Month: October 2020

When I start a story, I’m not trying to write eloquently or find the right words. I’m diving right into the scene, recording what I see in my vision. In fact, the entire first draft is akin to a painter doing a preliminary sketch. My goal is to get the basics ideas down as I create the story from scratch.

It’s not until the editing process that the finer details are worked out. That can’t start until the story exist in the word document first.

When starting a story, I don’t like to stop typing until the chapter/scene is done. I don’t mind all of the spelling mistakes or grammar errors that the software catches. I have a vision in my mind and my goal is to type it before it disappears. Once it disappears, I won’t be able to get it back. I might get glimpses of it if I try to remember, but not the entire vision in its raw form.

Starting a story is exciting and intense. When the words flow off of our fingers to the keyboard and into the computer, it feels like being transported into another realm. It’s like being in the zone and nothing matters except the story.

And as we write, the story splashes onto the page. The ideas become paramount. The descriptions unfold. The scene takes shape. Everything comes together, and we experience the most thrilling and exciting thing about writing: creating a new world.

As a writer, having lots of ideas can be useful and motivating, yet it can also be overwhelming. Why overwhelming? Because it can feel like there is not enough time to turn those ideas into stories or even explore them fully.

When writing a story, we have to pick one idea and run with it. Of course, that one idea can be tied to a host of ideas that are related/connected with it. Having lots of ideas in this sense is helpful and productive.

But having a lot of project ideas is what can be overwhelming for a writer. A writer only has so much time to write, and each project can take hours, weeks, or months to complete. Not only that, a writer may get tons of ideas that just keep piling up. There aren’t enough days in a lifetime to get through all of them.

Before I start on a project, I try to include as many ideas that I can from my to-do list. I know I won’t have enough time to write all of the stories I want, so I combine them together in one story.

And when those ideas meet, it can create something that is truly unique and comprehensive of our vision. It’s like putting all the best scenes together in one story. It’s a great and rewarding feeling, since those filed away ideas now have a life now.

A twist in a story is a revelation that goes against our expectation(s) of the story, and sometimes, defies the rules of the genre. The twist can be something that comes out of nowhere; it can be an unexpected character that turns out to be the villain (or a hero), or something that was hidden from the character (i.e. they were helping the villains inadvertently).

Sometimes a twist can change the whole meaning of a story (i.e. if the story turned out to be a dream, or if it turned out to be flashbacks). Sometimes, a twist can happen when characters that were thought to have passed away are alive (which happened in Voltaire’s Candide).

When I write short stories, I’m more inclined to include a twist than I would to a novel. In a novel, the story unfolds logically–naturally. Of course, there still can be a twist in a novel, but it doesn’t have the same impact as a short story does.

In a novel, it would be disappointing if the entire story were just a dream. When we invest all that time, we want the entire story arc to sum up to something to a grand conclusion. In a short story, that kind of twist can work. Here are two reasons why: 1) a shorty story is not so much about the characters as to the idea of the story, and 2) the point of the story can be the twist itself.

A twist in a short story is like the revelation that is at the end of a novel. A novel left clues throughout the story that culminated to the revelation. In a short story, the revelation happens all of a sudden. In both cases, the revelation can catch us by surprise.

Writing science fiction is a ton of fun, since there are limitless scientific and futuristic ideas to explore. It’s a genre where we can write about space, technology, time travel, possible worlds, and new societies. It’s a genre that looks at what might exist on other planets, and how they might impact humanity.

A science fiction story often involves research into topics such as physics or genetics so that we can embed scientific facts into the story. It also helps us write characters that can talk about the subject and sound believable in their word usage.

On the other hand, science fiction asks us to stretch our imagination. In a story that takes place in the future, we must be able to describe the environment in detail–know what the rules and principles are by which the society functions. We must be able to describe what their value systems are, their norms, and how the characters interact because of them.

We must imagine what technologies they might have and how they use them. And with all these moving parts, we must keep them consistent to tell the story convincingly.

Writing science fiction is like exploring a new frontier. It’s a place that hasn’t been settled in, a place that is vast and is full of treasures to discover. Writing science fiction leads us to think about how society could be improved, but also, leads us to look at the causes that might lead society in the wrong direction.

The irony about writing a mystery story is that the story is a mystery to me. Even if I know what the outcome is, the clues and evidences remain to be discovered in the writing process.

When writing a mystery, I have to be in the moment of the scenes: the Q & A, the search for clues, the drive to locations, etc. My mystery novel, The Birnbaum Case, is a great example of this. When I wrote the story, I was figuring out the circumstances of Stanley Birnbaum’s disappearance while writing it. The mystery unfolded as I wrote it line after line, scene after scene. Even the lines of the dialogue weren’t planned. I wrote them as if I were in the characters shoes, writing what would come natural to them.

When writing a mystery, I want it to be intriguing and exciting throughout. If I had known all the answers at the start, there wouldn’t be room for spontaneity or to rewrite scenes and include unexpected twists. I want to surprise myself as I write to keep the story organic and fresh. I want the characters to sound genuine when they ask questions and answer them. I want the psychology of the characters to be real, not contrived. I want the story to unfold as if life were happening–where things interfere or where situations are unclear.

In essence, I want the mystery to feel organic and unpredictable at the same time. I want the experience of writing the mystery to be that way so that the revelations aren’t seen early on in the chapters.

Besides, the twists and turns are what piques our interest and keep us engaged in a mystery story. A good mystery will keep us reading to know what will happen until the very end. A great mystery will surprise us at every turn, and an amazing mystery will be a story that we don’t want to end.

Journal writing is kind of like being in a quiet sanctuary, since we’re alone with our thoughts, and we’re writing to ourselves and not for anyone else. With journal writing, we can really dive into our thoughts and emotions without concern of how we might sound to others. Journal writing is really about reflection, of understanding what we’re going through, exploring our experiences, and making sense of it all.

Unlike stories or essays, journal entries don’t have to follow a logical structure. It can be anything we want, really. It’s kind of like writing about a dream we had. It might not make sense to anyone, but it makes sense to us (or does it?). Perhaps a better way to describe it is that the meaning makes sense to us since it is derived from our subconscious, which no one else can access.

Journal writing can be about our day, or it can be about memories, dreams, and musings. It doesn’t have to be shared, and most likely won’t be. It’s a space where we can be ourselves without worrying about editing, formatting, spelling, etc., and where we can express ourselves in a continuous stream of thought.

When we look back on our entries, it’d kind of like reading a time capsule of ourselves at a particular place and time. We see how much we’ve grown, how much we’ve changed, not to mention how our writing has evolved.