Welcome to Death Of 1000 Cuts – making you an awesome writer, one cut at a time.

This is a blog for writers, readers, and anyone interested in the craft of storytelling. Each week, we take the first page of a writer’s novel or short story and look at ways of making it better. If you want to know more or you’d like to submit your own work, please read the Submission Guidelines.

If you enjoy Death Of 1000 Cuts, I have two favours to ask. The first is that you tell all your friends how excellent it is. Send an email with a link, post it on Facebook, buttonhole someone in the pub and declare your love for this crazy little hairsplitty editing blog. My immodest goal is to double the readership over the next few months. I know, I know, you got here first, you’re the cool ones. That’s why I need your help. As cultural bellwethers your endorsement carries a huge amount of weight. If you tell people, they will come. Please use your power to help us out.

The second favour is, please tell me who does this better than me. Who is putting out amazing blogs and podcasts about creative writing and books at the moment? Who makes me look like the tawdry half-arsed amateur I most assuredly am? Who do I need to go check out? Please point me towards the best the web has to offer. I’m keen to learn from the best, and frankly I’d love to discover ace new content in my favourite area of interest. Either pop your suggestions in the comments box below or email me via the ‘Contact Me’ link on the right. Thank you.

Right. To business. As usual, read the extract below, decide what you like about it, what – precisely – you’d change, then read my thoughts after ‘The Cuts’.

Untitled (by Jack)

On a Sunday that was remarkable only for being milder than the week that preceded it, Terry Pegg sat down to write a diary entry.

He wrote with chickenscratch scribbles and a dog at his feet and began with the modest title of, “How the Universe Was Created: The Ultimate Truth.”

Then he paused. The tale was difficult to begin because really it began with everything and then everything happened. All at once and one by one. Stars and rocks and dinosaurs and Romans, all the way up to Terry.

Noting that, he decided it best to begin with the previous Tuesday.

Terry wrote that Tuesday had been less mild than Sunday, and he had walked to school alone. He had passed familiar neighbours in familiar routines, had seen a dog he had not recognised, and, at one point, stepped from a pavement into an empty nothingness.

Most of that was ordinary. The dog and the void, however, were new.

Where he had expected to find cars and neighbours and commuters, he instead had found nothing at all. It was the emptiness of a dreamless sleep, something that couldn’t have existed until it was reflected upon, and he had become a part of it. He watched it with eyes that weren’t there and felt it run through the veins he no longer had.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what to do.

Then, the nothingness introduced itself.

“Hello.” It said. Terry had thought it sounded unsure.

The Cuts

On a Sunday that was remarkable only for being milder than the week that preceded it, Terry Pegg sat down to write a diary entry.

Hello Jack. Hmm. *steeples fingers, leans across desk* How to begin…

Okay, let’s acknowledge what you’ve done right. This first sentence is clear – there’s no ambiguity, no unintended dualities of meaning. It might sound like I’m damning with faint praise, but you’ve read my previous posts, right? Novice authors find it surprisingly challenging to say what they mean.

It’s good that the sentence ends with the most important, most interesting bit of information. What’s Terry writing about? It’s not a breathtakingly powerful hook but it’s not awful either. It’s fine.

I don’t think you should call your protagonist ‘Terry Pegg’. It’s too close to Simon Pegg and a nontrivial percentage of readers will be distracted by the connection. It’d be fine if he weren’t a baffled everyman underdog thrust into a situation way beyond his comprehension, but it’s like calling the hero of your Space Opera ‘Gary Skywalker’. The genre-surname connection is too strong.

Technically, ‘remarkable’ can mean ‘worthy of remark’, but contemporary usage is as a synonym for ‘exceptional’. A slightly warmer Sunday is not ‘exceptional’. What you mean to write is: ‘On a Sunday that was distinguished only by…’

Yes, I’m nitpicking, but minor language flubs chip away at the reader’s faith in your skill. It’s not a conscious thing – we just find ourselves less and less invested in the voice. It’s like when you’re dancing in a club and the track skips. You feel a weird discontinuity in your chest, almost like embarrassment. A few in a row and the spell’s broken. People start to shuffle away from the dance floor, and they may not even know why.

