with occasional very intelligent observations about what constitutes good fiction writing
935400
More a spoof than a novel, with occasional very intelligent observations about what constitutes good fiction writing.
2882872
There's an anti-intellectualism abounding that troubles me. Some of the critiques of this collection of essays smack of that kind of think-set that wants ideas to come in crunchberry sized tasty bites, maybe spoon fed and with cute cartoon characters espousing them. But the positive critiques all seem to rave about how delightfully cool and lofty Robinson's prose is. I think the reality lay in the between of those extremes.

This is a hefty little book; it is a collection of conceptual essays that a brilliant and acknowledged genius has crafted. These are HER views and they are substantiated by her own understanding and research and background knowledge. She's also religious and a defender of her faith and her brand of her brand of that faith.
4077880
This kindlebook of Writing Genre Fiction: Creating Imaginary Worlds: The 12 Rules by Charles Christian caught my attention because of my intent to use the element of world building in my storytelling. Charles Christian touches on areas such as historical elements when writing stories and he cites the 1982 movie Blade Runner. Christian also mentions about writing what you know such as if you're writing a western andor steampunk. Although I admit to respectfully disagreeing with just what you know and I have my ideas on some of the resources I intend to turn to for world building. Still this is a worthwhile kindlebook purchase especially because he explains in rule 12 why it is also fine to be open to breaking the rules (which I admit resonates with me because Im sometimes my happiest when I metaphorically color outside the lines, i.e. bending the rules in a harm-free manner from time to time especially as it pertains to my storytelling regardless of whether Im met with praise or objection).
4973479
This is part of the Write Great Fiction series from Writer's Digest. Each book in the series covers one broad aspect of writing fiction, and of course there is some overlap as well.

I liked this book a lot, and learned a good deal from it. Bell recognizes that different stories and different writers need to approach plotting in different ways, so this is not a cookie-cutter approach to plot construction. Earlier on, we are introduced to the difference between literary fiction and commercial fiction, which Bell elucidates particularly well. The book includes a lot of diagrams to clarify things like rising intensity, crisis points, setbacks, and so on.

Bell's mnemonic for basic plotting is LOCK (lead, objective, confrontation, knockout). After introducing that framework, he goes on to talk about what makes a good beginning, middle, and end. Although most of the examples come from novels, the basic ideas apply to short fiction with little adaptation.

There is a good discussion of the three-act structure (and how it relates to other structures, such as the hero's journey). The chapter on scene writing is solid - he describes action and reaction as the major chords in fiction, and setup and deepening as minor chords. This is a good way to stay focused on what a scene needs to do, without getting pulled into excessive exposition.

There is a lot of good advice in dealing with complex plots and common plot problems, and a review of common plot patterns and what each entails. The interaction between plot and character development is approached from several different angles.

When it comes to outlining, Bell recognizes that some writers are drawn to outlining and others avoid it; he offers tips for people in both camps, without trying to impose his own method on his readers.

This book has exercises at the end of each chapter, which I did not do much with. Mostly, they are just questions to ask about books you have read or about your own work in progress.

While I don't necessarily think every writer needs to own each book in this series, getting one or two of them (on subjects that you find particularly interesting or challenging) is probably a worthwhile investment. I can recommend this book as a solid resource for dealing with plot and structure in fiction writing.
2298544
Descriptive powers of author outstanding, interwoven with strong context, little to criticise really
3066710
This is an entertaining and gratifying read.  It began as a long magazine article and then became a book with two added sections (the response to the book [and his response to the responders] and [tongue in cheek] rules for those who would be serious writers).

The argument is simple: many putatively serious and award-winning writers today write prose that is pretentious, lugubrious and, largely, unreadable.  For this they are amply rewarded by reviewers who claim to like this stuff.  The author offers a number of examples of turgid prose (often the sections of novels which have received particular praise); he also offers counter examples from accomplished writers of the past.

The writers singled out for this particular rogues gallery are Annie Proulx, Paul Auster, David Guterson, Cormac McCarthy, and Don DeLillo.  (I would be interested to see Myers take on Thomas Pynchon, a truly serious contemporary writer.)

The implicit issues here are very interesting.  For example, Myers notes that many crisp, clear and engaging writers are eliminated from serious consideration and labeled genre writers, even though many of the pseudo-serious writers (Guterson, e.g.) are leveraging genre elements.  One thought here: almost all great stories are, to some degree, mystery stories, from Oedipus The King to The Great Gatsby.  It is also true that the greatest inheritor of the Hemingway mantle in our times has been Elmore Leonard.  There are also a number of stunning literary mystery writers working today: James Ellroy, James Lee Burke, and William Kent Krueger, to name but a few.  They all transcend genre.

