physical actions can be represented – calling to the partner, the note, the empty closets and drawers, and that sort of thing. But how is the internalisation handled? How does the screenplay get inside the protagonist’s head to explore why this might’ve happened? The protagonist can’t just think about how they’ve been inattentive, or a workaholic who’s sacrificed their relationship for their career, or whatever the context might be. So how is that gotten across? How is the sadness and anger portrayed? In prose, it can as simple as a sentence saying just that. In film, it has to be expressed visually, e.g. the protagonist begins to sob, then grows enraged and slams the door.
Another distinction is that books are, usually, the sole vision of the author. They see the story from inception to completion. Even an editor exists to try help the author get to their destination.
Screenplays are a collaborative process. At some point, other people will get on board – a director, producers, etc. They’ll have their own interpretation of what a screenplay needs. It’s actually not unusual for the screenwriter to be phased out of the process, and another screenwriter (or screenwriters) are brought in to carry the project forward. Some of these screenwriters might be specialists, e.g. a screenwriter who specialises in structure, or who specialises in dialogue, or a ‘script doctor’ who’s brought in to help with a troublesome script. Directors will also rewrite the script. A big-name actor might demand changes, or refer the screenplay onto their preferred screenwriter. Or a screenplay might be changed to suit a particular actor, e.g. Beverly Hills Cop was intended for Sylvester Stallone, but was made more jokey when Eddie Murphy was hired; Salt was intended for a male lead, but then rewritten for Angelina Jolie. Most Hollywood screenplays would’ve gone through numerous screenwriters (although regulations stipulate that only a certain amount of screenwriters can be credited).
Because of this, it’s best if details in a screenplays are sparse. A book might elaborately describe a character. A screenplay might just say they’re ‘thirty-something’. The reason for this is because each reader of a screenplay – and particularly a director – will envision the story in their own way. They don’t want to be told specifically how everything should look. In fact, these kind of details can disconnect them from the material, and decrease their chances of taking it on. When they do, they use the screenplay as a basis for their vision, or for the studio’s vision.
Ultimately, both forms of writing have to be handled differently – they require a fundamental shift in the way writers think they need to express their stories. A novel will, on average, be about 80,000 words (and sometimes bigger). A screenplay is about 25,000 words. In screenwriting, a page equals about a minute – it’ll vary from page to page (depending on if a page is heavy with dialogue, or with action) but, over the course, will even itself out. While writers still need to observe structure, screenwriting substantially gives them less space with which to play.
These are just a handful of the differences, but should offer enough of an insight to see how each form varies.