How to be Class Conscious 2022

 

In a couple weeks, fall semester begins at my college. It’ll be the start of my twenty-fourth year teaching there, and I taught ten years before that as an adjunct professor at various other schools. All told, I’ve been teaching composition and creative writing for thirty-three years.

 

Long time, huh?

 

Periodically on social media, I see someone post a variation on this question: “Do I need a degree to be a writer?” I also see people regularly assert that “As long as you put words to the page, you’re a writer, regardless of whether you’ve been published or not.” (This is akin to saying if you’ve ever turned on a water faucet, you’re a plumber.) The truth of course is that there is no one definition of “writer,” just as there is no one path to becoming one. What matters is what you think a writer is, and what you do in order to get to where you want to be as a writer.

 

You don’t need a degree. You don’t need to take any kind of creative writing classes at all. You don’t need to be in a writers’ group, and you don’t need to read any how-to-write books or articles. (But I’d appreciate it if you kept reading my blog posts!) All you need to do is write, and keep writing until you become the writer you wish to be. If you want to become the greatest writer of all time, both artistically and commercially, you’ll most likely never get there, but you will get to the farthest point of growth you could possibly reach during your attempt, and what more can any of us realistically hope for?

 

But just writing and doing nothing else to help you grow as an artist is the absolute bare minimum. Most artists can’t reach their full potential in a vacuum, or even a fraction of their full potential. But over the years I’ve met a lot of writers who have no interest in artistic growth. They just want to bang out words and imagine themselves as writers, like weekend guitarists who’ll never be skilled enough to perform professionally but have a hell of a good time imagining they’re in a rock band as they play (however well or badly) their instrument. The biggest difference between when I began teaching and now is that these writers can self-publish their work on Amazon, websites, or message boards, or they can post videos of themselves reading it on YouTube, etc. There’s nothing wrong with this, except perhaps if a new writer only reads work from enthusiastic hobbyists, it could limit their perception of what makes good writing, and thus potentially limit their artistic growth (if they’re interested in that sort of thing).

 

We all create our own paths to becoming the writer we want to be, and while we don’t necessarily need anyone else’s guidance along the way, as a teacher, I want to help writers who are seeking guidance. In 1998, I wrote an article to give advice to writers trying to decide if a creative writing class might be right for them and, if so, how to choose a good one. It was called “How to be Class Conscious,” and it was published in Writers’ Journal. It’s available to read on my website here: https://timwaggoner.com/class.htm

 

I wrote that article twenty-five years ago, and recently I began wondering how differently I’d approach the subject now. I’ve taught so many more classes and workshops, was a faculty mentor in Seton Hill University’s MFA in Writing Popular Fiction program for nine years, I’ve written many more articles about writing and teaching, and I’ve produced a Bram Stoker Award-winning book on horror writing called Writing in the Dark (with a follow-up, Writing in the Dark: The Workbook). Would fifty-eight-year-old Tim have anything different to say about writing classes and programs – and being self-taught – than thirty-four-year-old Tim did? Let’s find out.

·         Can writing be taught? It depends on your definition of taught. Anyone can improve as a writer, and they can do so with or without guidance. But can they be taught to become a Writer with a capitol W? No. Imagine someone who wants to become an Olympic-level pole vaulter. That person can be taught pole-vaulting techniques by coaches, but no one can teach them to have the passion and drive necessary to practice, practice, practice over many years, and to sacrifice anything that could get in the way of their grown as a pole vaulter. The two qualities I’ve come to believe over the years that a successful writer needs to have are 1) Basic capability with language and 2) Passion and drive to become the best writer they can be. I can help people become better with their use of language and structure when writing. I cannot give someone passion and drive. Those are completely self-generated. I have been able to tell people they’re really good at writing and they might want to explore it more, and by doing so, a flame is kindled and passion and drive are born, but that’s just me giving someone a nudge and hoping for the best. Writers teach themselves, but fellow writers, feedback partners, teachers, mentors, editors, agents, reviewers/critics can serve as resources for writers to help them in their journey. They can also hurt writers if they give crappy or mean-spirited advice, or if their guidance, while well-meaning, doesn’t serve a writer’s individual needs. So writers need to pick and choose when it comes to advice and instruction, meaning that, once again, writers ultimately teach themselves.

·         Should writing be taught? Some people believe art of any kind shouldn’t be formally taught. They believe that artists should just attempt to create art, and if it’s any good, people will notice it, and if it isn’t, that artist will never emerge from obscurity, and that’s just the way it goes. This is a Darwinian survival-of-the-fittest point of view, and while I understand it intellectually, as a teacher, I don’t endorse it. Sure, the vast majority of students I’ve taught haven’t gone on to write professionally, but a lot have, and when I teach a class, I have no idea which of the students might continue on. I always remember that I was once one of those students in a classroom full of people who thought they were going to become professional writers.

