This fortnight’s story is The Tracker. I’m not going to say any more about it. Give it a read and let me know what you think.
There are many ways to tell a story. Two of the most popular are books and films, and although the same story can be told in both formats, each has its own strengths and weaknesses, and it is rare that a single title will work well on both screen and page.
In my experience, if the movie is an adaptation of a novel (or short story), the movie will not work as well. Conversely, if the book is a movie novelisation, the original film will be superior. There are exceptions, where both book and movie stand up on their own (Fight Club, The Princess Bride, Lord Of The Rings, and Trainspotting spring to mind), but generally whichever came first is the stronger telling, and the adaption is a reflection.
I read the original Star Wars novel when it came out (way back in 1977). I’m sure I enjoyed it, because I remember reading it a few times. But I re-read it recently, and I was unimpressed—and I think I know what the problem was.
It follows the film too closely.
One of the criticisms levelled at the Harry Potter books is that JK Rowling doesn’t write novels, but films in prose form. Maybe that’s overly harsh, but the books are very visual, and it is easy to play the films along mentally when reading them. But if Harry Potter is films in prose, Star Wars is little more than a straight description of what appears on the screen.
Yes there are some additional scenes, and occasionally we are in the heads of one of the characters, but generally, the book describes the film, scene by scene. It’s like a fleshed-out script. Yes, reading the book reminded me of the film, but it also made me regret wasting my time ploughing through the words when I could have got a better experience spending two hours with the DVD.
Films are visual, but books need to work harder to evoke similar images. An expression on a character’s face can convey emotion, but to convey the same emotion in words requires more (or different) work. It is not enough to simply describe the images.
Think of the space battles in Star Wars. On the screen, we cut between close-ups of the pilots and wide shots of X-Wing fighters screaming past. There are explosions all around. We hear voices, and laser fire. Everywhere is action and adrenaline-fuelled excitement, and the speed of movement only increases the tension.
In the book, we get paragraphs describing these quick cuts, and they soon become a list of what is happening rather than a narrative of the action. One moment, we’re with Luke, then suddenly we have someone firing a missile from another fighter. Then we’re back with Luke for a moment, before a paragraph describes fighters screaming through the trench on the Death Star. After that, we’re in another cockpit, with sparks surrounding the pilot as he cries out.
The cutaways work on film, but not in the book.
I’ll give another example. At one point in the film, the camera watches R2-D2 following a path on Tattoine, and we get the impression that he (it?) is being watched, and we feel nervous anticipation. In the book, we get a description of this scene, but it conveys next to no emotion.
Why? In the film, we are concerned about the little robot (or at least we are interested in seeing what happens next). We feel for R2. But with a straight description, everything is distant. We are too far removed from what is happening.
For that scene to work in text, I can’t help feeling it would have been better to be in R2’s head, or at least see his point of view. Maybe have a description of the rugged terrain, and the caves along the route, with R2’s sensors picking up life-forms. There’s movement, high up on a cliff, but when R2 turns his head, it’s already gone. But he has his mission, and he needs to carry on, even though he doesn’t like this inhospitable terrain. And there are all the stories he’s heard, and the information in his data banks, of the creatures that roam this desert planet.
See what I mean? In text, we need to be closer to the characters’ emotions. We need more than a description of what is happening. A cool scene in a film might grab us, and a brief glance at a character is often all that is needed to convey emotion, but in a book we often need something more internal.
The book is a ‘novelisation of the film’, and so maybe the author (credited as George Lucas, but I believe Alan Dean Foster did the actual writing) was limited to what he could do. Or maybe the book was rushed, being pushed through to release at the same time as the film. After all, Star Wars was the movie where merchandising really took off, and the ‘book of the film’ perhaps should be seen in light of that.
Back in the seventies, the only way to see the film was at a cinema, until it was released on video three years later, and on television a couple of years after that. Fans didn’t have the opportunity of on-demand viewing, but the merchandise surrounding a film kept it fresh. The action figures enabled fans to reenact their favourite scenes. And maybe the book’s main purpose was to be a reminder of the film, and the way the movie played out in my head as I read the book should be seen as a mark of its success.
