Guest post: Bruce Blake on productivity

When I tell people I wrote the first draft of my upcoming novel, When Shadows Fall (The First Book of the Small Gods) in fourteen days, they either stare at me with a blank expression, make me repeat it to ensure they didn't mishear me and I actually said forty, or they ask me how I managed to churn out an entire novel in such a short time. Since you are not looking at me, and it clearly says “fourteen” days in the last sentence, I'm going to assume you fall into the third group...so here's how it happened.

First, it's important to realize I am a full-time writer—making stuff up is what I do. This output didn't happen in half-hour snatches here and there, but in 5-7 hour chunks of tapping on my laptop's keys. Before you stop reading because you don't have that much time to write, realize that what's most important about this output is how much I produced in the time I had—consistently about 1,300 words/hour. This number—your productivity—is how all authors should evaluate the effectiveness of their writing time, with a goal of maximizing the number of words written in the time available. It can be difficult to work around a day job, family, and other commitments—and none of us can jam more hours into the day—but you can control what you do with the time you have and get the most out of the minutes you put in at the keyboard. Here are the steps I took to keep my word count high.

1.      Pre-planning. More effort went into the planning of this book than any I've ever written. For a month, as I was writing and editing another project, I spent my evenings world-building for the Small Gods series. It was really during this phase that the seeds of the story grew and blossomed. The more I learned about the background and history of this world, the more the story I was planning kept taking twists and turns I wasn't expecting.

2.      Outlining. There's always a debate among writers about outlining versus writing by the seat of your pants. Simply put: I find I'm more productive when I have a pretty good idea where I want to go. It means I don't lose writing time by stopping to think about what to do next. This dovetails perfectly into the next point.

3.      Daily planning. This is a tip I picked up from Rachel Aaron's great little writing book 2,000 to 10,000: Writing Faster, Writing Better, and Writing More of What You Love. It's a simple concept...take the first five minutes of your writing session, grab a pen and paper (that's right—the old-fashioned way) and jot down what you will be writing about. Include actions, bits of dialogue, descriptions; all the points you want to hit, plus some of the detail. This is your road map for what you will write today—not tomorrow, not yesterday, but today.

4.      No editing. Sounds funny, doesn't it? Of course I edit, just not while I'm writing the first draft. I know too many writers who never get to the end of their manuscript because they spend too much time polishing the first half of the book to perfection. Not only are first drafts supposed to suck, I know the way I write; chances are good that, if I did a bunch of editing before I finished the rough draft, something else would change and I'd end up going back to rewrite all that careful editing, anyway. Time well wasted.

5.      Unplug. The Internet is not your friend. If you are writing and you can't find the word you're after, can't come up with a great name for a new character, or need to do a bit of research, bookmark it and save it for non-writing time. Seriously, it will still be there at 10 o'clock on Thursday night when there's a commercial during The Amazing Race...do it then. Don't even get me started on Facebook and email.

6.      Make writing a priority. We all hear many writers lamenting that they can't find time to write. I never have that problem because I plan my writing time, then make everything else work with it. I did the same thing when I was working sixty-hour weeks...the job schedule was the only thing that was inflexible; everything else had to realize I had a book to write.

With planning and forethought, it's more than possible to write quickly without sacrificing quality. Be ready, be focused, be dedicated...now go write.

New fantasy launches today!

Blood of the King (Khirro's Journey Book 1)

Blood of the King, the new epic fantasy by Vancouver author and Guild of Dreams founder Bruce Blake, launches today, and Written Words is fortunate to have an excerpt to publish from Chapter 5. What's it all about?

The king falls and a hero is born, his fate thrust upon him by Shaman's curse. A journey to save the kingdom begins.

Khirro never wanted to be anything more than the farmer he was born to be, but a Shaman's curse binds him to the fallen king and his life changes forever.

