A big complaint I’m seeing in the reviews for a lot of books is that the dialogue seems unrealistic (for any number of reasons) and therefore takes away from the pleasure of reading the story.
I remember having this same thought years ago when I actually had the time to consume mass market paperbacks by the pound. These were bestselling novels from popular authors, but it sounded like all the characters had been swapped for robots. I guess if they can get away with it, there’s no reason to complain. Just keep on truckin’ and don’t stop to improve your dialogue, right?
Just because a bestselling book has crap dialogue doesn’t mean we should be okay with it in our own writing.
Humor is subjective. Except yours. You pushed yours off a tall building, scraped what was left off the street, and shoved it through the ethernet port of your computer. The small amount that leaked into your post was put-offingly lumpy and left a bad odor in my basement efficiency.
2. I failed math in school.
Sequential numbers trigger my rage. We’re already on number two and I can barely see my screen because of, as I said, the rage.
3. You lose steam halfway through.
It’s like you only had one golden idea for the list and had to scramble for the rest. After number 5-ish, if I start to remember how much I hate myself, you failed as a writer.
4. It has the wrong number of things.
You should have done more, or less. You should have done ANYTHING else except what you did.
5. It’s vague.
We’re all just making sh*t up here, but still…just…whatever.
6. It’s written from the point of view of a snarky household object.
Seriously, I can’t believe these are still a thing. Who cares about lamps? Couches are WAY more interesting. Can’t land the couch interview? Go second string and hit up the bedroom mirror. You could write a whole book with the horrors that poor bastard’s witnessed.
7. I already feel bad about myself.
I don’t need anyone else telling me how much better I could be doing by making an easy-to-do bulleted list. Good job distilling the essence of everyday struggles into an actionable list that will make my life not suck. I prefer my cultivated misery, Helpie Helperton, but you wrote a GREAT headline that I just HAD to click on.
8. I didn’t think of your idea first.
Every time I have a great listicle idea (5 Ways to Not Die on the Subway, 108 Things to do When You Live in an Abandoned Sawmill), some asshole did it first. You’d think there were no more original ideas.
9. Non-linear narratives are better.
Ask Tarantino and Nolan. Why go the boring route with 1, 2, 3? Why not start at 7, then LEAP BACK to 1, then delete the rest? It would be SO much more exciting.
They say to write what you know, but if I wrote what I knew, I would never have learned about two awesome little creatures called the tardigrade and the Pompeii worm.
These two little guys are extremophiles, which means they have unusually high tolerances for temperature. In the case of the tardigrade, it can survive just about anything you throw at it, including a decade of dehydration, freezing to one degree above absolute zero, and the vacuum of space. Oh, and they can also survive direct, unfiltered radiation from the sun, a radiation that would cook a human alive. So, they’re kind of tough, you know?
Ray Bradbury dictated this short essay to his official biographer, Sam Weller, who confirms it is the last thing the science fiction author wrote. It is entitled “The Book and The Butterfly”, and it is about Bradbury’s great love of books and his discovery of the worlds they opened.
Here is the first part:
“When I was seven years old, I started going to the library and I took out ten books a week. The librarian looked at me and asked, “What are you doing?”
I said, “What do you mean?”
And she said, “You can’t possibly read all of those before they are due back.”
I said, “Yes, I can.”
And I came back the next week for ten more books.
In doing so, I told that librarian, politely, to get out of my way and let me happen. That’s what books do. They are the building blocks, the DNA, if you will, of you.
Think of everything you have ever read, everything you have ever learned from holding a book in your hands and how that knowledge shaped you and made you who you are today.
Looking back now on all those years, to when I first discovered books at the library, I see that I was simply falling in love. Day, after day, after glorious day, I was falling in love with books.”
The rest can be found here, and it’s definitely worth a read.
I would like to believe that one of my favorite characters of all time (from one of my favorite books of all time) remained in the exact state as he was depicted throughout the novel. His was a rebellion of a young person well past the Peter and the Lost Boys stage of life and entering the realm where things are ordered to start making sense.
It’s clear from the outset that Holden has no interest in the world around him. Some call him a sociopath because of it but I think his personality is defined by the extreme version of one aspect that all people on the cusp of adulthood experience: lack of place.
“There is only one plot — nothing is what it seems.”
Yet I’ll go one further and say there’s only one genre: mystery.
I’m not referring to Miss Marple or Sherlock Holmes — not to the established Mystery institution unto itself (with a big fat capital M). I’m referring to the most basic form of mystery: a question that needs to be answered; a problem that needs to be solved.
Mystery is the one thread woven into the fabric of every story.
The good ones, anyway. However the plots and styles and mundanities may vary, an element of mystery is always present. It drives discovery and exploration in all realms of life, so why not in writing?
Three years of traveling the world with my wife, a few months of that with my son in tow, and I really didn’t write much about it. Even if it was only for myself, I should have been jotting some of it down.
The truth is I was mostly dormant the whole time. I managed to get one book published, and to write a couple of short stories.
But on the whole, I was focused on the experience.
I saw wonderful things and met amazing people. At different times (and sometimes all at once) I was stressed, broke, depressed, lost, angry, elated, and filled with unrivaled awe.
I hope to write some of those stories down before I forget them forever. That means the timeline of my blog posts won’t make any kind of real sense. For example, right now I’m in Munich, but I just posted about a hike on the Pacific Crest Trail in California. Tomorrow I may write about a village in the mountains of Vietnam. Or about my favorite movies. Or maybe I’ll chuck a writing tip out there and see if anyone picks it up.
It’s a fractured diary, I suppose. Or a schizophrenic chronicle, if bigger words are preferred.
Either of those on my hands at the end of the day means I’ve earned it.
Earned my sleep. Earned the right to call myself a man. It sounds like macho posturing. I guess everything needs a label. So be it.
The feeling is primal and deep, pure and unfiltered.
It is not an emotion I gleaned from reality television or the newest lifestyle magazine. It cuts through the everyday bullshit and reminds me that I did something today. Something real. Something that will leave a scar.
I’ve worked in offices. I’ve made phone calls and balanced spreadsheets.
But I’ve also ripped tree stumps out of the ground with my bare hands.
I’ve helped carry the bloated carcass of a twelve foot alligator, the scales sloughing off in my hands with each step.