Glenda Larke

Back in the Dark Ages (I remember having a slate in what we called Standard 1)(yep, that long ago)
…in a little “country” school (it’s now an outer suburb of Perth, but then it was the back o’ beyond) (yep, that long ago)
…Grades 5 & 6 had a single teacher and shared a schoolroom and we kids shared twin desks which were nailed to the floor. Yep, that long ago.
The teacher was a madman from hell, whose idea was to terrorise everyone into learning. We started the day with something called “mental arithmetic”. He went around the class asking everyone in turn things like: if you paid tuppence for one apple, how much were 28 apples going to cost you in shillings and pence? (Yep, that long ago.)
Boys were sometimes caned for not being able to answer; girls were simple terrorised. (Yep, gender discrimination.)

I was not much good at mental arithmetic, but I was better than the friend I sat next to, so I used to make marks on the desk with a finger to tell her the answer. All this did have one good effect: I grew up not needing a calculator. I wouldn’t advocate the method for today’s kids – but sometimes I do wonder…

Today I bought 10 lightbulbs. I asked the shopgirl how much they were. She said, $1.80 each (Malaysian ringgit).

She then proceeded to use a calculator to tell her that 10 x 1.80 = $18.00.

I think, if anything, the only thing posts of mine on this subject are going to say of value is this: everyone has to select the way that best suits their own creative mind.

I obviously seem to hate to be squashed inside the rigid design of a chapter by chapter outline. My way is definitely not a method that I would advise for everyone. It could be disastrous.
So why does it work for me?

Think of writing the book like a bus ride.

Firstly, I always have a clear objective: I know exactly how the book is going to end. The terminus is there and I am heading towards it all the way. (Mid-journey, I have been known to change which door to the terminus I use, though, and change the ending to the book a bit.)

Secondly, although I may not know the roads the bus will take, I have vivid stops along the way clear in my mind and I do know the kinds of scenery there will be visible out of the windows. I know my world, although the details of the route may be indistinct when I get on to the bus.

Thirdly, I know the important people on the bus very well indeed.
Fourthly, I know what I want to talk about with those people, while I am on the bus. I know what are the most important elements of our conversations and the tales they will tell me – love, politics, betrayal, war, courage, ethics or action? – I know what I want to emphasize.

Because I have those important things clear in my mind, I don’t mind where the bus wanders as it goes along. I don’t count the stops it makes, or exactly what I see through the windows, or who climbs on or off – those things become clear as I travel. Sometimes I tell the driver where to go; other times it’s the other passengers that direct the journey. I am careful, though, about the plot dictating too much of the route. That’s the mark of an unskilled navigator.

Why is it a method that I enjoy? Because it allows me to improve the story as I write – to spot interesting things out of the window as I travel, to ask interesting questions of those characters on the bus. I’m not so caught up in the map of the trip and with the timetable that I can’t see opportunity when it shows up.

And, oh yes, because I love writing… but hate writing synopses and outlines – even outlines done just for myself.

I have a friend who has a brilliant idea for a sf novel. Yet he’s so involved in the planning, he has never got past the first chapter. If he used my method and wrote, damn it, he might have finished it by now.

I shall talk more about the process in future posts.

I wish there was a formula.
Do this, so that, and there you are.
But alas, there are as many different ways of writing as there are authors, and each author may not stick to the same method for each novel.

I would love to say that I’m ultra-organised – that I know exactly what I am going to write before I put fingers to the keys, that I have a chapter by chapter synopsis written, that I know how long each chapter will be, and indeed, how many chapters there will be..

There are authors that do it that way. I’m not one of them.

Here’s how it starts: I get an idea. I start mulling over it, usually while I am still writing the previous book. I think about it in the car, under the shower, while exercising or washing the dishes; any spare moment, in fact. I don’t write anything down at this stage.

Here’s how it worked for Heart of the Mirage. I read something about the Disappeared Ones in Argentina – the people who vanished during the Argentina military junta. And that connected with what I knew of the Lost Generation of Aboriginal Australians. And I started to wonder what it would have been like for the young children who were ‘disappeared’. How would they grow up? What sort of adults might they be?