Driven by the Shaman's dying words, Khirro's journey pits him against an army of the dead, sends him through haunted lands, and thrusts him into the jaws of beasts he wouldn't have believed existed. In one hand he carries the Shaman's enchanted sword, a weapon he can barely use; in the other he holds a vial of the king's blood, the hope of the kingdom. His destination: the Necromancer's keep in the cursed land of Lakesh. Only the mysterious outlaw magician can raise the king from the dead to save them all from the undead invasion, but can Khirro live long enough to deliver the vial?

Can a coward save a kingdom?

This blog post is part of a cycle: a group of bloggers is publishing excerpts from successive chapters of this exciting new book.


Read Chapter 1  on Tami Parrington's blog:

Read Chapter 2 (Part 1) on Chantal Boudreau's Visions in the Dark
Read Chapter 2 (Part 2) on Steve Montano's Blood Skies blog
Read Chapter 3 on Joshua Johnson's Gunpowder Fantasy blog
Read Chapter 4 on Emily Ann Ward's blog

And now you're caught up and can read part of Chapter 5:

Excerpt: Blood of the King

Chapter 5

The soldier sat on the top stair cleaning blood from his sword, listening to the groans of wounded men strewn on the walk around him. He shifted and slid the blade into its scabbard. Men moved along the wall walk making repairs, tending the injured and collecting the dead. Most of them made a wide berth around him, avoiding a man wearing the garb of the king’s guard. A few archers remained at the parapet launching arrows at the retreating Kanosee, but they had pulled back beyond bow range. The fight had been fierce but, despite the wall breach, they’d repelled the invaders.

For now.

Farther down the wall walk, soldiers scavenged the fallen enemy for whatever they might keep or sell. He sneered. How could they act that way? Where was their honor? On the battlefield, in the heat of the fight when life and death were at stake, such things were done for survival, not for personal gain. Bury them or burn them, don’t rob them. He spat in their direction and turned his head away.

When the Kanosee soldiers breached the wall, it had required all his focus to stay alive, and he lost track of the king in the melee. The last time he saw Braymon, he was engaged with one of the monstrosities summoned to swell the Kanosee ranks. The tide of battle engulfed the soldier, distracting him from his assignment until a fresh troop of Erechanians joined the fray, driving the invaders from the wall, setting the ladders alight with urns of burning pitch. The stench of burnt flesh had threatened to empty the soldier’s stomach; he might have known some of those men, as he may have known some he slew himself. When his thoughts had cleared of the fog of battle, the king was gone. The cloaked man wouldn’t be happy he failed, but he’d have other opportunities.

The soldier stood, stretched, and glanced down the stair at the landing below, a glint of sunlight on metal catching his attention. Near the wall, crowded at the corner of the landing, he saw a suit of plate—Erechanian and of high quality, but he couldn’t get a good view. He hurried down the stairs for a closer look.

Puddled blood, dried and brown, stained the landing. He surveyed the scene with a practiced eye and surmised two men had lain here, one gravely injured. His gaze followed the trail of blood descending the stair and the story became clear: one man injured, the other stripped his armor to carry him to safety. The warrior shook his head. How many men died trying to save one fallen soldier when the entire fortress was in peril? He half-smiled at the novice mistake and went to the heap of plate, shifting it with the toe of his boot. Dirty, scuffed, caked with dried blood inside and out. Through the flaking gore and dust of battle, a pattern was evident on the breast plate. He brushed grime away with a gloved hand and revealed a scrollwork of enameled ivy. His eyes widened.

The armor belonged to the king.

It must have been he who was seriously wounded, carried to safety by some faithful soldier. His stomach clenched. How would he find the king and complete his task now? Anger rose in the soldier; he despised failure, had been trained since birth that it meant weakness. A boot scuffed on a stair below and he stood, muscles tensed, hand on sword hilt.

“Ye! What 'ave we 'ere?” The man ascending the stairs halted as he saw the soldier standing over the pile of armor. “Anythin’ valuable?”

“Not sure.”

The soldier kept his voice purposely low to draw the man closer. With the king fallen, he had little time. The cloaked man had told him what would happen if the king fell and the Shaman performed his abomination, had explained how they would get out of the fortress. He needed to find a way to intercept them before they got too far. This man might be the way.

