“High-Concept” Fiction
I’ve read a few novels or stories that become too bogged down with world-building or what I call “concept obsession.” The former tends to happen in fantasy and sci-fi the most, and the latter can happen in any high concept piece. (Hence the term.)
I find a lot of high concepts intriguing. As a concept that is. I have a list of such concepts in my idea notebook. Yet one of the signs of a mature writer is realizing that not every high concept or intricate world makes for a good narrative. Narrative, plot, character, story and such are the keys to interesting stories for most readers, I dare say, and without those, you just have one long description of something you made up. It’s quite the temptations for author’s, especially new ones, to stuff their narratives with as much of the uniqueness to their story as possible, even if it doesn’t serve the story.
“It would be so cool if…” is usually not a sufficient building block for a novel, even a high concept one. Sorry. When you start a piece, make sure there is a solid narrative within your unique concept somewhere, that entails more than explaining how the high concept, or unusual world came to be.
Sad, I know. Your have an idea for a word where due to a virus, every single human birth is now a set of identical twins. You’ve explored the impact it would have on economics, population, religion, pop-culture. But if nothing happens to anybody interesting in this interesting new world, you’ll likely end up boring readers with details of how the world changed in each of those categories and more.
That’s not a story.
However, there is good news; you can always make an exploration of that world or high concept the entire reason for your writing. It may not be a story or a novel, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t creative. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t write it down. It just means, perhaps, that all you are writing any given time is say a handbook for the world you created, or a faux-academic paper on the “everybody has twins” thing. Such creations don’t need a narrative or a protagonist. You can delve into the hows and the whys until your heart’s content, and it’s fine.
Granted, such works are not likely to be published in the traditional manner. (Though you never know; it happens sometimes.) But you can always self-publish it if you want. Or you can just keep it for yourself as an exercise. Not everything you write has to be published, of course. Tuck it away in a drawer, and read it or add on to it as time goes on, as a way to explore you creativity without a deadline. And who knows? That collection of “facts” about your concept may evolve into a more standard story arc some day.
All this by way of saying that though you need to discern which of your concepts may or may not make a good novel, you need not totally forget about your concept even if you decide there is no novel in it somewhere. Creating is creating. Don’t shut that out.
Contest Submission Complete
True to my word as expressed last month, yesterday I entered a larger scale writing contest than my norm. Entrance fee and everything.
It’s said and done now, so there is no undoing it. I’m not wild about having paid 20 bucks for the chance to lose. Yet I trust, for the most part, the sponsor of the contest, so i went with it. That’s the key to entrance fees, I suppose: trusting the sponsor of said contest.
That, and I’m rapidly approaching the end of the year, without having fulfilled my personal quota for contests. I suppose it will be easier each time I do it.
In the end, they are good ideas, assuming they are reputable. I know this, and the potential exposure for winning, or even just coming in second place are probably worth the 20 dollars. (Except maybe the flying to a writing conference…I’m a bit put off by that possibility, as I have never flown, and have no desire to do so. But I will cross that continent when/if I come to it.)
I submitted when is best described as a horror story, I suppose, though that doesn’t quite fit. If the editors at the contest should decide to keep it in that genre, however, and should I win something, it will be the second time one of my horror stories has gained some recognition from a contest this year. (And I have only ever written about three horror stories total, lifetime.) The irony alone of winning this contest, should I so so, would be worthy of its own novel.
I have a few more contests to enter this year, if I am to meet my personal quota. Any suggestions?
Getting Real About Literature
Was this article’s attitude necessary?
I honestly feel that everyone is entitled to a preference in the arts. Nothing you enjoy or do not enjoy is going to harm me or anyone else, so long as the art itself has no victim, such as child porn pictures or something. So if this author wants to be so brazen as to dismiss what seems to be two thirds of all fiction ever written because it doesn’t rise to his standards of “life changing” excellence, so be it. It’s his right. But it’s also my right to call out just how obnoxious he is for doing so.
I myself have not read Terry Pratchett, but apparently that is not a prerequisite for talking about the impact of his work. (The author himself admits he has never read Pratchett either.) Let’s say, however, that I didn’t like his books after reading them. So? Is that going to lessen his impact on the sci-fi/fantasy world? Obviously not. Why, therefore, would this guy’s assessment (having not read any of Pratchett’s books, proudly) keep Pratchett and others outside of the realm of “literature”? (Not that Pratchett fans or himself, from what I gather, insisted on his being considered literature by such stringent definitions.)
Is Pratchett to be degraded because his isn’t Gabriel García Márquez, or whatever other dearly departed authors this guy has declared to be of importance to the very survival of humanity? I suppose in the author’s world, the answer is “yes, of course.”
The thing is, literature is not solidly defined in practice, even if it may be in the dictionary. Anybody who spends time around the writing and publishing world, even with no more than a single eye open is aware of just how fluid the definition of “literature” and “genre fiction” has become over the last few generations. I wonder just how high of an ivory tower one must be in to remain unaware of this, as the author of this article seems to be.
