Slightly Off the Mark

 I'm continually surprised that editors and agents in the publishing industry expect novelists to write short stuff, like query letters, outlines, and synopsis ... synopsis's ... synopsi? Just a sec.

(Huh. It's synopses. Who knew?)

Asking a novelist to write short is like asking a politician to spend less money; asking the Wicked Witch to be less cackle, um, cackle-y; asking me to skip dessert. My novel manuscripts tend to be short, but that doesn't make me freak out any less when I have to reduce it to a 1,000 word synopsis. My latest manuscript is 82,000 words: It's like taking a full size pickup truck and reducing it to Matchbox size with your bare hands.

Hey, I have this one! Wouldn't want to build the real thing from scratch.

Now imagine someone trying to write a synopsis for one of George R.R. Martin's Song of Ice and Fire books, which are so big they're registered as lethal weapons. Seriously, even putting it on your Kindle adds two pounds. When I tried to read the newest one on the couch, I broke my hip. And the couch. Of course, no one would ask him to write a synopsis. In fact, he probably has an assistant that does nothing but write synopses ... seses ....

In theory the best way to write a synopsis is to write one paragraph for each chapter, then trim where necessary, as if it isn't going to be necessary. I tried other tactics. For instance, removing every "the"; putting into the synopsis only the third and fifteenth word of every page; and hiring George R.R. Martin's synopsis writer. None worked. (You wouldn't believe what that guy charges.)

So I looked the manuscript over again. While Martin's books are high fantasy, my newest story is apparently low fantasy, and yes, I'm aware of the possible jokes. That means it's set in our real world, but magical elements intrude into it; the best known example would probably by the Harry Potter series.

How low can you go? Well, you could have an entire school full of kids who could turn their parents into warthogs, for instance.

My story, The Source Emerald, is about a young FBI agent on her first assignment, who tries to track down possible gem smugglers in upstate New York. Magic ... intrudes.

All I had to do is boil down her personality, the plot, the stakes, and the major supporting characters into 800-1000 words, or less than two pages. Or shorter, depending on who you ask. Oh, and in your own unique voice ... with plot twists ... and the ending ... I'm going to go lay down, now.

Okay, I'm back. Almost all authors hate writing a synopsis, and those who like it almost always turn out to be heavily addicted to something and/or certifiably insane. I don't have the exact statistics on that. All I know is that on my first whack at it, I spent half a page describing why my main character, Lilly, absolutely doesn't believe the little girl she encounters is Dorothy Gale, made famous in the Oz books. I had to reduce that to, like, four words.

"Dorothy is brunette, and a teenager, and not a princess, and it was all a dream, anyway. Stop pulling my leg--I've seen the movie."

In the final version the whole thing boiled down to: "Lilly doubts Dorothy's story."

It took me three days to come up with that sentence.

In reality I got the whole synopsis done in "just" a few days, not counting my nightmares of being chased by an editor with a sharp red pen. My first version was about 3,500 words, which really wasn't too shabby. My second was around 1,500--I was slashing words like a horror movie villain.

And then--finally--920 beautiful, short, on-point words. That's it. If you want a shorter synopsis from me, I'll just cut from the bottom and you'll never know the ending, pal! (Or lady, since most of the agents and editors I've queried have been female.)

But I did it. I'm relieved, and proud, and surprised, but mostly relieved.

Now I have to write a query letter.

Hm ... or maybe I should tackle a short story. What do you think?

As part of submitting to agents and publishers, an author often has to write a brief synopsis of their novel. It's no big deal: Just boil your 80,000 word work of art into a 500 word ...

Okay, it is a big deal.

The actual length of a synopsis depends on who's asking, which is why I usually do three: a long one that's basically an outline, a medium length one of 2-3 pages, and a short one of 500-1,000 words. None are easy, if you're a long form writer.

These days, most agents and publishers ask for a page or less. You leave out subplots and a lot of the drama--it's can be a little dry, unlike most of your writing output, with just the facts and a brief look at your characters.

