Lori Borrill on Writing Romance

            I'm wondering if this has ever happened to you.  You've just written a few paragraphs, a scene, maybe even a whole chapter of your latest work-in-progress.  You're feeling pretty good about it.  So good that you're even tempted to print it out so you can actually kiss the page.  You check your watch, decide to end your writing day on a high-note, and move to your favorite reading spot with that new best-seller you've been meaning to get to.

            Ten pages into the story, your shoulders are slumped.  Compared to the brilliance you're reading, that beautiful prose you'd just considered kissing now feels like it belongs in the trash, and the voice in your head keeps repeating, "Girl, you've got a long way to go."

            I've had several moments like that.  Some made me put the book down--it was simply too painful.  But there have been instances where that situation turned into an Ah-Hah! moment for me.

            One came from a story by Sandy Fraser titled, "Beneath Two Moons".  Though it was a futuristic story, and I'm not much of a sci-fi buff, I was immediately captivated by her gift for prose.  Each and every line was beautifully written, her description superb, unique and refined. 

When describing the heroine's visit to a foreign planet, she writes,

      Minutes later, ankle-deep in the planet's sand, she was assaulted by the thirsty air, and heat shimmered over the arid earth.  Every breath scorched her lungs, and tiny beads of sweat collected on her upper lip and evaporated in an instant.

Wow.  I sweat just reading it.  The heroine wasn't "hit by heat", she was "assaulted by the thirsty air".  The "ankle-deep sand" painted a desolate picture of a hot, arid wasteland, and the rest of the novella was just as poised.

By the end of the story, I was in a deep depression.  No wonder she was published and I wasn't.  And though I use Ms. Fraser as an example, that's not to say this was the first and only time a writer has elicited that, I'm-not-worthy sense of doom.  I'm sure all of us have those authors we admire and aspire to write like, which leads me straight to the lesson I'd learned that day.

Once my defeatist thoughts grew old--which took about fifteen minutes--my stubborn streak set in, prompting me to toss down the book and stomp back upstairs to the scene I'd just written.  I was on a new mission.  I was going to take that beautiful scene and raise it to perfection.  Each word would be studied, every sentence surgically reconstructed until it was worthy of the printed form, and with the pages of my thesaurus flapping a warm breeze across my face, I set forth to meticulously enhance my style.

And when I was done, I had three pages of blindingly bright Purple Prose.

Sure, each sentence alone may have been an admirable work of art, but when I strung them all together, it was nothing but a slew of blathering, flowery nonsense. 

I had created words for the sake of words.

The content was muddled, the mood altered, and my voice had completely disappeared.

Because no matter how much I aspire to be in the ranks of Sandy Fraser, Nora Roberts, Steven King, Mary Higgins-Clark, or any of the other multitudes of writers whose work I admire, I am none of them, and trying to write like them is a lesson in futility.  I couldn't pull it off because it wasn't my natural style, and the quicker I learned that lesson, the sooner I was able to start finding my voice as a writer.

So, am I saying there's no room for improvement?  That we write what we write--end of subject?

No.

At that point, I had only learned that by trying to mimic another writer's style, event through innocent admiration or inspiration, I will never achieve that "fresh new voice" editors are seeking. 

I also learned that words for the sake of words do not make a good read.  Basically, if you find a good portion of your writing time is devoted to scrutinizing whether a glass should be a glass, flute, mug, cup or grail, you're probably focusing on the wrong thing.

Each writer has their own natural voice, words that come freely to them through effort that is balanced between style and content.  It's why Sandy Fraser pulled it off and I didn't--she's naturally poetic, and I'm naturally not.  So, instead of trying to copy what I admire in other writers, I need to cultivate those strengths that are unique to me.

Which leads to the question:  If I don't concentrate on improving my prose, what do I concentrate on?

For a long time, I had no idea.  I just kept writing.  Until I picked up a copy of Janet Evanovich's "One For The Money" and stumbled into another bout of self-exploration.  Here is another writer who has a gift for description, the ability to bring characters and places to life in a way I could only dream of.  But what I found interesting about Janet's writing is her practical, straight-forward style.

In the story, Stephanie Plum's mother is trying to fix her up with a man in town, Bernie Kuntz. 

 "I saw Bernie Kuntz in the dry cleaner's, and he made a point about asking for you.  I think he's interested.  I could invite him over for coffee and cake."

With the way my luck was running, probably my mother had already invited Bernie, and at this very moment he was circling the block, popping Tic Tacs.

There's nothing flowery here, no words that require a thesaurus to construct, but those few simple sentences spoke volumes and painted a very vivid image in my mind. 

Like saying a picture is worth a thousand words, so are a few really good sentences. 

Right there, I've learned all kinds of things about Stephanie, her mother, their relationship, Bernie, the kind of day she's having, and probably several other things I'm not picking up on right now.  We can empathize with the situation, the mother's need to see her daughter settle down, and the daughter's struggle to make her own decisions.  By stepping into a universal theme, Janet didn't have to tell me Stephanie rolled her eyes.  I rolled my eyes for her. 

And I have a vivid image of Bernie--and Stephanie's perception of him--without ever being told his hair color, how tall he is, or whether his car is a Celica or a Lexus (I'm betting Celica, though). 

It's what I mean when I say words for the sake of words will not make you a good writer.  I'm guessing neither of these authors poured through a thesaurus trying to color-up their prose.  What they did was develop a deep sense of character and setting.  No matter how minor the characters, or how distant the planet, they knew the details inside and out, to the extent where they were able to pick out those one or two that really told all. 

All that time I'd spent turning glasses into goblets, I should have spent discovering my characters and their setting, their issues, relationships, and fears, going deeper than just what they look like, the particular conflict I've provided, or the color of their front door.  I think if you really know your characters and have thoroughly examined the setting, your writing will naturally become more colorful and lively, without the need to create it from a thesaurus.  The right details will speak to you, allowing you to convey them in the style that is natural to you, regardless of whether that style is poetic or direct.

            Oh, and when I thoroughly grasp how to do that, I'll let you know! 

 

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