awatawaa

[nanowrimo]

5 Common Mistakes First-Time Novelists Make

Every year, we’re lucky to have great sponsors for our nonprofit events. Today, our sponsor Reedsy has put together a list of the most common mistakes for rookie novelists (Want more advice from Reedsy? Check out their webcast on writing and submitting query letters!):

Writing a novel for the first time is probably one of the most daunting creative experiences in existence. Indeed, many first-time novelists have no idea how to approach it! This often means they go in blind—and end up making mistakes that seriously hinder their writing process, their novel, and their overall confidence as a writer.

And while learning from your own mistakes is a great way to cement those lessons, we can all agree that it’s not very efficient. So if you're about to start writing a novel for the first time, here’s a quick catalog of five common mistakes that first-time novelists make, as well as how to evade them.

1. Starting without a clear purpose

A staggering number of first-timers go into the novel-writing process with no greater mission other than to, well, write a novel. It’s a noble quest, to be sure—but without any other purpose in mind for your work, you’re not going to get very far.

To avoid this fate, have a prolonged brainstorm/deep thinking sesh before you begin to draft. The question you ultimately need to answer is: what kind of story am I trying to write? Not just in terms of genre and plot, but what you want the reader to take away from your novel.

This might be an outright lesson about society, as in a book like The Handmaid’s Tale. Or it might be an impression of a time/place/feeling, as in Elif Batuman’s 2017 novel The Idiot. Perhaps you want to represent a group or experience you feel is underrepresented in literature. Your novel’s purpose could be just about anything, as long as you feel strongly about it.

But whatever it is, pre-draft is the time to get ahold of it—not halfway through your novel, in a frantic attempt to conjure meaning out of thin air.

2. Being unrealistically ambitious

While you should definitely have goals (like purpose) as you write, you don’t want to be too ambitious—i.e. if you’ve never written a novel before, you can’t go into it thinking you’re about to write the next Gone Girl. Unfortunately, many first-timers do exactly that!

Little do they know that being overly ambitious with your first novel is a one-way ticket to Writer’s Blockville, which is walking distance from Giving-Up Town. So don’t make your writing goals too lofty, lest you become too discouraged to actually meet them.

Instead, try this: make a list of 3 realistic and concrete goals to work toward as you draft, and tell yourself to disregard everything else for the time being. A reasonable set of ambitions for a first-time novelist might be:

Write X number of words in X days (say, 50k words in 30 days, if you’re feeling up to it).

Construct a relatively straightforward plot. 

Focus on one aspect of your fiction writing that you know needs improvement—characterization, pacing, dialogue, etc.

Keeping solid goals like these in mind will prevent you from burning out. Just remember, the most important part of writing a first novel is just to get it down on the page. As long as you’re still writing, you’re doing something right.

3. Trying too hard to be “literary”

Even seasoned writers often fall into the trap of trying too hard to sound “literary,”—like F. Scott Fitzgerald, Virginia Woolf, Zadie Smith, or any number of renowned writers. Of course, it’s great to have role models, but not if you end up sounding unnaturally ornate and formal in an attempt to emulate other novelists.

The best way combat this “over-literary” effect is to carefully monitor your prose. Be honest with yourself: if you’ve written something just to sound fancy, not because it actually contributes to the story, cut it out. When in doubt, ask someone else to test-read your work and tell you if anything comes across as pretentious or unnatural.

It’s also good to consciously stay away from other literary works during the writing process, just in case of accidental osmosis. Or if you must read (we all know it’s a hard thing to give up), try picking up novels that are nothing like yours. For example, if you’re writing a slow-burn romance, you should be able to enjoy a fast-paced thriller without worrying about the style bleeding into yours.

4. Editing right after finishing

Countless successful writers and editors constantly remark on the importance of waiting to edit one’s manuscript. Yet after completing their first draft, many people dive right into the self-editing process without so much as a day’s buffer!