My finished rough draft was 4,085 words, in 12 pages.

The second draft is 2,985 words.

So. I have a bit of work to do.

After that I have to write a blurb, something you'd find on the back cover of a book, and it has to be good, interesting, and descriptive, and even shorter. Add to that a cover letter for your submission, which will be sent along with the first, oh, three pages of the manuscript, or five pages, or five chapters, or twenty pages, or whatever they ask for, and there's your submission package. Much of that you have to do even as a self-published author, for promotion purposes.

Writers stress hard over submission packages. But with the odds against them, and most never making enough sales to do it full time, you can hardly blame them.

Off to edit, then. Or submit, or research agents, or ... now that I think on it, it's February. Maybe I'll just have some fun and start on another story. I'll worry about outlining the new one when the days are longer.

This is why writers get a reputation for drinking.

(Let's see who reads to the end of this: After a rough couple of hours, I got it down to 839 words! Still over two pages, but what the heck. I know what you're thinking: "Now, Mark, wasn't that easy?"

No. No, it was not.)

But not the same words.

My third draft was a seek and destroy mission against certain words that can weaken your writing. Words that can make your writing too passive, such as "was". Adverbs. Words ending with "ing" that can become repetitive. Unnecessary words: For instance, instead of "stood up", why not just "stood"? Take up out, and make it stand down.

The word "suddenly" makes an action less sudden. Don't have too many "has". Don't tell the reader a character "felt" something ... show them feeling it.

Unlike some writers, I don't believe you have to stamp out every single one of these words. Treat them as a spice: Put in too many, and the mix isn't right. Despite what Stephen King says, I do have adverbs in my writing ... just not too many of them.

And now? The fourth draft. Time to work on voice and characterization a little.

Don't forget to check out the new short story!

Well, I finished my first draft of the synopsis for Fire On Mist Creek.

3,642 words.

Now, opinions differ on how long a novel synopsis should be. (In my opinion, I should be rich enough to hire someone else to write my synopsis and not worry about how long a synopsis should be.) The general consensus in the writing community is that a synopsis should be kept strictly between two thousand words and, oh, fifty words long. But the shorter the better; just like opera, or congressional term limits, or that little guy from Game of Thrones.

 So I have some cutting to do, and with an ax, not a scalpel. There's a certain irony in cutting a novel down to something you then have to cut down. Meanwhile, I've identified a possible publisher for the book, but according to their publishing guidelines my novel is four hundred words ... too long. (Which is not something I'm remotely worried about for the moment.)

Later I'll probably have to boil my synopsis down into a back page blurb. There'll be significant shrinkage.

So, we paid a little money to promote The No-Campfire Girls on the Fussy Librarian newsletter, which resulted in a few sales. Then I doubled down by letting social media have it with both barrels. I sent out a newsletter, then put up two different posts on multiple social media platforms, including some I still have never heard of and others that don't exist yet.

(By the way, FaceBackTalk will be huge.)

I even tagged some celebrity former Girl Scouts with what amounted to begging. Up to this point, the total effort has produced zero results, in sales or reviews. (To my knowledge; sometimes these things move slowly, like my bathroom sink.)

So the next time your father says "you get what you pay for", stop snickering and pay attention.

I'm tempted to paraphrase Davy Crockett by saying social media can go to hell--I'm going to edit. But after Crockett said something like that, he went to Texas and died at the Alamo. I'm not sure I want to fight to the last adverb.

Besides, social media can be pretty cool, what with the family's baby pics and the backdraft simulators, so as long as you don't get addicted or expect too much from it, it's okay. Another besides: I was once followed on Twitter by the original Becky from "Roseanne", so I've already had my fifteen minutes of fame. (And after she followed me her Twitter account disappeared; coincidence?)

Besides X3, I've gotten a lot of moral support from friends and fellow writers online ... so here's a reward in the form of a short excerpt from The No-Campfire Girls. It's free. You get what you pay for.

