Free Writing Advice and Worth Every Penny

I've got a young-adult novel in the works and I really ought to be revising it right now, but must rise to protest the profusion of people out there who purport to offer writing advice that's just a formula for writing that's formulaic. Yes, all writers should learn about the elements that making writing work. Yes, we should be able to analyze our own and others' work, to see precisely where problems have arisen or improvements could be made. (And by the way, the passive voice is a perfectly useful tool. Saying "Never use passive voice" is like saying "Always yell.")

That said, I'd like to go on to say that I'm getting sick of how every lousy hack writer out there has a to-do list for every other writer. I was on a blog the other day that was the epitome of this. I won't link to it because I care about people's feelings and my own would be rather hurt if the guy in question sued me. But as far as I can tell, this guy does nothing but read other people's how-to books about writing and then carefully make lists of their advice. He advises us to keep in mind a laundry list of usual suspects: the ubiquitous "selection of details" makes an appearance, as does the (wait for it) "active vs. passive voice." The use of passive voice isn't wrong, this guy says, but he doesn't say when it might be right. Well, here's a hint, Sherlock: Passive voice is pretty damned useful when you want to put the object of the action in the strong position at the beginning of the sentence because you want the object to be the focus of the reader's attention.

Another writing guru is quoted:
 

“Similes and metaphors are like hand grenades—they are two of the oldest and most used descriptive techniques.  They’re powerful, but you must use them carefully to avoid clichés, mixed metaphors, and figures of speech that just don’t work.  Otherwise, they’ll blow up in the wrong place—your novel.”

I'm not sure where to begin here. Guru Boy wanted to say that similes and metaphors are powerful, although what he really meant was effective, so he starts to think: Hmm—what's powerful? I've got it! Hand grenades! The guy never stopped to consider that this wasn't really very apt because hand grenades stand for imprecision if they stand for anything. He then cautions against clichés. All these guys are death on clichés, including our blogger, who I should have mentioned describes himself as an "author of action-packed teen novels."

OK—clichés bad, got it. We're also warned here against mixed metaphors and "figures of speech that just don't work." Let's review that, class, OK? Avoid figures of speech that just don't work. Got that too? Everyone diligently writing that in their notebooks? Excellent. Let us proceed.

Guru Boy finishes strong here—plowing forward with his simile, he likens the bad effects of badly used S&M (to abbreviate) to the badness of a grenade blowing up in the wrong place. Which is bad! And where will this figurative explosion happen? Please, God, let it be somewhere else but my novel! Please, not that! But no—that's just where it happens! Damn! Bummer! I wish I'd read this guy's book sooner!

(I'll stop soon, by the way.)

Anyway, there are actually two problems here. One is that many of these writing coach people—by no means all, but many—read everyone else's books and regurgitate their trite advice when they themselves do not care enough about language to follow the very rules they shout so loudly from the pulpit.

The other is that if you only focus on their recipes, you end up with a paint-by-numbers approach to writing. So by all means, focus on your craft. Learn those elements. Understand what the tools can and can't do well. But don't take it all too categorically. Passive voice can work sometimes. It's OK to use a modifier now and then. It's even OK to break a rule if that's what gets the job done.

Absorb all that stuff, let it seep in, and then find some materials to work with. Imagine stories, or find stories to rework and make your own. (That's what Shakespeare did, and James Joyce.) Take a walk. Notice things. Stop and look. If you get an impression from a tree or a child or the dust on the pipes in your basement, ask yourself why you got that impression. What words capture the feeling it gave you?

Then keep doing that. In a year, or two, or five—it's taken me a lifetime, and I'm still working at it—you may notice that the search for vivid details we're all exhorted to undertake has attained fruition. You may, and I hope you do, notice that the entire universe is like a vast forest, on every bough, branch, and twig of which vivid details are crowded shoulder to shoulder, as brightly colored as painted tanagers or the jester's motley, each singing as loudly as it can so that you will notice it first. People, cats, lug nuts, stars. Everything is a vivid detail. As Fellini once said, you're free—but you must learn to choose. That's really the only rule I'm ever going to list. Learn to choose.

And now I really have to work on that novel. It's just chockablock with figures of speech that just don't work, and I've recently learned that I should avoid such things. Go and do thou likewise, writer friends.