So that’s the first idea. A single idea doesn’t make a book, though; only a short story. Gradually I add a whole lot of other ideas. And then gradually it starts to take form. I build a world and a story – in my mind – to put the ideas in. By the time I am ready to start writing, the basic book is there. I have the fantasy elements, I have a handful of main characters, I have the land, the beginning, the end and a couple of key scenes in between. I’ve jotted down a few key points.

Notice what’s not there: no minor characters, no minor sub-plots, no idea of how I get from the beginning to the next main scene. As I say, I am really disorganised. What I do have at this stage (which is at least a year from when I had the initial idea), is a detailed beginning. I know who is there and what they look like and how they feel. I know all about where they are, and why. I know their weaknesses, their motivations, the tensions between them. I know what they are going to be doing or talking about. I have a good idea of what the next major scene is, but very little idea of how I am going to get there.

That’s when I start writing.

It’s not a method that is going to work for most writers – it is far too unorganised. And yet it seems to work for me. As I begin writing, so much seems to immediately become clear. The characters are so real to me, that they seem to know what they are going to do, or say, all by themselves. They even surprise me sometimes.

It’s a method that has pitfalls. I often have to go back and rewrite bits in, or swap scenes around, or change something because I later realise that the plot needs its underpinnings tweaked before I proceed further. And it has a major advantage.

More about all that tomorrow.

Sunday again, so here’s the second “writing tips” blog.

Which or that?

The problem arises when either of these two words is used as a relative pronoun (if you really want to know the name).

{What’s a relative pronoun? Well, it’s a word that introduces a clause and refers to an antecedent. And if you don’t know what the heck that means, it really doesn’t matter, because the examples below make it clear what a relative pronoun is.}

All you have to do is remember one simple rule:

that defines what goes before
which doesn’t, it just gives you a bit more info about what went before.

Look at these 2 examples:

The river, which here is brackish and tidal, is of vital importance to shipping.
The rivers of the region that are tidal are of vital importance to shipping.

In the first sentence, the bit between the commas just gives you more info about the river. It doesn’t tell you which particular river. The writer is assuming you already know what river s/he is talking about.

In the second sentence, the words “that are tidal” actually tell you which rivers we are talking about: the tidal ones. The others are, by inference, not of importance to shipping.

Here are some more examples:

1. The team, which consisted of boys under sixteen, won handsomely.
(Which team won? The one that I was talking about!)
2. The team that consisted of boys under sixteen won handsomely.
(Which team won? The {only} one that consisted of boys under 16!)

3. The team that I bet on won handsomely.
(Which team won? The {only} one that I bet on!)
4. The team, which I bet on, won handsomely.
(Which team won? The one that I was talking about!)

The above 2 sets of sentences are all grammatically correct, but the sentences in each set don’t mean the same thing.

In sentence 1, you already know which team I am talking about. Then I give you more info – they are under-16 boys.
In sentence 2, you don’t know what team I am taking about , so I have to tell you: it’s the one with the under-16 boys.

In sentence 3, I am defining the team – it was the one I bet on.
In sentence 4, you already know what team – but I am giving you more info.

Note the commas in the which sentences, and the lack of them in the that sentences. Why? Because in sentences 2 & 3, the subject of the verb is the whole shebang.…(The team that I bet on…)and you can’t divide it up with commas and cut it off from its verb. Don’t try.

Look at this sentence:

There will be a split in the Labour Party over this war, comparable to the split in the Liberal Party that occurred on the question of taxation, which everyone seems to have forgotten.

More complex, but the same principles still apply.

In this case, “that occurred on the question of taxation” defines the split in the Liberal Party.
“which everyone seems to have forgotten” is just extra info about the split in the Liberal Party.

Note that the sentence could be organised a different way:

There will be a split in the Labour Party over this war, comparable to the split in the Liberal Party, which everyone seems to have forgotten, that occurred on the question of taxation.

I wouldn’t advise this rewording. The “that” clause is separated out from the words that it defines, which is never a good idea if you can avoid it!

Easy, huh?