He wrote with chickenscratch scribbles and a dog at his feet and began with the modest title of, “How the Universe Was Created: The Ultimate Truth.”

O dread whimsy! How many unwary authors have perished, smothered in your cloying gelatinous tendrils?

It looks so easy, doesn’t it? Just underplay stuff! Juxtapose the miraculous with the mundane. Undermine SF’s self-regarding reverence for wonder. Just be all like:

Geoff was eating an egg sandwich when the archangel appeared, burning.

What?! Egg sandwiches? Archangels? Those two things don’t go together! They’re from different lexical sets! Only a total nutter would put them in the same sentence! Whatever next? Usually I feel all itchy and ashamed when I read genre fiction with the courage of its convictions, but I can enjoy this with impunity because it’s only joking! Aren’t human concerns absurd? Arf!

I’m being unfair, but it’s to illustrate the key peril of attempting an ironic, whimsical voice. If you fail (I’m referring here to the authorial ‘you’ – I am sure you are a great person, Jack, and deservedly loved by those around you) to nail the tone perfectly, this kind of humour is incredibly annoying.

Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy set the bar high, and even that series petered out towards the end. Terry Pratchett has amassed a loyal army of fans using much the same voice. It’s an arched-eyebrow, archetypally-British tone – stiff-upper-lipped perplexity, mild condescension, barely suppressed panic.

It’s a voice that’s been done preternaturally well by a couple of authors, which unfortunately means that your readers will immediately compare you against some very stiff competition. Should this put you off? No. Be ambitious – that’s awesome. I like Adams and Pratchett but – like all human authors – I don’t believe they’re unbeatable. Why shouldn’t you set your sights high?

I’ll continue this in a moment but let’s return to the sentence. ‘dog’ is too vague. Be specific. What breed of dog? Give us something concrete we can picture.

‘modest’ is the key word that lets this sentence down. It’s you – again, the authorial you – digging us in the ribs and going ‘ay up – get ready for some pretty amusing hubris’. Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. Don’t signpost your jokes.

I’d cut ‘The Ultimate Truth’ from the title. ‘How The Universe Was Created’ encompasses that and the sentence has more impact if it closes on ‘Created’.

Then he paused. The tale was difficult to begin because really it began with everything and then everything happened. All at once and one by one. Stars and rocks and dinosaurs and Romans, all the way up to Terry.

Imagine The Life And Times Of Tristram Shandy. Imagine its contents summarised by a charmless third-person narrator. You’ve just imagined ‘Untitled’, by Jack!

So wait. Did he sit down with no idea of how to proceed? Had he genuinely not considered this before he started writing? What’s the reality of this world? Is Jack a child?

When you say he ‘wrote with chickenscratch scribbles’, do you mean he only wrote the title? Because the previous paragraph implies he’s deep into the diary entry, but this next one suggests he doesn’t know how to start.

And actually, ‘Stars and rocks and dinosaurs and Romans’ are all about the history of the universe, not its creation, which self-evidently predates all that. And the tale doesn’t begin ‘with everything’. It begins with nothing.

See, here’s the problem with riding upon the fragrant zephyrs of whimsy. Without a skilful pilot, the windshear will rip your story apart in seconds.

I get the joke – he sets himself a crazily ambitious essay title then can’t even write the first line. But what’s his motivation? Who is this guy? Is he arrogant? Is he stupid? Is he just whimsical? How does he feel about this failure?

Whimsy isn’t a license to perform a series of illogical volte faces. A wacky jack-knifing narrative is no substitute for plot, rich style, and characters we can invest in.

Noting that, he decided it best to begin with the previous Tuesday.

No need for ‘Noting that’ – it’s meaningless fluff. Sentence order implies causality.

I’m finding the register switches tiresome rather than funny. Oh look, we’ve switched from ‘the universe’ to ‘Tuesday’! Flipping mad, eh? Either that or grindingly try-hard, like a rapping vicar.