·         Do writers need to read to become better writers? Twenty-five years ago, anyone suggesting they don’t need to read to grow as a writer wouldn’t have been taken seriously (to put it kindly). This question is a relatively common one now, and I suspect it’s because of the ubiquity of technology. When PC’s first appeared, it was a lot easier to write and revise than it was on a typewriter. You no longer needed to have the same kind of passion and drive to just screw around with a word-processing program. Then came message boards, and websites, and email, and texting, and blogs, and social media, and now everyone was writing – and most of these people didn’t read. So since they were non-readers who wrote, they figured they could write just as well as anyone else because they were producing words and that’s all writers did, right? So they were concerned, they were Writers with a capital W. It never occurred to them (and still doesn’t) that if they don’t read anything except texts, emails, blogs, and social media posts, how they hell could they have any idea how their fiction, poetry, articles, or essays compare to those written by professionals. It’s not enough for writing to be good. It has to be competitive. Writers compete for readers’ time, attention, and – if we’re lucky – money. Non-reading writers also often say they don’t want their originality and genius to be damaged by exposure to other writing. That’s fine, if you really are an original genius, and the odds are massively against you being one. (But if you are, more power to you.) This is the Darwinian view I mentioned above. You’re on your own, baby, so sink or swim.

·         BUT . . . When it comes to reading, you can go too far in the opposite direction, reading book after book, article after article, never feeling as if you’ve learned enough to earn the title Writer. Read some, write some, and repeat until you’re dead.

·         BUT PART 2. You can make an argument that nonreaders writing is a punk aethestic, a do-it-yourself, fuck-you-establishment, I’ll-do-whatever-the-hell-I-please artistic approach. Such artists can learn and grow on their own, without any kind of input from other writers or teachers. How much they can learn or grow is another matter. But if you want to take the punk approach (and you’re not just being lazy) then go for it. If it doesn’t take you where you want to go as a writer, you can always try a different approach later. But a creative writing class – or worse yet, a writing program – is a terrible place for punk-rock writers. Classes are designed to provide community and guidance, and they’re completely opposite the punk ethos. If you take a class because you want to cause chaos, to shake up the establishment, you’ll likely just frustrate everyone as well as yourself, and waste your money. But if you really feel a need to take a class, maybe you do want some guidance, at least a little, and that’s okay too.  

·         Compare to learn, but don’t feel you’re not good enough to even try. One of the biggest problems writers have – whether they’re self-taught or take classes – is comparing themselves unfavorably to other writers, whether fellow beginners or established professionals. Comparison is a great way to learn. I really like the way that author uses dialogue, so I’m going to try that technique. And that author can really say a lot in a few words. Maybe I’ll try that too. These are healthy comparisons. Reading something and thinking I’ll never be that good of a writer, so why should I try? is an unhealthy comparison. I saw this all the time in grad school. We read work by some of the greatest writers who’ve ever lived, and some students wouldn’t even attempt to write on their own because they feared they could never life up to those examples. Whether you’re self-taught or taking classes, try use comparison in healthy, productive ways.

·         How do you know if in general writing classes or workshops are suitable for you? (Or you for them?) 1) Do you learn better in group settings? 2) Do you learn better when you have deadlines and regular feedback on your writing? 3) Do you feel capable of sifting through a lot of information to find the bits of advice and feedback that work best for you? 4) Do you like the idea of taking a creative writing class simply because it will make you feel more like a writer, and you’re not all that interested in actually learning? 5) Do you think creative writing class is playtime and you don’t like the idea of having to produce work to set standards? 6) Do you not give a damn what anyone thinks of your writing? 7) Do you feel you could learn all this shit on your own?

·         Writing programs vs taking individual classes or workshops. MFA stands for Master of Fine Arts, and it’s the highest practitioner’s degree in an artistic field. A PhD is the highest scholar’s degree in any field. MFA is usually considered THE creative writing degree to get, but there’s a huge time commitment (two years or more), as well as a huge commitment in terms of focus and dedication. You’re expected to give your all when you’re in an MFA program. If for whatever reason you can’t make these commitments, individual classes and workshops are probably better choices for you. Plus, they give you a chance to discover whether creative writing classes are useful for you before committing time and money to a graduate program. An MFA does allow you to deeply immerse yourself in writing for a couple years, and some people find such an intense learning experience transformative in the best way. (Others not so much, as I’ll discuss in a moment.) Different MFA programs have different focuses. Some might focus more on nonfiction than fiction, some might focus on experimental fiction rather than traditional fiction, some might offer a concentration on YA literature or publishing or screenwriting or playwrighting, while others may not. Some may be friendly to genre writing, some may insist you focus on literary writing. The program needs to be a good fit for you and your needs. There’s no such thing as a generic MFA program. They all have their particular niches and quirks, so vet them thoroughly before choosing one. Hit Google and search for what graduates of the program have to say about it, reach out to them on social media and see if they’re open to answering any questions you might have. Many programs these days are low-residency, meaning you only have to be physically on campus a couple times a year, and the rest of the time you do your coursework online. This model is great for colleges who want to make money. People with homes and jobs don’t have to pick up and leave their lives for two years, so more people enroll. Is this the best way to teach and learn? For some people yes, for others no. As always, ask yourself what you need to learn more effectively. For ratings of individual professors (whether for a single class or program) you can check out Rate My Professors at https://www.ratemyprofessors.com/. To check out creative writing programs, you hit up The Association of Writers and Creative Writing Programs at https://www.awpwriter.org/guide/guide_writing_programs.