A second issue is the puritanism of both American culture and American writing/criticism (which Myers discusses).  We are still suspicious of humor and comedy, even though they serve important purposes and are very hard to do.  The books shortlisted for awards are unfailingly serious stories, which, in our time, often means political and, usually, politically correct.  They are also often anchored in identity politics, a notion which has trouble standing up to the analysis of geneticists and epistemologists but is a required element for many reviewers.

Finally, there is the fact that literary writing and literary criticism exist today within a league of the self-appointed cognoscenti.  The more ponderous and opaque the writing, the more the field of adept readers is narrowed and the greater the glow issuing from the halos of the anointed.  This war has now largely been lost among the literary critics (mercifully) as the influence of the French Nietzscheans wanes and English teachers realize that much of the recondite prose which characterized high Theory concealed an ultimate obviousness (Wittgenstein had been there first) and an attempt to attract acclaim by other means than trenchant thought, hard facts and common sense.

Myers does not draw many connections between serious fiction and serious theoretical criticism, but the parallels and analogies are clear.  Serious reviewers often assert their claims to authority by exhibiting an ability to luxuriate in the unreadable and use that skill to differentiate themselves from the common reader who seeks the lucidity of truly great writers like (a key Myers example) Joseph Conrad, whose first language was, of course, Polish.
4581787
Paul Auster is a blatantly theoretical novelist.  He dissects and deconstructs literary genres and trends with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker.  But some accuse him of abandoning the delight of a story for a view from the ivory tower.  I tend to disagree, for the most part, but offer up "Leviathan" as an example of an Auster book that's both a page-turner and a think-piece.
For po-mo lit-lovers, Auster is in fine form.  His modus operandi of casting himself as the literary quasi-detective is in full effect here.  Narrator Peter Aaron (check those initials) is married to lovely Iris (Auster is married to novelist *Siri* Hustvedt).  He is a writer by trade.  "My books are published... people read them, and I don't have any idea who they are... as long as they have my book in their hands, my words are the only reality that exists for them," he says, defensively.
The book he is currently writing -- and the book "you" are currently holding -- is an examination of his recently deceased friend, Benjamin Sachs ("Six days ago, a man blew himself up by the side of the road in Northern Wisconsin," reads the novel's enticing opening line).  Sachs has enough vaguely roguish qualities to make "Leviathan" a fascinating picaresque.  But he's also an idealist, and fiercely intelligent.  He's a writer manque, whose first novel blew the critics away but was a failure with readers.  Sachs is a character who exists mostly in absentia, periodically jumping back into Aaron's life to offer up enough details to tantalize his friend, and keep the reader off-balance.  "Even though Sachs confided a great deal to me over the years of our friendship," Aaron says.  "I don't claim to have more than a partial understanding of who he was.  I can't dismiss the possibility that... the truth is quite different from what I imagine it to be."  This is Auster playing with the concept of the unreliable narrator, only here the narrator is aware that he's unreliable.  An interesting concept, that.
But "Leviathan" is not just conceptual.  It's loaded with intriguing personalities, and a lot of implicit suspense.  And Auster's habit of digressing from the story to discuss an interesting tangent yields at least one fascinating sequence.  Sachs' novel, entitled "The New Colossus", is summarized by Aaron.  Auster spares no expense, creating an appealing advertisement for a historical page-turner that doesn't exist.  But within that summary he also explicates some of his own novel's grander themes.
The main one, and it's all over the place here, is America as a place of infinite possibilities for freedom but a failure in terms of realizing those possibilities.  "America has lost its way," Aaron writes, when talking about the message of Sachs' book.  "Thoreau was the one man who could read the compass for us, and now that he is gone, we have no hope of finding ourselves again."  Further examination reveals that the Statue of Liberty, as an icon or just a concept, is "Leviathan's" dominant motif.  It appears in Sachs' book and in a poignant memory from his childhood.  The occasion of her hundredth birthday forms the background for the novel's great turning point.  And if not for the Lady's presence, the climax of the book would be hokey and overwrought.  As it is, she lends it dignity and class, amplifying its intensity and greatness.
Using spare but consequential prose, Auster has written another novel that straddles the line between pulp and intricate fiction.  It never panders to the unintellectual audience, but also never dumbs itself down.  And it reaches that fine balance with seemingly relative ease, a trademark of Auster's other works.  Try this one first before jumping to "The New York Trilogy" or "The Music of Chance".  I dare say you won't be disappointed.
2741826
An interesting mix of award-winning writing.
3218743
At my writing group a couple of months ago, my friend Nadine launched into a list of all the things going on in her life that keep her from writing: full-time work, single-parenting, a new-ish relationship, a long commute, and the fact that all these things leave her exhausted and without a moment to spare. And besides,  writing fiction can seem so frivolous when there is all that real life stuff which needs doing!

