Chuck Q & A - October 2004
1. From mistahung:
For years, I tried as a writer to outline short stories and novels before beginning work, essentially using a string of bulleted thesis statements. I found this method of writing to be cold, calculating, and draining of any of the original inspiration that may have sparked the story idea. Working without an outline has been a godsend to me, as it keeps me interested throughout the creative process--but those damn "thesis statements" begin to show up in my writing, like road signs that state "You Are Here" (especially when working on longer, novel-length stories). The real question is: Is it OK to leave these "road signs" in novels instead of short stories, or is this just my insecurity that my writing loses coherency at about twenty pages?
Chuck Responds:
It’s okay to do thesis statements – they’re just not your most-effective form of storytelling. Ideally, if you have an important scene and plot point, you can unpack it by avoiding any thesis statements. Then, you create a chorus that refers back to that scene (and the lesson the character learned) and you make that chorus a sort-of “reverse thesis statement.” But a chorus is so odd-sounding, it means nothing without knowledge of the original moment it refers to.
Sometimes, in chapters that “bridge” between more important moments, sure you can use thesis statements. Just remember, they’re not going to work as well as something you put a little time and effort into inventing. Any specific: the color of eyes, the shape of a cloud, the smell of some food – any of those would be a better first-step toward fulfilling the purpose of your chapter. Even a short chapter, bridging between more important plot points.
And instead of building an outline – you might just list the themes of your work. That way, you can actively and efficiently pursue anecdotes and details that demonstrate your themes as many ways as possible. And a little story that makes your point is always the best way to imbed that point in your readers memory.
2. From JKabol:
Unpacking the Thesis Statement. Do you ever come across a moment of thoughts that you feel shouldn’t be unpacked because it would draw attention from the focus of the moment? Am curious because I come across that occasionally, a simple thought not branched to the square root because you want the reader focused on the issue at hand. A reason that I also avoid a poetic prose because it distracts the reader from the story.
Thanks. Always. Kabol.
Chuck Responds:
Thoughts that draw attention from the moment? My advice: Ditch them. That’s why I shave my noggin between drafts of a book. Because all those precious, smart, insightful things are still in the book, and I need to sacrifice my hair and appearance to know that I’m free to sacrifice all the good stuff that does NOT support and further the themes and plot of the work. You never lose all those great asides – you find a place for them in a future work. After I trashed my first mammoth first novel, If You Lived Here, You’d Be Home Already, I did go back and transplant out the speech that Marla gives in Fight Club about condoms being the “glass slipper” of a new generation. So, use your great asides – but use them in a work where they support and strengthen the emotional build of the story. Don’t use them if they suck energy and distract the reader from the present moment. But again, this is just my opinion.
3. From kasey_carpenter:
Are there greater thesis statements one should avoid as well? I think of almost thesis paragraphs and chapters that perhaps guide us too knowingly towards a path of predictability whereas the thesis sentence is readily seen, what of the broader paragraph at the head of a chapter? Do you look at your works from 50,000 feet as it were, to see if all of the smaller details, now grouped, are where you want them to be, not leading your reader too easily to a plot twist or a character revelation? If so, enlighten us on how we should view these forests hiding in the trees...
Chuck Responds:
Huh? I’d need to see an example to understand your question. It seems like a whole paragraph of “telling” the reader the state of things, that would be murder to get through. The only example I can think of is Dickens’s “Best of times…Worst of times” opening to A Tale of Two Cities – and that worked because it was short and poetic.
4. From Undertow:
I've noticed in my writing and other people's writing (not necessarily from The Cult) we'll use a thesis sentence and then explain the details (example: I have a fever. I'm shivering even though it's 98 degrees outside...). Would you say the best and easiest way to fix this would be to eliminate the thesis sentence and fine-tune the details in the rest of the paragraph?
Chuck Responds:
Yes. Perfect. And if you’re still desperate to make sure your reader understands the state of things, then, after all else, use a form of your thesis statement. But “burn” it with odd language so you can return to that moment with a chorus – and if it’s not a moment worth returning to, why is it in your story?
5. From inkwell:
Your points in the October essay are really clear in bringing across how show-writing is much stronger than the tell-writing of a topic-sentence, academic, essay voice. How can I best work with the hard facts that bring authority and the off-plot statements that hammer an emotional truth, while working around those tension-killing topic sentences?
Chuck Responds:
Consider starting with a compelling “teaser” statement. In Invisible Monsters, I loved writing: “All summer, I wanted someone to ask me what happened to my face…” It’s a thesis statement, but it generates more questions than it resolves. Plus, it pulls in a physical body part we can all relate to in a sympathetic way – and maybe start squirming. Or consider starting with a compelling physical detail like I did in the opening of the essay, “Where Meat Comes From.” In this case, the deformed, grotesque ears of wrestlers. By starting with a physical detail the reader can relate to, you’re more likely to “hook” the reader into the deeper paragraphs of facts.
6. From urmynme:
Sometimes I find myself getting bored with things that I'm writing. Do you recommend setting things aside and working on other projects for a while or is this a sign that I need to rework what I've already written? Is it safe or productive to have more than one "pot on the fire"? Thanks for Diary and thanks for the energy you put into answering questions.