·         Other types of classes/workshops. Writers present classes and workshops at libraries and community centers all the time. And many writers present their own online classes or do one-on-one mentoring via the Internet. Some record free class sessions on YouTube. And of course, plenty write how-to books. Any of these options might work better for you (and be cheaper). Just make sure to check out the teacher’s/presenter’s/how-to author’s credentials to see if they have whatever you consider an appropriate depth and breadth of experience and accomplishment. (More on this later.)

·         What can you do with an MFA in Creative Writing? The degree is designed to help artists become better artists. It’s not like an engineering degree that, after you obtain, you go get a job in engineering somewhere. Decades ago, the MFA was considered a terminal degree, so if you wanted to get a job teaching college writing classes as a full-time tenured professor, you could, assuming you have a significant list of publications. Since the 80’s, when I was in college, colleges and universities realized they could make a lot of money off people who wanted a degree in writing, the number of MFA programs exploded. Now there are so many that the degree in and of itself doesn’t mean much. Where you get your MFA matters more than just getting the degree if you want a full-time tenure-track job teaching creative writing at the college or university level. You’re better off getting a PhD in English if you want such a position, and even then, the market is so flood with English PhD’s that the competition for full-time gigs is beyond fierce. With an MFA, you can teach part-time English classes (usually composition) for low wages, no benefits, and no guarantees you’ll get any classes the next semester. This can make a nice supplement to your income (especially if you have a spouse with a decent-paying steady job), but it’s almost impossible to live off of as an individual. You can use the degree as a credential for other types of writing jobs, such as technical writing, public relations, editing, etc. I’ve known people with MFA’s in writing poetry who had full-time gigs as tech writers. An MFA might make you more attractive to potential students and clients if you run your own classes or editorial services online, but it’s an expensive credential to get for that purpose. Speaking of which . . .

·         Cost. Individual classes and workshops are cheap compared to MFA programs. MFA programs can be expensive as hell. Sometimes there are graduate assistantships, fellowships or financial aid, but often there aren’t, and you’ll have to take out student loans. If you think your return on investment (whether personally, financially, or a combination) while be high enough to justify the cost, go for it. Otherwise, you might want to take a class at a school like mine, a community college with the lowest tuition in the state of Ohio.

·         Burn-out. This is very real problem that happens to some people who finish an MFA (or other intense graduate degree). Once you’re done, you’re sick of writing and want to take a break from it. And unfortunately, that break may be for the rest of your life. I’ve met a number of people over the years who finished their MFA in creative writing and have never written a single word since. For some, going through an MFA (or PhD) program can suck all the joy you had for your art right out of you, and it may never return. Buyer beware.

·         Instructor qualifications? Whether you’re reading a how-to book, watching a how-to video, taking a one-day workshop, a single class at a rec center or college, or entering into a graduate program, it’s important to know what the instructor’s qualifications are and whether they write and publish the same kind of work that you want to write and publish (or at least don’t openly disdain it). And having publishing credits, great reviews, and awards aren’t enough. A while back, I read an article in The Teaching Professor that effective teachers need three qualities: 1) The ability to do the thing they’re teaching at a professional level, 2) an understanding of how to do the thing they’re teaching at a professional level, and 3) the ability to explain to others how they can do the thing they’re teaching. Colleges and universities tend to hire faculty with at least the #1 qualification, but they may lack #2 and #3. It’s not uncommon for teachers in any other learning situation – workshops, rec-center classes, independent online classes, how-to books and videos – not to have any of the three qualifications. A lot of inexperienced writers want to teach others because it makes them feel like an expert (when they aren’t). Other writers want to teach others as a way of promoting their own writing. A lot of inexperienced writers put out how-to-write books and videos for this reason. Students often believe that if someone is teaching a class, they must be qualified, and that isn’t always the case by any means. Besides, qualified is an imprecise term. It’s important that an instructor be qualified enough for you. If you’re an absolute beginner, and you watch a video on characterization on YouTube, even if the presenter is only passing along something they only recently learned themselves, the info is still new to you and effective. But when you’re ready to learn more deeply about the subject, you want someone more experienced. As always, Google Is Your Friend. Check out the background of instructors and authors of how-to books and videos online, ask around on social media what reputations these people have, and decide for yourself if they are qualified for your current educational needs. Read some of their work to see if they’re someone you’d like to learn from, and if you can’t find any of their work to read, that probably tells you more about their qualifications (or lack thereof) than anything else. Pro Tip: If you’re taking a class, ask the instructor beforehand if they can show you a copy of their syllabus or course plan. That’ll give you a better idea what you might experience in their class. Most of all, you want to find someone who will be supportive, who’ll read your work without preconceived notions, and who’ll be honest with their feedback, who’ll tell you what you need to know instead of what you think you need to know.