The result is a highly subjective—and therefore largely ineffective—editing process. You’re stubbornly attached to certain passages and subplots, and you’re so exhausted from writing the first draft that you resist the idea of revising. Basically, editing too soon after finishing your novel means you can’t get much of anything done.

Luckily, there’s an easy way around this problem: waiting a few days, weeks, or even months before returning to your first draft. While you may be eager to start sending your novel out to agents or other readers, trust us that waiting is the best thing you can do at this juncture.

This doesn’t mean, of course, that you can’t do anything else productive during the interim. You might research professional editors, or even start working on another project if you have the energy! The important thing is to clear your mind of that first novel, so that when you do finally go back to it, you’ll have fresh eyes with which to conduct a much better, deeper self-edit.

5. Never writing anything else

One of the worst mistakes writers make is letting their first novel also be their last. Yes, some people write novels just to see if they can, or to get a story out of their system, and they’re satisfied to leave it at that. But many more people just don’t think it’s worth the effort—especially if their first novel didn’t turn out as amazing as they thought it would (see tip #2).

Allow us to dissuade you of that notion. No one’s denying that writing a novel is hard work—but the work is worth it, as long as you don’t give up. The more you practice and the more novels you write, the better your craft will become. To paraphrase Ira Glass, your skill will eventually catch up with your taste; you just have to push a bit to get there.

So don’t stop writing after your first book, otherwise you’ll never know what you’re truly capable of creating. Learn from your own mistakes, as well as the ones we’ve outlined here, and keep moving forward—to your second, third, fourth novels and beyond.

Ricardo Fayet is a co-founder of Reedsy, an online marketplace connecting authors with industry’s best editors, designers and book marketers.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: Interconnect (ao3 link) - Chapter 7 Fandom: Flash, DC Legends of Tomorrow Pairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart

Summary: Fate has decided that Leonard Snart and Mick Rory are soulmates.

Yeah, okay, they’re good with that.

(for @coldwaveweek2017)

A/N: Instead of doing different fics for coldwave week, I decided to do one with multiple chapters, each based on the various days.

Chapter 7: Free Day

—————————————————————————————–

“Mick!”

Mick barely looks up from the medbay bed he’s been on the last few days, ever since the Legends flew the Waverider to STAR Labs after killing Savage. He’d been on 24/7 Gideon watch ever since they’d realized exactly how badly he was taking Len’s death.

Hell, that was even why they were here, at STAR Labs, instead of travelling the timeline fixing things the way Rip had originally wanted to. The other Legends were worried sick about Mick and didn’t want to go without him, so they’d overruled Rip and demanded they stay until Team Flash gave them an answer about how to fix Mick.

Not that they could.

It wasn’t something that could be fixed.

A lifetime of Len’s voice in his ear – gone.

Finished.

Exploded.

Mick always thought they’d go together.

“Mick!”

He shudders a little. He can still hear him sometimes, the echo of him.

“Mick! Damnit, you know how I hate it when you ignore me!”

That –

That wasn’t an echo.

Mick looks from side to side, making sure no one is paying attention to him, not even Gideon, and leans over to the plate of food he’s been uncharacteristically ignoring. “…Lenny?” he whispers to the fork.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for ages.”

“What, really?” Mick asks, alarmed. The Time Masters had talked about time-lag – about people growing old without realizing it – stuck in a loop –

“Yeah. It’s been, like, hours now.”

No, just Len’s typical ridiculous drama.

“I thought you got blown up,” Mick says. He’s still a bit wary, but – this feels right.

“I did,” Len confirms.

“Okay…and?”

“And what?”

“If you got blown up, you’re dead,” Mick points, quite reasonably in his mind. “If you’re dead, we can’t talk.”

“Uh,” Len says. “Actually…”

“You’re dead?”

“No. I mean, not really. Sort of. Has Barry ever discussed ‘the Speed Force’ with you?”