“I can’t see, ya damn fool. Move outta me way!”

The soldier shifted, keeping his king’s guard insignia hidden, and made space for the other man to sidle in beside him. The man did as the soldier had moments before, crouching, wiping dirt away for a better look and to gauge the armor’s value. The soldier loosened his dagger in its sheath.

“Gods, look at this. Must be worth a fortune.”

He brushed away more dirt, then stopped, hand hovering above an exposed loop of ivy spilling across the breastplate. The soldier’s dagger slid free.

“What is it?”

“The king,” the man said, a note of shock in his words. He stood, half turning toward the soldier. “It’s the king’s pl--”

The soldier’s blade touched the man’s throat, cutting off his words as the sharp edge pressed flesh hard enough to draw blood.

“Don’t cry out. I’ll open your throat before a sound escapes.”

The man’s eyes widened and his breathing stopped; the soldier knew he’d do whatever he said. This man was no warrior, he clung too tightly to life.

“There are tunnels leading from the fortress. Do you know how to access them?”

The man didn’t respond at first, so the soldier pressed more firmly and a drop of blood rolled down the man’s his neck. He nodded once, a quick, mute movement intended to keep the dagger’s edge from slicing deeper into his throat.

“Take me.” The soldier spun the man around, facing him down the stairs, deftly moving the blade from his throat and inserting the tip through the seam in his leather armor. “Don’t betray me or I’ll gut you like the pig you are.”

They descended to the courtyard five flights below, beads of sweat running down the man’s neck, mixing with the blood. They were nearly at the bottom when the man next spoke.

“Why? Why do you betray your king?”

“Not my king,” the soldier growled and jabbed the knife further into the man’s ribs. “Looks can be deceiving.”

They crossed the courtyard, bodies pressed close hiding the dagger between them. Soldiers and workers passed by, too distracted with their own business of repairs and clean-up to notice anything awry. The soldier breathed deep, inhaling familiar fumes of battle, and raised his eyes to the sun. Many hours yet remained in the day, encouraging him. He’d find the king.

His mission would yet be completed.

Biography

Bruce Blake lives on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. When pressing issues like shovelling snow and building igloos don't take up his spare time, Bruce can be found taking the dog sled to the nearest coffee shop to work on his short stories and novels.

Actually, Victoria, B.C. is only a couple hours north of Seattle, Wash., where more rain is seen than snow. Since snow isn't really a pressing issue, Bruce spends more time trying to remember to leave the "u" out of words like "colour" and "neighbour" then he does shovelling. The father of two, Bruce is also the trophy husband of burlesque diva Miss Rosie Bitts.

Bruce has been writing since grade school but it wasn't until five years ago he set his sights on becoming a full-time writer. Since then, his first short story, "Another Man's Shoes," was published in the Winter 2008 edition of Cemetery Moon, another short, "Yardwork," was made into a podcast in Oct., 2011 by Pseudopod and his first Icarus Fell novel, On Unfaithful Wings, was published to Kindle in December 2011. The second Icarus Fell novel, All Who Wander Are Lost, was released in July, 2012, and Blood of the King, the first book in the two-part Khirro's Journey epic fantasy, was released on September 30. He has plans for at least three more Icarus novels, several stand-alones, and a possible YA fantasy co-written with his eleven-year-old daughter.

Uncover the cover! Blood of the King

Bruce Blake’s newest book, Blood of the King, is coming out in just a couple of weeks, and it looks exciting and a good read.

Bruce is author of the Icarus Fell series of fantasy novels, founder of the Guild of Dreams fantasy authors’ cooperative and a fellow Canadian. I’m proud to present the cover of his upcoming opus, and all I can say about it is: wow.

I have to apologize: I was supposed to post this a couple of days ago, but life got in the way. Sorry, Bruce, but best of luck with the new book!

Blood of the King

(Khirro's Journey Book 1)

A kingdom torn by war. A curse whispered by dying lips. A hero born against his will.