·         Are you really ready for feedback? If you’re attending a workshop, reading a how-to book or watching a how-to video that’s primarily presentational (just providing information) then it doesn’t matter if you’re ready for feedback on your writing because you’re not going to get any. But if you want feedback on your writing, you’re more likely to get it from a class or from a writers’ group. Here are some things to ask yourself to check if you’re ready for feedback: 1) Do you just want people to tell you that you’re the BEST writer? If so, you’re not ready for feedback. 2) Are you sure people are going to tell you that you’re the WORST writer ever? You may need to work on your confidence level a bit before getting feedback. Even the mildest of criticisms may crush you. 3) Can you listen to criticism of your work without getting overly emotional? (Getting angry at the instructor or classmates, getting down on yourself, hating the world, deciding to never write again, etc.) 4) Can you keep your damn mouth shut when you receive criticism of your work (unless you’re asking for clarification of a reader’s comment)? You and your work aren’t under attack during a feedback session, so there’s no need to be defensive or explain what you really meant to say. 5) Can you consider all comments and then pick and choose which ones you feel will improve your piece? 6) Are you willing to revise using that feedback to discover if it does improve your piece? If you can’t do these things, a class probably isn’t a good idea for you. However, if you’re willing to work on learning how to do these things during the course of a class, you might have some uncomfortable moments, but you’ll likely find the class effective in the end.

·         An important point about feedback. As I said in the intro to this post, I was a faculty mentor in SHU’s MFA in Writing Popular Fiction program for nine years. I mentored students one-on-one, provided feedback and answered questions, etc. I recommend SHU’s program unreservedly, but there are reasons I left, ones which I’ve never discussed with anyone but my wife. But during the nine years I was involved with the program, self-publishing rose in popularity and became much easier for individuals to do. This led to students whose attitude was, “It doesn’t matter if anyone else likes my work. I’ll just self-publish it when I graduate.” (I’ve gotten comments like from students at my college, too.) These students were dismissive, if not downright resistant and even hostile to, any feedback on their work which wasn’t 100 percent positive. The last few years, I’m seeing this same sort of dynamic play out on social media as thin-skinned authors attack reviewers who dare to give their precious work less than five stars. A lot of the students at SHU didn’t come from an English background. Their bachelor’s degrees were often in other fields, so they’d never had any creative writing classes before and had no experience with receiving feedback on their work. They didn’t know how to take it (or how to give it, for that matter). For me, it wasn’t worth the time and effort to provide feedback on novel chapters that a student had no intention of revising, and as the years went by, I began to get more and more students with this attitude. So if you’re REALLY not prepared to at least consider feedback on your work and consider revising, a class situation where feedback is a prime component really isn’t for you. And if you go into an MFA program solely seeking a teaching credential and aren’t interested in improving your art and craft, think twice. You’re most likely going to waste your time and money.

·         When it comes to feedback, how do you know who to listen to? You don’t have to listen to anyone’s feedback. You’re free to ignore any or all suggestions. But if you ignore them out of hand, it begs the question why you took a class in which feedback was an essential component in the first place. I tell students that. practically speaking, my feedback will tend to carry more weight in their minds because I’m the teacher, I give them their final grade, and I mostly likely have more experience as a professional writer than anyone else in the class. But if one of my suggestions doesn’t resonate with them, they’re free to ignore it (unless it’s something super fundamental, such as “Make sure to use some verbs next time”). You don’t listen to people during feedback. You listen to comments. You take whichever suggestions you feel will improve your work, try them out, and then see how successful they are. You want feedback partners who will tell you what they really think, who don’t believe they know everything, who respond as a reader more than as a writer (writers will want to rewrite your work to suit themselves; readers tell you what their experience reading your work was like), and who are committed to helping you make your work the best it can be. Toward the end of my time at SHU, students began asking each other “Whose story is this really?” If it was their story, they argued, then it needed to please them only, not their critique partners, and not their mentors (who had to sign off on their thesis in order for them to graduate). I’d try to explain that if that was their attitude, why did they choose to enroll in an expensive graduate program where revising your work according to feedback you receive was required? Usually the answer was that they didn’t really want to improve their writing; they just wanted the degree. Yes, your work is always yours in the end, but it should be the best work you’re capable of producing at that point. But if you seek feedback, then you should be open to considering it, and open to the possibility of revision. Otherwise, stick to how-to books and videos, as well as presentational workshops where no feedback is required.

·         Pros and cons of the workshop method. One of the most common teaching techniques in creative writing classes is the workshop method. This is where the student (or sometimes the instructor) reads a story aloud for the entire class to experience at the same time, and then the story is discussed, strengths are identified and suggestions for revision offered. Not to put too fine a point on it, this is a shitty teaching technique. It can work for poetry, which tends to be short, but it’s difficult for students to listen to a long story that’s read aloud – especially if it’s read in a monotone – and their attention wanders (so does the instructor’s!). Plus, they don’t have the luxury of stopping, pondering, then rereading what they just read for greater understanding or to solidify a reaction they have. Worst of all, if you’re not writing scripts in class, you’re not producing something meant to be heard. You’re producing something meant to be read, so people should actually read the damn thing. One of the arguments for the workshop method is that it allows for emergent curriculum, meaning if an issue with description comes up in one of the stories, that becomes the content of the day’s class, and if one person has that issue, likely others in the class do too. It’s also a damn lazy teaching technique because instructors don’t have to take any work home to read. Everything is dealt with during the class itself. On the other hand, the technique can work for a one-day workshop where participants may not have had time to turn in drafts earlier for people to read. But in general, a class where people, including the instructor, has to read the actual words of a piece before giving feedback is best. Same for writing groups.