Terry wrote that Tuesday had been less mild than Sunday, and he had walked to school alone.

Okay, so he is a kid. Establish that immediately. It puts his diary entry into context. I can more easily believe a child attempting something so grandiose, and biting off more than he can chew.

Would a kid really describe the weather as ‘less mild’? That seems bizarrely middle-aged. And why are you summarising his entry? Why not give us his exact words? Show, don’t tell. If we have access to him, we might care more.

He had passed familiar neighbours in familiar routines, had seen a dog he had not recognised, and, at one point, stepped from a pavement into an empty nothingness.

‘familiar neighbours in familiar routines’ Are you serious? If you can’t be arsed, don’t write the story. This is monumental laziness. What neighbours? What routines? What year is this? Who’s the president? Don’t you think your readers deserve more than this astigmatic smudge?

I like the way the sentence ends. Most interesting words at the end. Good. The line jack-knifes prettily. I’m interested. I don’t trust you, exactly – so far you haven’t proven you’re a safe pair of hands – but it’s odd and understated enough that I’m prepared to go with it another line or two.

Most of that was ordinary. The dog and the void, however, were new.

Um. I do like these lines. I particularly like the inclusion of ‘the dog’. Giving the void and the dog parity is amusing. It makes me hope that the dog becomes important too.

Where he had expected to find cars and neighbours and commuters, he instead had found nothing at all. It was the emptiness of a dreamless sleep, something that couldn’t have existed until it was reflected upon, and he had become a part of it. He watched it with eyes that weren’t there and felt it run through the veins he no longer had.

He expected to find ‘cars and neighbours and commuters’ when he ‘stepped from a pavement’? All those things? Or are you just throwing noun categories at us in the hope we won’t notice your fictional world is as thin and unconvincing as a Wet Wipe with a daisy drawn on it in biro?

I like ‘the emptiness of a dreamless sleep’ – that feels like it’s in the register of a child, weird but simple. Everything from ‘something that…’ till ‘part of it’ is meaningless wank. Cut it.

I like the last sentence in this paragraph. Engages our senses a bit, and some nice, simple strangeness.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what to do.

No need for that adverb. We’ve no reason to think the narrator is lying.

Then, the nothingness introduced itself.

“Hello.” It said. Terry had thought it sounded unsure.

Some typographical housekeeping. No need for a comma after ‘Then’. Also, you mean:

‘Hello,’ it said.

The dialogue tag is part of the sentence. Why do you switch back into the pluperfect for that last sentence – ‘had thought’ instead of ‘thought’?

Indeed, why are we reliving this scene is flashback? Why not start with Terry toddling along the road, seeing and hearing and sensing some specific people and things, then stepping into the void? What’s all this bollocks about a diary entry got to do with anything? Why does the scene require such a leaden, unwieldy framing device? Why water down the excitement and peril by making it clear that he gets out alive and days later writes a diary entry about it?

There are good things about this extract, Jack. It is not shit. But trying to be funny is like trying to jump a ravine. You either succeed or you don’t. Getting 80% of the way looks no different to 5%. You fail. You’re fucked.

I suggest thinking less about how to be wacky, and more about the character of Terry. Humour arises less out of deliberate dissonance between tone and content, and more out of character. As soon as we start to read about Terry confronting this void, and not seeming scared, I’m far more engaged. I start to like him a bit. At the very least, I’m wondering how he will respond to this testing situation.

Humanity is funny. Empathy is funny. Conspicuous, desperate clowning is not funny. Step back from your story. Stop trying to slather it in winking irony, and let Terry shine through. Trust in the content. If you do, I suspect you’ll be surprised at just how capably Terry can carry the day.

–

Enjoyed this? Chances are you’ll like my award-winning memoir on writing, publishing, and crushing disappointment, We Can’t All Be Astronauts.

If you’d like to know when I’ll be appearing live in your area, sign up to my monthly mailing list.