Chuck Responds:
First, why do you get bored? Is it because no events happen? The scenes seem unreal? Or you have no emotional investment or “stake” in the work? Are you not risking enough, by only writing about topics that feel safe to you? The reason I used to get bored was because of the continuing “unresolved” nature of a long, long work, like a novel. It’s too difficult to be with a long, unresolved story, and that’s why I started writing my plot points as short stories that I could read and carry with me as printed copy. It took a week or two to complete each story and present it in workshop. Then, I moved on to a different story. This way, I never got bored, and I had an on-going sense of completion. Maybe most important is – with a short story, you can hold it in your mind, drafting it, and only sit down to type or write it when you’re afraid of losing some good part. Your fear of forgetting makes you write. And the story gets to occupy your attention in some flexible, plastic way as you think and re-think it for several days. And you talk to friends about the possible directions it might take. The moment you can see the ending of the story – it starts to cool off and get tedious.
7. From bh:
The essay you wrote about Amy Hempel's The Harvest was a really good tool for teaching me the ideas of minimalism in context. I was wondering when (if) we will be seeing another example of the tools you are giving us in practice, especially if you will be doing it with another writer's material (more Hempel)?
Thanks for the tools to help us be better writers.
Chuck Responds:
Damn, this would make me go out and buy new copies of all the books I’m constantly giving away. For the time being, find a copy of Ice at the Bottom of the World by Mark Richard, and note how he uses dentil sounds – hard popping “p” and “k” and “d” sounds – instead of soft “s” or “f” sounds. That’s the topic of the December essay – how your work sounds out loud.
8. From jptormey:
Hey Chuck, thanks for this workshop. It might save me some money on an MFA. Anyway. I've used your lessons, absorbed what I could use, cut out what I can't. I'm going to start submitting stories.
What is your advice, to me and everyone else who use the workshop, when we start submitting stories to magazines and lit journals? What did you learn while submitting stories before your novels started getting printed? How did you know when a story was ready, was there a criteria concerning who you submitted to, was there a point when your writing changed and you started getting published?
Thanks for all the help. Can't wait for Haunted.
Chuck Responds:
Here’s the spooky part – there is a point where your work pops. It’s amazing in a workshop to see the week where some writer brings in something that seems to have no connection to their earlier, weaker work. After that point, all of that writer’s work is consistently better. Often, consistently dazzling. I can only compare it to the moment you achieve balance and can begin riding a bicycle. Maybe it’s because you’ve internalized enough good rules, and you can write well – automatically and instinctually avoiding abstract verbs and thesis statements – while also focusing on plot.
In my experience, I submitted several short stories – but never to the right magazine. I did shitty research into what the editors liked and published. And I got rejected. But when I finally sold a story, it left me resolved to write something longer. After that (a story called “Negative Reinforcement,” sold to a pulp magazine called “Modern American Fiction”) I started writing the stories that would become plot points in Fight Club. All those stories shared characters and similar themes, and the first to sell was a story called Fight Club, that’s changed very little from the chapter (six) it became in the novel.
To be finished, to FEEL finished, a story or novel has to arrive at a place that I could never have imagined when I began writing it. A place that moves and upsets me. In a way, while writing, I have to grow and think and become a different person in order to surprise my old self. This is why outlining a novel kills it for me.
9. From aliensoul77:
How do you judge between what will come across as shock value writing versus that sense of immediacy and honesty in writing?
Chuck Responds:
Does it shock you, and make you laugh, AND ultimately break your heart? That’s the stuff a good story has to do – in my opinion. The short story “guts” is gross, but folks laugh a lot, and after re-reading it, many people have written to say it’s one of the saddest stories they know. “That dog was fucking nuts…” The disgust for the secret life of the narrator, that’s the breaking point. And it gets a laugh.
10. From Chixulub:
Hi Chuck!
Aside from the frustrations and hassles of the book tour, how does it work with new authors? Since most can't support themselves off royalties initially (or ever), how does someone who still has to punch a time clock manage a book tour? Or with a debut novel, are you just lucky if your publisher will back a tour long enough to eat up your vacation days?
Chuck Responds:
Chuck Responds: For my earliest book tours, I just took my vacation time and left work for the few days it took – maybe four days/four cities. At one point, I had enough seniority time at Freightliner to take a thirty-day leave of absence, and I began writing Survivor. Often, you can arrange your own tour – by car or short flights – and do weekend book promotion events in nearby cities. You can talk to book clubs or college/ high school classes. All of these, I did. Even more important, you can meet the members of regional bookseller associations. Locally, we have the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association (PNBA), and going to one of their weekend conventions, you can shake hands and talk with the independent folks who will be ordering and selling your work. You might even get to speak at a lunch or breakfast, during the convention. That way, you can entertain people and promote your work by being of service to them. Buy a round of drinks and tell a funny story. At the same time, you can continue to write short stories and non-fiction pieces that – when published – will help promote your earlier book. The more entertaining those new short pieces are, the more likely they will prompt a magazine reader to seek out your book. I’ve done all of these, and charity book-signing events. Your book is such a passive little object, in a heap of objects; you need to support it by meeting people. And, while doing that, you can even gather material for the next book.