·         Get different perspectives. Sometimes I’ll have students who will take one class after another with me, and often they’ll repeat a class (taking short story writing with me for a second time, for example). They tell me, “I like the way you teach, and you get the way I write.” I’m always glad to see students in class again, but I make sure to tell them that it’s important to get as many different perspectives on their writing as possible. If you find a teacher you really vibe with, that’s awesome. But it’s important for you to have as many tools in your writer’s toolkit as possible, and that means learning from as many people as you can. You can learn from not-so-good teachers, too. You watch a video on YouTube and say, “Christ, that asshole doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. I’m going to do the exact opposite of what he says.” Shitty teacher = still learning. (But I’d still recommend finding the best teachers you can.)

·         Don’t become a shadow artist. I first ran across the concept of a shadow artist during a conversation with the director of the James Thurber House. (She was actually talking to someone else, but I was present, so it technically wasn’t eavesdropping.) The director was concerned that instead of writing herself, she’d become a shadow artist – an idea she’d learned from Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. Instead of writing herself, she worked near writers, in their shadow, so to speak. Shadow artists are people drawn to an art but for one reason or another, they don’t practice the art. Why? I’m not sure. Fear of failure? Fear of success? Fear of rejection? All of the above? Now if you’re the director of a literary center, or an administrative assistant in an English department, or a composition teacher, or any number of writing-related professions, you’re not necessarily a shadow artist. If you feel content and fulfilled by your job, good on ya. But if you’re miserable because you really want to be writing, then you might be a shadow artist. Yes, you can have a day job and still write – it’s what I do – but shadow artists only do their day jobs. The reason why I bring this up here is because I’ve known many people who take writing classes, attend writing workshops, or participate in writers’ groups year after year, and by doing so, they stay close to a writing career – it’s a potential, somewhere out there in the future – without making any forward progress toward that career. They can tell themselves they’re working on their writing, that they’re serious about it (after all, look how much effort they put into it), and that while they might not yet be a professional, they have a professional attitude. Some of these people find creative fulfillment at this level and are quite happy to stay there. They love the classes, the feedback, being around other writers, and while they enjoy writing, they don’t really care if they publish anything or not. Not a damn thing wrong with that. But being an eternal student is an excellent way to be a shadow artist, as is being a writing teacher who never writes (or worse, becomes the administrator of a writing program who never writes because they are “just too busy to find the time.”). Take classes and attend workshops all you want. Go into an MFA program. Read as many how-to books as you wish. But if your true goal is to write, do that and keep doing it, regardless of whatever else you do. You should write as you learn because the writing itself is the most important part of your learning. Don’t stay in the shadows. Step into the light where you belong.

DEPARTMENT OF SHAMELESS SELF PROMOTION

Writing in the Dark: The Workbook

 

This workbook is my follow-up to Writing in the Dark, and I’ve gotten some really good feedback on it so far. While you can use it in conjunction with Writing in the Dark, I wrote it so it could be used on its own as well.

 

Want to know if the workbook is right for you? Check out Cynthia Pelayo’s review at Lit Reactor:

 

https://litreactor.com/reviews/writing-in-the-dark-the-workbook-by-tim-waggoner

 

Writing in the Dark: The Workbook is available at all the usual places online, but here’s a link to the publisher’s website if you’d like to learn more about it (and order it from them). Plus, you can download some sample exercises for free!

 

https://rawdogscreaming.com/books/writing-in-the-dark-workbook/#:~:text=Like%20Tim%20Waggoner's%20Bram%20Stoker,developing%20the%20art%20of%20suspense.

 

I hope you’ll help spread the word about the workbook. Like Writing in the Dark, I wrote it to help people improve their horror fiction – or if they’re new to horror, to help them get started in the genre – and I want to help as many people as I can. You can help me do that. And for those of you who’ve already spread the word, thank you so much!

 

We Will Rise

 

We Will Rise, my ghost apocalypse novel, is finally out from Flame Tree Press! Reviews have been great so far. But you don’t have to take my word for it – here’s a sampling:

 

“This was visceral stuff and a highly entertaining fast-paced read which was a bleak exploration of the human psyche.” – Tony Jones, Ink Heist

 

“We Will Rise is a tense, emotional, scary ride and one of Waggoner’s best.” – Zach Rosenberg, Horror DNA

 

“From the first page on Waggoner had me hooked. His imagination is truly off the charts, and never could I have predicted what would happen next.” – Julia C. Lewis on GoodReads

 

If you read We Will Rise, I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d leave a review/rating somewhere. Reader reviews are the lifeblood of a book, and they help publishers decide whether to bring out more work from an author.

 

You can also listen to me read the first scene from the book here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pqQWpRmZRAc&t=52s

 

Synopsis

In Echo Hill, Ohio, the dead begin to reappear, manifesting in various forms, from classic ghosts and poltergeists, to physical undead and bizarre apparitions for which there is no name. These malign spirits attack the living, tormenting and ultimately killing them in order to add more recruits to their spectral ranks.

A group of survivors come together after the initial attack, all plagued by different ghostly apparitions of their own. Can they make it out of Echo Hill alive? And if so, will they still be sane? Or will they die and join the ranks of the vengeful dead?