I can’t help thinking it could have been a great novel, though. The story itself is a classic, taking the Hero’s Journey and placing it in an exciting new setting, with alien worlds to explore and a cast of interesting characters. And these characters have conflicting motives that change over time. The story has an incredible scope, from the bickering robots to the world-destroying space-station, from Luke being ripped from his quiet home life to Leia’s political machinations, from Solo’s ‘get what you can’ attitude to the battle of ideologies between Empire and Rebellion. Love and death, war and peace, survival and friendship—Star Wars touches on them all.
Surely this deserves more than a bulked-out movie script.
Another short story for you. This one’s called Clay, and you can read it here.
When I wrote the first draft of the first Dominions novel, I had whole sections from Sertio’s point of view. I explored his reasons for becoming an artist, and the shocking truth that drove him. But it didn’t fit with the rest of the story, and so I cut it, leaving only the smallest of hints.
So I knew I had to return to Sertio at some point (and I have plans for him in later Dominions books). But for now, I thought it would be interesting to see him at work. Again, there are only hints at his past, but it’s interesting to see a darker side of a character who appeared so carefree and full of life in Dark Glass.
It’s a bit different to my other stories, so I’d be interested to hear what you think, either in the comments section or directly (email@example.com).
Don’t forget the other short stories, too—25 of them now, and all free to read here.
There’s this thing called the Designer’s Holy Triangle. The three sides of the triangle are labelled fast, cheap and good—but it is only possible to use two at a time. According to this idea, you cannot have something that is high quality and at a reasonable price if you also want it quickly.
I read a collaborative book recently that made me relate this to writing. The authors worked very fast on this book, going from idea to finished project in something like a month. The writing itself took five days (or so I believe), and editing about another week.
It’s an enjoyable book. It’s fairly short, fast paced, and held my interest the whole way through. But something bothered me as I read it.
It could have been so much better. I’m no expert, but I spotted so many minor adjustments that would have made the writing stronger. Some of the phrasing felt clumsy. The characters’ actions didn’t always ring true. And too often it fell into ‘describing what was happening’ instead of giving me a well-written scene.
In my view, the book could have done with at least one more editing pass, possibly more. The problems weren’t major, but they were enough to drag it down to ‘meh’ when it could have been ‘wow!’
Supply And Demand
But fast, at least in indie publishing, is often seen as a necessity. According to some, if you don’t release a book each month you’ll be left behind. People talk of Amazon’s 30-day cliff, after which a book doesn’t get as much organic publicity, so you need a new book out to keep the interest up. Readers, hungry for more, contact authors to ask when the next in a series is out, and authors feel pressurised to keep their stories coming.
There is a strong argument in favour of this workrate—supply and demand. It’s giving the readers what they want, or at least what they say they want. And there are writers who consistently produce a book a month. There are those who have turned writing into an industry. And this can apply to traditionally-published authors as well. Apparently, Lee Childs’ books are polished first drafts. James Patterson uses collaboration to create a constant stream of new product. And authors like Stephen King and Brandon Sanderson are capable of writing thick tomes in months rather than years.
But there are many who argue that a book should take at least a year to write, and moving any quicker makes you a hack. They argue that a book written too fast will automatically be rubbish. They say that real quality takes time.
There is some validity in this. Writing a decent book or story is far more involved than simply putting down the words, and a rush job is more likely to have rough edges. But I don’t think it necessarily holds that a book written fast is any worse than one written over a longer time period.
Everyone is different. Every writer works in their own way. Some are able to achieve a flow state, and the words fly from their fingers. Some use dictation to work at 5000 words per hour on their first drafts. There are those who plan meticulously before they start writing, and so there is not as much structural work required later (and I believe this is Lee Child’s method). And others are simply capable of putting in ten hours of work on their books every single day.
Then there are authors who agonise over every word they type, and who will spend a couple of hours honing each sentence. There are those who seek perfection in every phrase, and who will discard pages as they go.