Discussion ensued, during which I made an impassioned defense of taking time for the writing craft - stories are a profound shaper of the world we live in, and at their best are the engine which moves us forward to a new perspective, attitude, or even social organization. In fact, I argued, almost everything our current civilization is based on is a story, told repeatedly, until it is "truth". (Example: Tell me how it is that banks can lend more money than they have in reserve. The fact that there is no rational answer for that gives us a pretty strong clue that the economy as we know it is basically a fiction, tied to nothing except believe in the story we have concocted for it). Ergo, time for writing is not frivilous - it is some of the most important work we can do.

Turns out, according to a new book by Jonathan Gottschall, I might actually have been right about all of that - or at least some of it (he has nothing to say about the economy being a fiction). Just released this month, The Storytelling Animal: How stories make us human, is some inspiration reading for any writer (or fiction-creator in any media) who is asking the question why. Because as Gottschall will tell you, storytelling is one of our most fundamental and profound acts, and strikingly, it's what makes us uniquely human.

Now, Gottschall isn't making a deep or especially scientific case for any of this. He is an English professor, and it shows in his lack of hard science referencing, and abundant use of literary references. But what he does give us are examples from a variety of sources and studies that show the prevalence and power of fiction in the human experience. Conspiracy theories, religious stories, myths, the fantasy play of children, dreams, film and the modern-day novel are all examined as shapers of social mores and conscience, as a way of working out deep-seated anxiety, and as a way of ensuring social cohesion.

Along the way, Gottschall throws in some interesting factoids about the increased empathy of fiction-readers, the actual correlation between creativity and mental illness (actually much higher than you might want to believe), and the prevalance of conspiracy-theory believers in society. All fascinating - but what I appreciated most about the book is Gottschall's use of story in what is otherwise a non-fiction work. Besides just giving description about his own inspirations and family observations, he plays a couple of tricks with brief fiction exerpts which are meant to reveal the power and depth of stories to you (and me), the reader.

Gottschall winds up making the case that across culture, time and technology, the fundamentals of fiction stay the same - that as much as we evolve socially, we are still bound within the same anxieties and fears which are the primary driver of story - and to that end, we are in no danger of losing storytelling from our society. To the contrary, the increasing access to on-demand fiction may propose the opposite - that we risk becoming a society increasingly lost in the fictions we create.