Purchase Links

Flame Tree Press

https://www.flametreepublishing.com/we-will-rise-isbn-9781787585249.html

Amazon Paperback

https://www.amazon.com/We-Will-Rise-Tim-Waggoner/dp/1787585220/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1635525326&sr=1-1

Kindle

https://www.amazon.com/We-Will-Rise-Tim-Waggoner-ebook/dp/B09JPF5XZD/ref=sr_1_1?crid=11ZC2NOOC3S1J&keywords=tim+waggoner+we+will+rise&qid=1635593108&sprefix=tim+waggoner+we+wi%2Caps%2C192&sr=8-1

Amazon Hardcover

https://www.amazon.com/We-Will-Rise-Tim-Waggoner/dp/1787585247/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=tim+waggoner&qid=1635525512&s=books&sr=1-2

Barnes & Noble Paperback

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/we-will-rise-tim-waggoner/1140376625?ean=9781787585225

NOOK Book

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/we-will-rise-tim-waggoner/1140376625?ean=9781787585263

Barnes & Noble Hardcover

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/we-will-rise-tim-waggoner/1140376625?ean=9781787585249

 

Planet Havoc: A Zombiecide Invader Novel

 

Want to read some sci-fi/horror/action-adventure? I got you covered! My Zombicide Invader novel is still available from all the usual online stores. Imagine Alien meets Resident Evil. Here’s a synopsis:

 

A deserted R&D facility tempts the hungry new Guild, Leviathan, into sending a team to plunder its valuable research. The base was abandoned after a neighboring planet was devastated by an outbreak of Xenos – alien zombies – but that was a whole planet away... When the Guild ship is attacked by a quarantine patrol, both ships crash onto the deserted world. Only it isn’t as deserted as they hope: a murderous new Xeno threat awakens, desperate to escape the planet. Can the crews cooperate to destroy this new foe? Or will they be forced to sacrifice their ships and lives to protect the galaxy?

 

Worldcon Schedule

 

I’ll be attending Chicon 8: The 80^th World Science Fiction Convention in Chicago, Sept. 1-5. Here’s my schedule. If you’re going to be there, make sure to track me down and say hi!

 

Writing Workshop: Your Corner of the Crypt: Finding Your Niche in Horror

Addams Thursday, September 1, 2022, 8:30 PM CDT

Autographing Friday, September 2, 2022, 2:30 PM CDT

Midwestern Gothic

Grand Hall K Saturday, September 3, 2022, 10:00 AM CDT

The Glories of the Tie-In Novel

Michigan 3 Saturday, September 3, 2022, 1:00 PM CDT

Finding Optimism and Comfort in Horror

Crystal Ballroom C Saturday, September 3, 2022, 5:30 PM CDT

Book Publicity Crash Course

Randolph 3 Sunday, September 4, 2022, 10:00 AM CDT

Teen Table Talk - Tim Waggoner

Crystal Foyer Sunday, September 4, 2022, 5:30 PM CDT

Inverted Tropes

Grand Hall J Monday, September 5, 2022, 11:30 AM CDT

WANT TO STALK ME IN REAL LIFE?

 

Here are all the convention appearances I have lined up for the next year. If you attend any of them, make sure to say hi! I’ll be doing panels and workshops, I’m sure, but aside from Chicon, I don’t have any specific schedules yet.

·         Website: www.timwaggoner.com

·         Twitter: @timwaggoner

·         Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tim.waggoner.9

·         Instagram: tim.waggoner.scribe

·         Blog: http://writinginthedarktw.blogspot.com/

·         YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCZEz6_ALPrV3tdC0V3peKNw

·         TikTok: @timwaggonerscribe

Sometimes Bigger IS Better! Expanding Your Novel

 

The other day a writer I mentored for the Horror Writers Association emailed to ask for advice on how to make novels longer. I thought, “Wow, that’s not a topic I can address in an email. It would make for an excellent blog post, though.”

So here we are.

Fiction writers tend to come in two varieties: Those inclined to write short, and those inclined to write long. The shorties often have to keep adding material, especially if they’re trying to write a novel, while the longies write a bunch and then have to cut it down to the right size. Before we go any farther, let me say this: It’s okay to be a short-writer or a long-writer, and you don’t have to try to make yourself into the opposite if you don’t want to. Some writers predominately write short fiction throughout their careers, while others focus on writing novels. When I started out forty years ago with a goal of becoming a professional author, I was most comfortable with the novel form. I finished my first novel at 19, and it came to around 72,000 words. But I wanted to learn how to write short fiction so I could master all the skills of a fiction writer. But that’s me. You do you. But if you want to write novels and you struggle to create enough material to fill an entire book, I’ve got some tips that will hopefully help you out.

So how long is a novel? In general, traditional publishers consider a novel to be at least 50,000 words, but they’re more often looking for lengths between 80,000 to 120,000 words. If you self-publish ebooks, however, your novels could be as long or as short as you want, as the physical size of the book – and the cost to produce it – is no longer a factor. My novels tend to run around 82K to 90K. That’s a natural range for me, and business-wise, I don’t get a larger advance for writing more words than the minimum. Why would I write 120K words if I’m going to get the same advance for writing 80K? Sometimes I do write more, especially when the story seems to demand it, but not often.