That is separate from the hubris of declaring both that literature “changes lives” and that Pratchett is not literature. One’s life being changed is even more subjective than the definition of literature, and I’ll thank this guy not to determine what has or hasn’t changed mine. I can’t speak as to whether Pratchett’s works would be “life changing” for me, but I can speak to the fact that they must have been to someone, many someones in fact. Hence his popularity and the state of mourning in wake of his recent death.
Who said, by the way, that to be “literature” a book must change one’s entire life anyway? That’s a fairly lofty standard to uphold, even for “literature” isn’t it?
Yet even if we accept that definition, we have to also accept that any given reader will possibly consider to be literature works by Pratchett, or King, or Austin, or Kerouac, or me, or whoever. Something tells me though that confronted with his own definition, the article’s author would move the goal posts. That’s fine, though. People like him can argue about angels on the head of a quill pen, while the rest of the world enjoys reading what moves them and even calling it “literature” if they so choose.
Investing a Dollar.
I bought a used book from the library for one dollar the other day. I don’t want to name it at present, because I don’t know how much of it I’ll like, and I don’t want to appear to endorse it at this time. It’s a program, you see. A program for enhancing creativity, and I decided to try it out, though not without some apprehension.
First of all, dollar. If you see a book for sale for one dollar, and it catches just a tenth of your interest, you buy it. I dare say most of you would agree with that. I won’t lie to you, I wouldn’t have bought this book new, or really at any price above a dollar.
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single dollar…if you’re cheap.
Also, I don’t feel I am in any kind of creative crisis right now. One could always create more than X amount, yes, but in general I’m satisfied with my creative output at the moment. Those that are not satisfied probably get more out of such programs as laid out in the book. But what can it hurt to try it? If I find that it’s precepts are actually interfering with my creativity and my work, I can always give it up. Again, dollar. Some one on Bookmooch will be happy to take it off my hands if I don’t find it useful.
Despite my fondness for ritual in certain parts of my life, I’m not exactly big on “programs,” as prescribed by other people. They can feel too confining at times. Yet if nothing else, the act of committing to a program for a trial period is thinking outside the damn proverbial box. Stepping outside of the old comfort zone. Insert your own Super cliche’ Number 3 here. But it’s a precise program in a way, lasting for a specific amount of time, if I stick with it to the end. So I’ll give it a shot. Being a writer, or artist of any kind is as much about “giving it a shot” as it is anything else, I dare say. Especially if it only costs a dollar.
Writing Contests: My Reluctance
I am notoriously reluctant to submit my writing to contests. Though winning a contest is often the best way to gain exposure for short fiction especially, something about it has always if not stopped me in my tracks, than at least muddied the road and slowed my progress.
Part of the problem is that they are an instant judgement call. The moment you hit “send” or whatever, the process of someone peeling about the layers of my story with a fine tooth comb begins. True, plain readers do that often when they read fiction, but that’s different. A reader’s acceptance or, the horror, rejection of my work is an organic pill that is far easier for me the swallow. I offer something, people choose to take it or no. The lack of sales or reads can be frustrating, but not exactly nerve wracking.
In a contest though, I am making a conscious choice to be judged. Literally. There’s no passive quality to a contest. No discovery. One flat out says, “okay, here. Tell me if in your assessment this creation of mine is better than everyone else in the world who gave your their stuff.”
Holy…
A less dramatic but no less palpable reason I shy away from contests is the subtle alteration it makes to my process. If I see a contest is coming up and I set off to create something specifically for same, it feels like I am “writing to the contest” instead of writing what feels best to me. It was easier to do with flash fiction, and in fact I was a finalist over at Writer’s Digest for one of their flash fiction contests. Yet the longer the submission, the more tricky it seems it would be to compose in the same manner I do when I am writing for the sake of telling a story. It could just be me, but there you go.
It’s a bit easier when an existing contest is shaped to accept a piece I already have written. If I go through the contest rules and think, “that sounds like my Story A,” I am far more likely to submit. Indeed, I am doing so next month; a piece I wrote last year is only 100 or so words above the contest’s limit, and is in the correct genre. Plus it’s a story I amparticularly proud of. So I’ll pull out those 100 words. That’s worth it to me to make a try at a contest, as in the end the story still exists in its own right, and not because of the contest. It’s free, after all.
Which is another thing; I’m not wild about paying reading fees for contests. I’m trying to decide lately if there is ever a time when paying a fee for a contest is worth it. I haven’t come to a conclusion about that yet. Your thoughts on same are appreciated.
Anyway I look at it though, I should be looking at more contests for my shorter stuff, and I know it. Not because someone said so, or because all the cool kids are doing it. (I don’t remember the last time i did something because the cool kids are doing it.) Rather, I’ve decided recently that contests are a legitimate part of today’s author’s life. I can control the degree to which I use that component, and I still plan to do so less than many of my contemporaries. Yet after consideration I’ve determined that despite my reservations it’s time for me to try the contest route for more often than I have in the past.
Do you do contests? Which ones? Any suggestions?
Ty Unglebower 