A book a year might be a guideline, or an average, but how many people are average?
But, as I said before, there is pressure on the independently published author to churn the books out. And with this pressure, I believe there are too many writers who are skimping on editing.
I’m not talking about typos, or about hiring a developmental and a copy editor. Yes, these things can clearly help (especially having other, expert eyes looking at the book). But from what I have read, many writers could do with spending more time on self-editing.
I don’t class myself as an expert, and I know I have so much more to learn about writing, but I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve spotted an easy way to improve a book. I’ll notice repeated words, and come up with alternatives. I’ll think about how the story could be restructured to have a stronger impact on the reader. I’ll cringe at unwieldy dialogue, imagine how someone would actually say something similar, and wonder why the writer didn’t put that down instead.
Yet these books sell as they are. Reading the reviews, many people love them. So maybe I’m in a minority here. If these stories have an avid and eager audience, who loses out with these ‘could be better’ books?
Minimal Viable Product
Short-term, it looks like the only losers are those who spend longer on their books. Without the constant ‘here I am again’ factor of regular releases over the year, each new book needs more of a marketing boost, and slow writers can easily slip from even their fans’ minds.
But long-term, things aren’t as clear.
There’s a concept called ‘minimal viable product’. If you’re producing something for public consumption, be that an object (physical or electronic) or a service, you work out what the basic model is, release this, and then work on refining it as you build an audience or customer base. There’s a lot to be said for this, and with digital products it is easy to make minor adjustments over time. Think of all the software and apps that are released and then constantly updated as they are tweaked and improved. And these improvements are based on real-time customer feedback. The first release no longer needs to be a perfect product.
But does this work with books? How many of the fast writers go back and refine already published works? Generally, by the time feedback comes in on one book, they’re already onto the next, or the one after that. Returning to an old product would slow their momentum. And so, in the majority of cases, the ‘minimal viable product’ is also the final product.
Again, if people are happy with this, where’s the problem?
I’d argue that the problem involves expectations of quality.
Imagine someone who is budget-conscious. They want to cut their food bill. One suggested way of doing this is to buy slightly less expensive products—not jumping straight to the budget range, but simply moving down a notch. The difference won’t be massive, and over time you’ll become accustomed to the less expensive brand. And then, you can down-grade again.
This saves money. And it also gets you accustomed to lower quality.
But in books (in fact, in any art), this becomes problematic. Good art has a long-lasting appeal. Well-written books can be re-read countless times and still feel fresh. Classics last forever.
Popcorn is great for a few minutes, but it goes stale far too quickly.
If someone wants to write a book for the particular moment, that’s fine. But I think that most writers want their work to have some kind of a shelf-life. Even in indie-publishing circles, where fast is encouraged, part of the reason for this is to build up a library. Those older books become catalogue, and the aim is to continue selling them. An old book is always new to someone discovering it for the first time. But for a book to last, it has to be of a decent quality.
And yes, I have already argued that fast writing can produce quality books. But there is a difference between ‘good’ and ‘great’, and maybe this is where that extra work comes in.
I’m reminded here of the 80/20 rule (at least, one of the ways of understanding it). This states that 80% of the work comes from 20% of the effort—or, to put it another way, getting the final 20% of something done will take 80% of the time. People use this to argue that it is more time- and cost-effective to work to 80%, and that the returns for reaching closer to 100% are simply not worth it.
80% is pretty good. An 80% story will be enjoyable. It will be of good quality. I’m quite happy reading 80% books, although I’ll probably only read them once.
Perfection Is The Enemy Of Done (And Done Is The Enemy Of Perfection)
Another phrase I’ve heard—‘perfection is the enemy of done’. Spend too long refining a book, and you’ll never be finished. How many perfect books are there in the world? How many classics can any one writer produce?
I’m aiming for the middle ground. I know my own writing won’t be perfect, but I’, working on it being as good as I can make it. And, for me, that means more than writing a first draft and then doing some quick cosmetic editing. It means looking at the story structure. It means throwing away sections that don’t work. It means re-writing huge chunks.