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            Cassidy stopped in her tracks. “Oh, no.”

            “What?”

            For a moment Cassidy listened to the voices, then she gripped Beth’s arm. “Whatever you hear from now on, just remember this: Only half of it is true.” She took a deep breath, then marched on toward the barn’s entrance.

            Director Harris stood inside, along with two wranglers—former Lookout Girls who now specialized in the camp’s horses. The wranglers looked greatly amused. Mrs. Harris did not.

            The object of their attention was an old man who stood with his arms crossed. His craggy face was brownish-red, his nose a great tomahawk-like hook, his eyes brown and clear. “Whatever might help should be tried, Director Harris. We accomplish nothing if we don’t try.” He wore jeans, work boots, and, despite the heat, a long sleeve red flannel shirt and cowboy hat. Even the horses stood still, fascinated by him.

            “Oh, my gosh.” Beth whispered to Cassidy, “He looks like a full blooded Indian!”

            “Half Cherokee. But he’s full of something.” Cassidy took another deep breath, then stepped into the barn.

            Cassidy knows this guy. Beth followed the other girl in. Well, it made sense: Unlike Beth, Cassidy lived around here, and the nearest city wasn’t all that big. Heather claimed the nearest mall called her name from three hours away.

            Mrs. Harris didn’t notice them at first, but the old man looked around. “Osiyo, Cassidy.” He sent her a mild smile. “Maybe you could explain to your director that I do an effective rain dance.”

            Cassidy drew back a little. “Hello to you, Running Creek. Beth Hamlin, this is Running Creek.”

            “Call me Simon. I don’t stand on ceremony.” He looked at Mrs. Harris again. “Although I do know how to conduct ceremonies.”

            A moment of silence followed. Everyone, Beth realized, looked at Cassidy.

            “Mrs. Harris, Running Creek—Simon—is trained and experienced with rain dances.”

            Mrs. Harris sighed. “That doesn’t mean—“

            “These things must be done right,” Simon told her. “Once, in 1997, I danced too long. It was a hundred year flood.”

            “I didn’t question your ability to do the dance, Simon. But you’re here to teach archery in place of having campfires—not to change the weather so we can have the campfires. I don’t think it’s proper to do what amounts to a religious ceremony in front of all these girls.”

            Beth didn’t see how a rain dance would be any worse than the Lookout Girl rain song they’d sung at breakfast, but something told her bringing that up would be a bad idea.

            Simon stared at the director for a long moment, then whipped off his hat to uncover a full head of pure white hair. “The politically correct police strike again.” He bowed to Mrs. Harris, nodded to the others, then walked out the door. The horses watched him until he disappeared, as if waiting for his next trick.

            The wranglers tittered a little, until Mrs. Harris threw them a glare and they went back to work. Then she turned her attention on Beth and Cassidy. “You know Running Creek—Simon?”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “He came well recommended, but I’ve never heard of him doing rain dances before. One has to wonder if he’s for real.”

            “He’s really half Cherokee,” Cassidy told her.

            “And what’s the other half?”

            “Irish.”

            Beth looked at Cassidy. How did she know so much about the old man?

            “Irish. I think the word we’re looking for here is blarney.” Apparently too rattled to ask the girls why they were there, Mrs. Harris walked out the door.

            After the director left, Beth cleared her throat. “Blarney?”

            “I think it kind of means … bull … droppings. I wonder if Mrs. Harris is half Irish, too.” Cassidy smiled. “They’ll continue to not get along.”

www.markrhunter.com

I’m about a third of the way through Emily’s edits for Hoosier Hysterical. She’s a harsh taskmaster! And I can’t even complain to my wife about her.

Emily edits our wedding license.

Got a call today from the senior editor at Whiskey Creek Press, confirming some information as I work on check edits for The Notorious Ian Grant (The last step before galleys). Finalizing one book while still publicizing another is a sign of progress … right?