Young adult novels tend to run between 25K to 50K words, and middle-grade novels from 10K TO 30K. My most recent middle-grade novel, I Scream, You Scream, is about 30,000 words. (This book still hasn’t found a publisher yet, so don’t head over to Amazon and wonder why you can’t find it.) My recently-released novel We Will Rise is around 90K words, and the novel I just finished and turned in to my editor at Aethon Books, The Atrocity Engine, runs slightly more than 100,000 words. Most of the tie-in publishers I’ve worked with wanted lengths of around 80K from me.

Now for some advice . . .

1)      Aim for the Bare Minimum. If you’re having trouble reaching novel length, I’d advise you to start off aiming for the shorter end of the spectrum. This is one of the reasons the goal for National Novel Writing Month is 50K words. It’s the shortest novel length you can write that isn’t YA or MG. Fifty thousand words isn’t a marketable length in terms of traditional publishing, but some small press publishers might be okay with it, if you’re self-publishing, shorter novels tend to work better anyway. (Shorter but more frequent releases seems to be the most successful business model for self-publishing.) Breaking 50K on a manuscript for the first time can help you overcome the psychological hurdle of writing a novel. For a lot of beginning novelists, the novel form can seem too intimidating. But once you’ve hit 50K, you’ve gotten over the first big psychological hurdle, and you can try to write a longer novel next time.

2)      A short story is an event; a novel is a series of events that add up to a much larger journey. If the length of a novel seems intimidating, don’t think of your story as a novel, but rather a series of connected short stories. For example, if you’re writing a novel about a haunting, one scene might be the story of the first time your main character suspects there’s a ghost. Another scene might be the story of how the ghost came to be in the first place. Another scene might be the story of the ghost’s first attempt to kill your main character or perhaps possess them. You can write these stories in any order you want and combine them later. Using this technique, your novel is almost like a short story collection where all the stories are linked and they add up to a plot progression from beginning to end. And if you need to write some connecting scenes so the stories fit together better, so be it. And if you’ve already got a novel draft finished but it’s too short, ask yourself if there are any other small stories related to the overall story that you haven’t told yet, then tell them. For example, maybe the haunting in your novel has been going on for two centuries. This means other people than your main character have encountered the ghost. Why not tell their stories in your book?

3)      Add more characters. One of the ways I get length into my novels is to use an ensemble cast. This means I can write scenes from different characters’ viewpoints, and it allows me to show different aspects of the story. I try to keep the number of characters in the ensemble manageable, around ten or less, with three to five main ones. Sometimes I’ll fall in a love with a character who was originally supposed to have only a few scenes or who was even supposed to die. But I see possibilities for expanding the story with them, so I keep them around. Sometimes I’ll introduce a character later in the narrative who’s only going to stick around for a while (maybe they’re going to be killed by the antagonist) but I’ll write a scene of two from their point of view. I want to give them their moment on the stage, give them their dignity, before they have to bow out.  

4)      Add more obstacles. One of the easiest ways to make a novel longer is to give your characters more hurdles to overcome. On the way home from teaching at my college today, I was listening to an audiobook, a fantasy adventure story. The characters were traveling on foot attempting to sneak past an enemy army at night. Now they could’ve gotten past without incident, but what fun is that for readers? They got noticed by the army, were chased, and got separated. Two had to jump off a cliff into a river, and two others had to disguise themselves and attempt to pass through the army to get to a castle of potential allies under siege. It wasn’t easy, but they all managed to eventually meet back up inside the castle, relatively safe (one of them caught an arrow in the shoulder). The author could’ve simply had the characters all get from point A to point B without trouble, but by making it harder for them, not only did the author make that part of the story more interesting, he made it longer.

5)      Use the Triangle Technique. Many writers try to create novels using only two points of conflict. Let’s use the movie Jaws as an example. Two points of conflict: Sherriff vs Shark. But now consider three points of conflict: Sheriff vs Shark and Mayor who wants to keep the beach open during 4th of July holiday weekend at all costs. The novel Jaws has a fourth point of conflict. The oceanographer Hooper dated the Sheriff’s wife in college and they begin an affair. Adding extra points of conflict not only makes your story richer and gives it more depth, it allows you to regulate the pace of your novel by switching back forth between the points of conflict, and it allows you to make your story – you guessed it! – longer.

6)      Employ Murphy’s Law. A lot of beginning writers have almost everything go right for their characters. The characters may have some kind of obstacle to overcome to get from point A to point B, but they will get to Point B, usually unscathed (more or less). For example, say you have a scene where a character needs to get to a job interview, and they’re running late. Maybe they almost get involved in a car accident but manage to get there at last. But what if they don’t get to the interview? What if something occurs that completely sidetracks them? They get into an accident. Or someone runs up to them at a stoplight and begs for their help. Having something go truly wrong in a scene can send the story off into interesting and unexpected directions – and lengthen your novel in the process. Some books on novel plotting call this a Disaster, as in scenes should always end with something going wrong, whether large or small. I think that approach is too mechanical and could quickly become repetitious, but the basic concept is sound.