An engaging read, Gottschall joins scientific research and the humanities together in an easy style - so thumbs up.
2481084
...is that they're all rule-based and formulaic. Their value is not in how to write a good story but in analyzing how certain good stories were written. I don't think you can win by following the formula, but you can learn to recognize why the formulas work if you analyze enough of them.
4634972
One of the essays in this book got the author's honorary membership of the American SF Association revoked. Or rather, some of it did, in a way. "Science Fiction - A Hopeless Case with Exceptions" was published in the US in a mutilated "translation" under the tactful title "A Scientist's Choice of the World's Worst Writing", and Lem was unceremoniously booted out of the organisation. The essay in question is in fact a harsh, but in its essentials accurate, dissection of the deplorable state of science fiction and science fiction criticism as compared with the rest of literature, and deserves serious attention. (The exception discussed, by the way, is the work of Philip K Dick, and a detailed review of Dick's Ubik, justifying its claim to be taken as serious fiction, also appears in Microworlds.) There is also a fine review of the Strugatsky brothers' extraordinary novella Roadside Picnic, which was the basis for Andrei Tarkovsky's equally extraordinary though somewhat different film Stalker; an interesting essay on Jorge Luis Borges, noting the unique qualities and the limitations apparent in his stories; and, perhaps most valuably, a couple of long essays on what science fiction could be if it could only kick its maleficient Star Wars-style good-guy/bad-guy simplemindedness. Lem is precise, logical, detailed, cantankerous and fascinating. The world's greatest writer of grown-up science fiction and fantasy is once again pointing the way for the rest of us.
1587911
I recently re-read this classic book on writing fiction, and found it as relevant today as it was when it was first published.  Because Gardner strives for "higher art", his musings and instructions for the beginner go much deeper than ordinary how-to books.  His lengthy chapter titled "Interest and Truth" gets to the heart of what fiction needs to be, whether one is writing literary fiction or a crime novel.  His "Common Errors" chapter, although relatively short and sounding as basic as one can get, offers some of the best advice on how to improve one's writing, from suggestions to creating dynamic sentences to how to imbue narrative with emotion.  "Technique" covers topics such as paying attention to rhythm and word choice and building narrative suspense.  Although I yawned during the chapter on plot - Gardner's diagrams and attempts at describing structure were too mechanical for my tastes, I'm sure some readers will read it voraciously.  Likewise, his thorough compilation of writing exercises will have some reaching eagerly for their keyboards.  I found that the sections that had interested me on my first reading years ago were not the same ones that intrigued me this time, suggesting that this book can grow with the writer.
The biggest flaw in this book, and one which might drive some readers away, is Gardner's personal biases.  His intense interest in myth and classics drove his fiction, and it weighs heavily in the examples he provides. Also, he favors examples from his contemporaries - Barthleme, Coover, Barth - who might not interest younger writers who read a different set of cutting edge authors.  Still, you need not be familiar with Gardner's examples to understand his points, as he himself makes few assumptions about the reader/student.
Even professional writers can benefit from Gardner's reminders since a revisiting of ideas can only sharpen one's fiction.  Aspiring writers will leave these pages with an eagerness to attack their own work and with a set of wise guidelines to help them achieve their best work.
403732
if it was a story worth telling, I would recommend a good editor at the very least
3773171
First let's talk about what's good about "Left Neglected." If you're a Gen-X super-mom and professional with an advanced degree from Harvard married to someone with an advanced degree from Harvard, you will have no trouble identifying with the protagonist, Sarah Nickerson. For the rest of us, this character is skillfully presented with enough realism to be someone we can believe might exist.  Additionally it's a very interesting account of what one might experience with left neglect aka, hemispatial neglect. Novels like this one based on trauma-induced neurological disorders are a deservedly popular genre.&nbsp;<a data-hook="product-link-linked" class="a-link-normal" href="/The-Echo-Maker/dp/B003R4ZIRG/ref=cm_cr_arp_d_rvw_txt?ie=UTF8">The Echo Maker</a>&nbsp;comes to mind as an exemplar. Ms Genova's book is well written but a lesser foray into this mysteriously interesting category . She demonstrates her writing prowess in the development of her characters and her ability to create a cogent narrative while economically moving the story along.
Here are the reasons I rated this book three stars instead of five. There are alternating reality and dream sequences that appear in the first part of the novel, probably there as part of the scene setting and character development processes. These dream sequences seem confusing, contrived, and unnecessary. The book feels a bit like writing by the numbers at times with bits cleverness liberally sprinkled about. Sarah's struggles to rehabilitate and to accept her new life become and expanded version of "The Little Engine That Could." These flaws precede her introduction of too many allegorical morality subplots and a concluding paranormal scene that decidedly jumps the shark.
Recommended: No
447578
Having taken a number of fiction-writing classes, I thought that the most valuable part of this book was that it discusses the ways in which writing a good fantasy novel or sci-fi novel is not the same as writing non-genre fiction.  Past workshops have given me plenty of information on character-building and similar standard elements of fiction, but it was really helpful to have someone articulate the special concerns needing attention in the realm of fantasy.
701602
In his new anthology of critical essays, Steve Aylett presents readers with a diverse set of perspectives on both Jeff Lint's writing and the place of science fiction in American literature.  Dealing in depth with several short stories, the essays chosen for inclusion in And Your Point Is? Scorn and Meaning in Jeff Lint's Fiction often emphasize the ways Lint's work questions traditional approaches to constructing a narrative and redefines the relationship between the writer and his or her audience.  Offering insightful readings of this author's complex body of work, these essays never attempt to reduce Lint's stories to a single definitive message but instead provide varied and thoughtful possibilities for interpretation.