I don’t want to go years between releases. But neither do I want to bring out books too quickly if they are not the best I can do.
And when I’m reading? If I read a good book, I’ll want more from that author. But I’d rather wait for ‘wow’ than settle for ‘meh’.
If this piques your interest, I’ve got more short stories freely available. Click here for the full list.
And, as always, I’d love to know what you think. Contact me, or add a comment.
I recently read the Tube Riders trilogy by Chris Ward, and I loved the books. It’s great when I come across an author who blows me away like this—it makes reading all those ‘so-so’ books (and worse) worth it all when you find a true gem.
I posted a short review on Goodreads (you can check it out here), but that looks at the trilogy from a reader’s perspective. However, while reading the books, there was so much I picked up on as a writer. As well as being enjoyable, entertaining reads, they were also instructive. Below are a few of the things that stood out.
I love the way the characters were written in these books. They are all three-dimensional, and they all change over time. When their is dialogue, they have distinctive voices. And they also all have their faults as well as their strengths.
An obvious example is the character of Stitch. He is one of the Tube Riders, which makes him one of the heroes, but he has a nasty side, and at times he comes across as very selfish. Or maybe he’s so used to having to look out for himself that others are secondary—after painting him as a slightly unsavoury character, we get a glimpse of the hardness of his life. It’s easy to understand why he’s wary of anyone new, and maybe we can understand why someone like Stitch would use violence to solve his problems.
Yet he is also loyal, and throughout the books you kind of know he will come through for the others in the end.
Then there are the baddies.
In the first book, one of the agents after the Tube Riders is Clayton. He wants to capture them, so he’s clearly a baddie. But he’s working for the government because he believes that is the right thing to do. And, as that first book progresses, he comes up against other government agents, and we see how not all ‘baddies’ are the same. Clayton is not mindlessly following orders—he genuinely wants to do what he believes to be right. And this brings him into conflict with other government agents, even though they are ‘on the same side’.
More interesting is the Governor. He’s the main villain of the trilogy, but the way he is written it is clear that he also believes in what he is doing. He is not afraid of making hard decisions, and is willing to make sacrifices (of others) for the greater good. And we get glimpses of his true motivations, which make us question our assumptions, at least for a while. Is he really evil, or just misguided? As the trilogy progresses, and he seems to become more unhinged, there was a part of me that wanted him to make the right decision, and to turn his back on his wrongdoing. Even up to the end, he has the potential for redemption.
I’m not going to say how he ends up—you’ll have to read the books to find out.
Nobody Is Safe
The protagonists in these books are young, but they are in a tough situation. Their world is nasty, and they take risks in part because of this. Death is in the air, even in their hobby of tube riding (jumping and ‘riding’ moving trains before leaping off to safety). In the first chapter, we hear of those who have died doing this.
But the heroes won’t die, right? They all need to survive to the end, don’t they?
In many books, that would be true. But Chris Ward does something near the start of Tube Riders that lets us know that nobody is safe.
I’m going to give a little of the story away, so if you want to read the books without spoilers, skip down to the next section. But this is something that happens near the start, so it’s not like I’m giving any of the main plot points away.
The Tube Riders have rivals, in the form of the Train Jumpers. Instead of leaping onto moving trains, they jump from platform to platform in front of trains, aiming to get as close as they can. The Train Jumpers hate the Tube Riders. And if that sound like petty, childish behaviour, remember that these characters are teens and young adults—acting childish is in their nature.
One of the Tube Riders feels dissatisfied with his gang, and he goes to the Train Jumpers, betraying his old gang. It’s a bit of a shock, so soon into the story. It makes us question the loyalty of all the Tube Riders—if one of them can defect, so could others.
Then something worse happens. The Jumpers seem to accept him, and as an initiation he has to join them in a jump. Yet this is a set-up. He is pushed as he is about to jump, and he falls under the train.