“…no?”

“Have him do that. And tell Cisco he owes me a rescue. And – oh, shit, gotta go.”

“What?! No! I just got you back!”

“Yeah, well, unfortunately, in the Speed Force, everything is the Speed Force, and said Speed Force doesn’t exactly appreciate me getting around the whole ‘death’ thing by talking to you.”

“...are you talking to me using Death as an object?”

“No,” Len says. “I’m not dead, I told you. Also, animate things don't work, you know that, and I'm not willing to try with possibly-animates. That being said, she did let me borrow her necklace so I could talk to you.”

“She? The speed force?”

“No, Death. Keep up.”

“I’m confused.”

“Yeah, this shit’s a mess. I’ll explain later. Shh, warden’s coming.”

Mick obediently shuts up.

Then he gets up.

“Gideon!” he roars with an energy he hasn't felt since Len's nattering voice cut off. “I need Barry Allen and Cisco Ramon, now!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Lisa," Len says. "Mick and I have a major life announcement to make."

"You're already married, neither of you can get pregnant, and you've already come back from the dead once," Lisa says, not looking up from her magazine. "Hit me with your best shot."

"We've decided to take someone into our little family," Mick says.

"Oh, adoption. Uh-huh," Lisa says, eyes still firmly on the pages. She even turns a page. "Sure you are."

"Why so skeptical?" Len asks.

"You're too wrapped up in each other to raise a kid," she says dismissively. "And you know it. So what is it really?"

"It's not a kid," Len says. "It's a dragon."

"Dragons don't exist."

"Cheep," little Smaug says.

Lisa pauses and finally puts the magazine down.

Len beams at her.

"Is that a mechanical dragon?!"

"Smaug here's an AI," Mick says. "Bleeding edge future tech from the year 3000."

"3004," Len corrects.

"Right."

"You - that - it can think?"

"He was gonna be discontinued," Len says.

"We decided to step up," Mick agrees.

"Oh god it can breathe fire, can't it," Lisa says flatly. It's not even a question.

"And ice," Len says cheerfully, and reaches over to tickle Smaug's belly.

For all that he has exposed mechanical parts - fancy looking gears and cogs and circuits which are probably more decorative than functional - the majority of Smaug is covered in a very realistic synthoskin that replicates the feel of baby-soft scales.

Smaug gurgles happily.

"If it's a computer, why is it acting like that?"

"He's an AI," Len corrects her. "And, well, he's not full grown yet. Still building up that processor power."

"It's a baby. A baby dragon AI."

"Yep."

"Yeah, no, I'm out," Lisa declares, throwing her hands up in the air and walking out.

They wait until fifteen seconds have passed and Lisa's stomps have mostly faded away into the distance.

"How long do you think we can pull this off before she realizes we only have him on loan until the time aberration's fixed?" Mick asks.

"At least a week," Len says confidently. "C'mon, let's go scare Team Flash."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door flies open with a crash.

Everyone in the room spins around to glare, their eyes filling with anger, the larger members of the group starting to stand and crack their knuckles with anticipation of a beating.

"Hi, there," the man at the door says. He's wearing a blue parka, rather unseasonable for the weather outside, and he's smirking like he knows something they all don't. "Please, don't let me interrupt your fascinating discussion."

"Oh, you interrupted all right," one of the biggest guys replies. "Who the hell are you?"

The new man's smirk widens. "No, no," he says. "Please, keep going - I'm sorry, were you talking about the evil conspiracy where the Jews run the world, or was it the way witches manipulate the world using their own persecution and deaths to win minor rhetorical arguments? The arguments are so similar I can scarcely tell, sometimes."

"Oh, great," one of them sneers. "One of you people."

"We've got a right to be here," one of the other members of the group bleats. "We're exercising our right to assembly and free speech. In fact, you're oppressing us by interrupting, which is the exact opposite of what you claim to value."