Khirro never wanted to be anything more than the farmer he was born to be, but a Shaman's curse binds him to the fallen king and his life changes forever.

Driven by the Shaman's dying words, Khirro's journey pits him against an army of the dead, sends him through haunted lands, and thrusts him into the jaws of beasts he wouldn't have believed existed. In one hand he carries the Shaman's enchanted sword, a weapon he can barely use; in the other he holds a vial of the king's blood, the hope of the kingdom. His destination: the Necromancer's keep in the cursed land of Lakesh. Only the mysterious outlaw magician can raise the king from the dead to save them all from the undead invasion, but can Khirro live long enough to deliver the vial?

Can a coward save a kingdom?

Who is Bruce Blake?

Bruce Blake lives on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. When pressing issues like shovelling snow and building igloos don't take up his spare time, Bruce can be found taking the dog sled to the nearest coffee shop to work on his short stories and novels.

Actually, Victoria, B.C. is only a couple hours north of Seattle, Wash., where more rain is seen than snow. Since snow isn't really a pressing issue, Bruce spends more time trying to remember to leave the "u" out of words like "colour" and "neighbour" then he does shovelling. The father of two, Bruce is also the trophy husband of burlesque diva Miss Rosie Bitts.

Bruce has been writing since grade school but it wasn't until six years ago he set his sights on becoming a full-time writer. Since then, his first short story, "Another Man's Shoes" was published in the Winter 2008 edition of Cemetery Moon, another short, "Yardwork", was made into a podcast in Oct., 2011 by Pseudopod and his first Icarus Fell novel, "On Unfaithful Wings", was published to Kindle in Dec., 2011. The second Icarus Fell novel, “All Who Wander Are Lost”, was released in July, 2012, with the first book in the two-part “Khirro's Journey” epic fantasy coming Sept. 30. He has plans for at least three more Icarus novels, several stand alones, and a possible YA fantasy co-written with his eleven-year-old daughter.

See more about Bruce and his writings at his blog, www.bruceblake.wordpress.com

Find Bruce Blake on Facebook at www.facebook.com/BruceBlakeWrites

Follow him on Twitter as @BruceABake

Visit Bruce's Author page on Amazon.com
Visit the Guild of Dreams fantasy authors' blog at http://fantasycollective.wordpress.com/

Contact Bruce by email at bruceblake@hotmail.ca

Sign up for Bruce's mailing list

What makes fiction good?



Creative Commons: Woman with books

Writing fiction is different from writing non-fiction. It’s harder.

With non-fiction, you may answer a need: “How to hammer nails straight,” or “How to deceive yourself into believing that this diet will actually work next week.”

In fiction, however, it’s completely up to the writer to make the reader need to read the content. And as I read fiction lately, I find myself trying to deconstruct the appeal some writers hold for me.

First, I want a story that pulls me along. I have to want to find out what happens next. While this strikes me as obvious, some writers apparently need to be told: don’t bore me.

I also appreciate originality. Many writers, particularly of cop or spy stories, seem to be trying to write an episode of their favourite TV show, rather than making up their own stories. Another tip: don’t make everyone beautiful. I’ve said it before: if you look around you, you won’t see a lot of beautiful people. A few, sure. But most humans are tolerable-looking, maybe attractive.

There’s also the depth of characterization, the writer’s ability to make a character or a situation real. Dialogue has a lot to do with this, but writing believable dialogue is very tricky. If you were to write down exactly what people actually say, it would make for very boring and incomprehensible prose — people make up what they say as they go along, and there are a lot of false starts and changes in tense and tone in ordinary speech. And then there’s all the information conveyed by tone of voice and body language. It takes an extraordinarily skilled writer to capture all of that.

How a writer writes

Writing style has a lot of impact on my enjoyment. There’s word choice, and sentence structure, but I don’t have patience for writers who are trying to impress me with their vocabulary. TELL THE STORY.

Many have said: “Show me, don’t tell me.” The writers I like best are those who, simply and clearly, bring me right into the situation.