He’s only in the book for a few chapters, but he was one of the Tube Riders. He was one of the heroes. And now he’s dead. The stakes are raised for all the others—if one of the Tube Riders can die, none of them are safe.
This sets up more deaths as the books progress, and those deaths underline the overall uncertainty. It’s the same thing George RR Martin pulled in his Game Of Thrones books—kill off a main character, then nobody is safe.
The reader is no longer assured a happy ending.
A Trilogy Of Complete Stories
I was impressed with the structure of this trilogy. The story unfolds, with more and more intrigue and questions blossoming in the first book. Obviously, not all of these questions can be answered in a single book. You know, as a reader, that things will only be resolved at the end of the third book.
Yet there is no major cliffhanger between books. In each part of the trilogy, there is an arc, with its own satisfying conclusion.
This is so different to many other series I’ve read. Often, an ending seems in sight, but the author swerves at the very last moment, and leaves the main character in jeopardy. Sometimes, I’ll reach the end of a book, and it feels incomplete, like the author has simply chopped up a larger story.
This annoys me. Yes, leave questions unanswered. But I expect a book to end. I expect the author to craft a good story with a satisfying payoff at the end, even if I know there is more to come.
Chris Ward, as I have said above, manages to pull this off. If I read these books individually, over a year or so as they were released, I would not feel let down. I would close each one with a good feeling while still be anticipating the next one.
How does he manage this? By focusing on the main arc of that story. In the first book, the Tube Riders are trying to escape. Yes, we learn more about the Governor, and there are hints at what he is planning. There are characters who we just know have more of a part to play later on. But the escape is important, and when this arc is completed (spoiler alert—they escape), the book is finished.
As a trilogy, the conclusion works, although there is scope for more books (as you would expect with such an interesting world and a rich cast of characters). I understand that the author does not intend to write more sequels, but has not ruled out other stories set in the same world (in fact, there is a fourth book, filling in some of the time between the second and third in the trilogy. I’ll let you know what I think of this when I’ve read it).
The Writing Itself
I love the writing in these books.
We see events through different characters, and the prose in each character’s section has their voice, putting us in their heads wonderfully. As an example, when we are with Stitch, there is far more cursing in the descriptions, fitting his character. The Governor is colder, with less emotion in what he sees.
The dialogue feels so natural. I’ve already mentioned how characters have their own voices, but there was something else about the dialogue that impressed me. Often, rather than writing loads of history or backstory, authors will use dialogue to give the reader this information. However, this often feels unnatural and stilted. Not so in these books. The info-dumps are a natural part of the conversations, and we learn what the characters are learning.
There is a great deal of action in these books. This is promised from the very first scene, with the Tube Riders partaking of their potentially lethal hobby. Later there are chases, fights on the tops of moving trains,beatings, and loads of other exciting stuff.
I’ve read far too many books where the action reads like a description of a film—blow-by-blow fights, or sequences that simply have too much detail. And writing like that becomes tiresome very fast.
Chris Ward doesn’t fall into this trap. In every action scene, we stay with a main character, and experience it through their senses, filtered through their emotions. We might never see the bigger picture, but the chaos surrounding a scared individual fighting for their lives had far more impact, getting the adrenaline flowing and the heart pumping. And there is a reason for every action scene. We learn, through the fights, more about the characters, or about the world around them.
The action is not added simply to make the books more interesting. It is integral to the story, and the development of the characters.
So, there you have a few of the things I picked up on while reading the Tube Riders trilogy. As you can no doubt tell, I was impressed. I’m going to be following Chris Ward from now on, reading more of his books (and his newsletters — he asks some interesting questions). He’s my kind of author—exciting, entertaining, and instructive.
Special news for those who like a scare with their technology.
I’ve got a short story in a new anthology, Electromagnetism, compiled by Samie Sands. It’s normally priced at 99p/c, but over the next couple of days it should be available for free through Amazon, so what have you got to lose (apart from a few sleepless nights)?
It’s also available in paperback (click here).
Download (or buy) the book, to read my story, Touch, along with ten other stories. At the moment, Touch is not available anywhere else.