And then he smirks, satisfied and smug that he's made his point.

"Oh, no, no," the new man at the door says. "You mistake me entirely. I've donated literal diamonds to the ACLU in support of the idea that there isn't anything legally wrong with non-violent free speech, even where I think the content of that speech is disgusting. But here's the thing you assholes overlooked -"

"What?" a member sneers.

The man at the door pulls out a gun that glows a cold blue light. "I don't much care about what's legal, personally, and since I'm not the goddamn government, your ‘rights’ don’t mean jack shit."

"Captain Cold," someone gasps, putting the pieces together at last.

"The supervillain?! But he's from Central."

"He," Len says, "is on vacation, and beating up neo-Salemists - or neo-Nazis, honestly we never really cleared up which ones you are - is really just a perk."

The room erupts in chaos, only to be silenced when Len fires off a blast to the ceiling.

"I know this isn't going to help your unwarranted sense of persecution," Len says, musing. "But I just wanted you to know that I'm a queer black Jew who's also cursed, so, you know - yeah. I'm 'one of them' as one of you so eloquently put it."

The room flees for the back entrance only for a gout of flame to emerge from the gun of the large man standing watch there.

"Having all the fun without me?" he asks the gun in his hands.

"Hardly," Len tells his own gun in return. It's a big room, and Mick's getting over a sore throat; there's no need to shout. "You know that what's yours is mine."

"Yeah," Mick says, grinning at his prey. He's probably regretting their promise to Barry that they wouldn't kill or permanently harm any of them, but hey, that's life. Beating them up will be nearly as satisfying, and then with luck the lesson (don’t be a bigoted shit or else) will be absorbed in a wider scale. "Yeah, I know."

And then they move.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Aren’t you supposed to be mad at me?” Mick asks muzzily. They’ve been weaning him off the good drugs, but he’s still not entirely with it all the time. Illegal clinics are good for strong drugs, though they do have a tendency to cut it off too fast.

The clock on his bedside table huffs in offense. “I am,” it says. “But you know what these places are like! They’ll cut you off the drugs the second they think they can get away with it, which they won’t if they think you’re hallucinating.”

“Why would I be hallucinating?”

“Because you’re talking to random objects?”

“No random,” Mick says. “They’re you.”

“Sweet, but irrelevant when your medical practitioners have a very cleaned-up version of your medical history.”

"...oh."

"Anyway, what does me being angry at you have to do with anything?"

"Well," Mick says, marshalling his thoughts. "First off, you weren't yelling."

"Of course not," the clock sniffs. "I'd wear out my voice for all the yelling. Besides, I'm more the cool, calm, slinky sort of bad guy..."

Len's imagining himself as a James Bond villain again, Mick knows it.

The term 'slinky' gives it away, really.

"Second," Mick says, and the clock pauses in its daydream - no, Mick's not sure how he can tell, but he can - to listen. "Second, there's what you were talking about."

"What about it?"

"You were talking about your secret Harry Potter fan theory," Mick points out.

"So?"

"That's not 'angry person' conversation."

"I could list hockey stats instead," the clock offers, mild tone not hiding the bite.

"Harry Potter is fine," Mick says quickly, because it is. It's just weird, that's all.

It's not until Len has gone off in a flounce to yell at his latest crew - he's hooked back up with Scudder and Dillon for some godforsaken reason, which is only going to end with somebody dead, Mick knows it - that Mick gets it.

Len isn't talking just for the sake of talking.

He's chatty, yes, and he loves the sound of his own voice, but he doesn't monologue. He's a dialogue sort of guy - quips and puns and stuff like that.

No, that monologue was for Mick's benefit.

So he wouldn't feel alone, trapped in a hospital bed.

Mick snorts, fond smile spreading over his face as he shifts around a bit to get comfortable.

Len was honestly ridiculous sometimes.

Mick's not alone.

After all, Len's always there, all around.

Always.