Here’s a great example from the independent and best-selling Martin Crosbie. In the opening of My Temporary Life, he brings you intimately into the character’s life — and you don’t even notice his style:

I think I first smelled booze on Gerald when we were eleven, and as far as I know he’s been drinking ever since. We’re thirteen now, almost fourteen, and he still carries a mickey to school a couple of times a week. I know how he does it. He told me once. He raids his parents’ liquor cabinet and takes a little from every bottle, making up a toxic mixture of alcohol. He’s small and wiry, almost invisible really, so it’s probably quite easy for him to sneak around in his house, stealing things, unnoticed.

Another great Canadian independent author is Montrealer Beverly Akerman. This is the opening of the first story in her collection, The Meaning of Children:

When the arguing started, their voices would get louder and louder, till they broke into my dreams. That night, I woke and listened in the dark for what felt like a very long time. Perhaps I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. For one thing, they never yelled at Lisa or me, and for another, they argued so often I was used to it. Besides, I learned a lot when they fought. But that night, the uproar was exceptional. Even Lisa woke up after a while, and she stood there in the crib in her fuzzy footed pyjamas, fingers in mouth, he eyes shiny and round as marbles. I finally got out of bed and padded down the hallway to see what it was about this time.

Both examples give you a lot of information, but not too much. They tell you about a character and make you want to read more, without overwhelming you with the dreaded “information dump.”

What not to do:

Here’s an example of an information dump (details altered to protect the guilty):

Michael Chapman stood wearily in line at the ferry’s bar. It had been a long trip, but he was nearing its end. Four years ago Michael was a twenty-eight-year-old investment counselor with a corner office in one of the gleaming glass towers of Atlanta. He thought he had it all — until his marriage disintegrated in a messy divorce in which his wife got the house, the kids, and everything else important to him. After eight more months of pointless activity, he walked away from his job, cashed in what remained of his investments, and bought a ticket to England.

Not only does that use a lot of clichés (“gleaming glass towers,” “marriage disintegrated,” “messy divorce,” “walked away from his job”), there’s no reason to dump all this here. Get on with the story: he’s in line at the bar — does he get his drink? Or does something get in the way? Where is the ferry going? How long has the journey been?

As the writer, you can build the back-story in as it's needed. Show me the pain of the divorce when Michael meets another potential romantic partner, or some other situation that calls for it. And he's 28, with kids and a corner office? In what universe, other than EL James's?

In On Unfaithful Wings, fantasy author Bruce Blake is a little more descriptive. But he doesn’t overwhelm you while making you feel for this character:

I stood with my back to the church, much the way I’d lived my life.

Rain poured down the eaves, splashing my shoes. Each drop pattering against the leather felt as though it landed directly on my mood. I tugged my suit jacket tighter and glanced at my watch — almost eleven p.m. If the rain didn’t let up soon, Trevor would be in bed, his belated birthday present another day late. After letting him down again, Rae probably wouldn’t let me give him the gift, anyway. A heavy sigh drew the taste of rain on dry soil into my lungs as I suppressed the desire to call her names in my head, to blame her for everything. It wasn’t her fault.

One more example to stress the points I’m trying to make: make it a close-up. It’s been said before: we find the universal in the particular. In A Birthday to Remember, Thomas L. Scott uses simple, clear language to take us all back to our own fifth birthdays:

Once, on a Saturday morning when I was just five years old, our house burned to the ground. Just before it happened, I was alone in the family room right off the kitchen, probably doing something I shouldn’t have been doing, like jumping on the furniture or bouncing a ball against the wall. You know, kid stuff. Well anyhow, the fire turned out to be one of those things which really wasn’t anybody’s fault, no matter how badly you wanted it to be. Circumstances came together and it just happened. Nobody likes to think stuff like that goes on but it does. It was my fifth birthday.

All these good examples put the reader right into the situation. They’re personal. Readers can identify with the character. If it were a movie, the director would be starting with a very close focus. Context comes later, naturally as the story rolls out.

In the next post, I’ll give you some more examples of the kind of writing I don’t like. Because you’re all writing for me, right?