In addition to a well-rounded and highly qualified list of contributors, Steve Aylett has done a great job of choosing critical essays that analyze not only Lint's fiction but also its relationship to other works, both traditional and experimental.  Characteristic of the literary criticism in And Your Point Is?, Aylett's own piece "`Rise of the Swans':  Doing Bird With Jeff Lint" presents a fascinating analysis of the ways Lint anticipates and manipulates the reader's expectations of a short story.  For example, Aylett writes about a short story in which a group of intelligent swans descends upon a city:  "Man and swan seem in agreement on attempting to make life a bit more bearable rather than fussing about whether humanity represents the pinnacle of creation...Critics have complained that Lint's stories lack conflict - they do, in fact, conflict with every story written by everyone else" (61).  Aylett observes that by toying with the reader's expectation that stories contain a conflict and resolution, Lint makes a larger statement about crafting a short story, challenging the assumption that stories follow a predetermined blueprint.  Many essays in the anthology, such as "The Retrial" and "Redemption and Ordeal in Jeff Lint's `Broadway Creamatoria'" also examine the ways that Lint, in being aware of literary conventions and manipulating them, brings these same tropes under scrutiny.  Reading his work as an attempt to initiate a dialogue about what constitutes a work of literary fiction, these essays are both insightful and comprehensive, consistently examining Lint's work as well as its place in a larger literary context.

Also notable is Daniel Guyal's "Give, Take, and Take:  An examination of Jeff Lint's `The Crystalline Associate,'" which, like other essays in the collection, examines the infinite possible readings of one of Lint's stories and what this ambiguity adds to the text.  For example, Guyal writes:  "Did he regard bears as overmind puppeteers, clinical observers?  A fertile area of theory is the fact that there are eleven bears, the bare eleven being two figure ones, implying that both main characters are similar pillars of salt?  Or a hint that the story's reasoning is so garbled that it would read the same if it were upside down?  Or are they the eleven faithful apostles, the agent a Judas, and Mary...Mary?"  Arguing that the story is not only rife with potential readings, but that these possibilities present both trivial and disconcerting messages from which the reader can choose, Guyal's essay shows how the reader can plot his or her own course while reading Lint's work.  Several other essays in And Your Point Is?, such as Chris Diana's "The Lintian Waiter in `Tectonic'" and Steve Aylett's "Jeff Lint's `Snail Camp'" and  deal in depth with this theme from different angles, weighing the strengths and weaknesses of this aspect of Lint's fiction with an impressive clarity and linguistic economy.

And Your Point Is? takes readers on an enjoyable, informative tour of Jeff Lint's shorter writings, offering diverse perspectives on a selection of challenging texts.  Aylett's book is a great resource for Lint enthusiasts, as well as a fabulous introduction to this writer's complex body of work.  Highly recommended.
4310177
I need to note here first that I got an advance reading copy of this book before the full version showed up in the mail, so I was only able to read three of the stories before writing this review. Such is the weight on the shoulders of those with good fortune. I should also note that this book is a compilation of short stories from promising new writers with NO AFFILIATION, expressed or implied, with Scientology or any associated entity. It is simply a collection of stories from good writers, and should be judged on its merit as such, and not on the portion of the proceeds from its sale which may or may not pay for John Travolta's haircuts.

Here's my take on the three stories I read:

1) The God Whisperer by Daniel J. Davis. This is a very fun and engaging look into the life of the owner of a very temperamental pet (get the play on words in the title?) and the narrative is as concise as the dialogue is believable. Very well done, and as the former owner of a dog whose attitude towards expensive furniture was, as the Dude said of Jackie Treehorn, that he treated objects like women, I can relate. To the editor, I would say that a second glance at punctuation marks would do you well, but then I am somewhat obsessive and working on it.

2) The Graver by Amy. M. Hughes. This felt like a good idea that was delivered improperly (hence four start rather than five here). While the premise was interesting on principle, the story was far longer than it should have been, and it seemed to be so simply to set up "twists" by putting distance in the form of printed characters between the setup and the reveal. I think this tale would do better either as a novel in which the characters could develop more in the space designed to set up the twists or as a shorter story. Still, a good concept with promise for revision.

3) Wisteria Melancholy by Michael T. Banker. I felt like this was, to me, the inverse of The Graver, in that it was a great premise with too little flesh - I learned enough about the characters to be genuinely interested and saw the plot develop too minimally to be truly engaged. I would love to see the author develop this into a longer story or a series of stories. This read more like a synopsis than a detailed sequence of events, and clearly there is room to grow here.