7)      Combine story types to develop your novel further. There are many different story motifs, and one way to make a story larger is to combine them. Stereotypical action movies do this well (because the action in and of itself isn’t enough to carry an entire film). Let’s say the main thing our action-adventure hero needs to do is stop vampires from releasing a genetically-modified virus that will lower humanity’s collective IQ to the point where they’re no smarter than cattle (thus making it easier to control them and use them as a food source). If our hero knew all this, though, it would make it too easy to locate the vampires and stop them. So we add a Mystery element. Why are formerly brilliant people turning up on the street with low IQ’s? Why are there mysterious murders where the victims die of blood-loss? And so on. That’s still not enough, though, so let’s add a Love story. A scientist who’s looking into the mysterious low IQ’s gets threatened by a mysterious assailant (who we’ll later learn is a vampire) and our hero ends up saving them and starts for fall for them. Maybe we’ll add a Chase too. The vampires are desperate to get their hands on the scientist. They manage to abduct them and the hero goes after them. Now we’ve got a Rescue, too! So if your novel is too short, add in one or more story types. Following are a few different story types to choose from. I’m sure you can think of more.

·         Chase

·         Love

·         Rescue

·         Revenge

·         Coming of age

·         Discovery

·         Quest for object

·         Quest for truth

·         Survival

·         Escape

·         Defense/protection

8)      Stories within stories. At the start of this blog entry, I talked about how you can think of a novel as a series of stories, and how you can expand your novel by adding more stories. Here are few specific types to choose from.

·         Flashbacks: You can show a great deal about characters and setting by adding dramatized flashbacks. Just don’t overdo it and have every other scene be a flashback. And if you have more than one, space them out. And try different techniques. One flashback could be a memory, one could essentially be a monologue as a character tells their story to another character, one could be a separate dramatized scene that you insert without any explanation where it came from (readers will understand you’re simply showing them something from the past), or you could present it as a dream (which means you can add surreal touches to it here and there, maybe combine it with another memory, or turn it into a nightmare). And speaking of dreams . . .

·         Dreams: Other ways dreams can be used are as a portent of the future (whether the character’s dream is magic or psychic in nature) or as a reaching into the past (again, via magic or science). You can also have bits and pieces of these dreams – or psychic episodes – occur periodically throughout the book, keeping the mystery of what it all means until later, when all the puzzle pieces are in place. You can have characters communicate in dreams. This could be two living people or it could be a living person and a dead person, or people connecting across time or dimensions. It all depends on the kind of story you’re telling.

·         Imaginings: This is the Walter Mitty technique. One of your characters can imagine a dramatized scenario – maybe one they’ve been dreading or one they hope will happen.  They can try to imagine something that happened in the past. These scenes may be short – anywhere from a few paragraphs to pages – but when you’re trying to expand your novel, every little bit helps.

·         Hallucinations: Your character might be under the influence of some supernatural force or they might be sick, injured, drugged or suffering from some sort of mental illness. Any of these could cause your character to experience a dramatized scene that may not be real, but it’ll show more about them and, depending on how you write the hallucination, even advance the plot. And if your character (or characters) experience periodic hallucinations, so much the better.

·         Origin stories. Say you have a character that has a deathly fear of drowning. Instead of telling readers about it in a short summary paragraph, you could write a dramatized flashback showing the origin of this fear. Maybe you’re writing a science fiction novel in which a space colony has for some mysterious reason become deserted. You can alternate between scenes of the current investigation into the disappearances with past scenes of the colonists experiencing the events that lead to their eventual disappearance. (This alternating between past and present storylines can work well for short fiction too.) You can tell the origin of a people, a civilization, a technology, a curse . . . anything, really, just so long as it’s pertinent to the story and above all, interesting to the reader.

·         A supporting character’s story: Have an important supporting character? Tell their story, either all at once or in bits and pieces, but tell it in a dramatized scene.

·         Use epistolary techniques: Epistolary techniques – making a novel be a collage of documents written the characters – used to be a common storytelling techniqye. It’s still around today, but most people probably know if as found-footage movies. You can use diary/journal entries, excerpts from a fictional book in your world, letters, emails, new articles, web articles, TV news, recorded videos, security footage, records of scientific experiments, etc. Putting excerpts from these things in your novel can enrich it by adding some narrative variety, as well as additional length.

9)      Additional expansion tips.

·         Have your characters work at cross purposes: Too many writers have all of their characters working well together the entire time, with perhaps a token argument here and there, but nothing so serious that disrupts the group’s forward progress. But you lengthen your story (and add additional conflict and character development) by having your characters argue about the best way to deal with a problem, or having them go their own way to address the problem because they can’t agree on strategy. Maybe your characters have different goals (and maybe they’re concealing their true motives). Having your characters work at cross purposes also complicates your plot, which . . . yep, makes the story longer.

·         Twist in the middle: A lot writers save a plot twist for the end of the story, but what good does it do then? The story’s over. But if you include a twist in the middle, it can send your story off in some interesting directions, and make your story longer, especially if the twist is something that plays itself out after a while. What if one of your characters is revealed to have stolen someone else’s identity and in reality, they’re a criminal? Your other characters will no longer trust them once they discover this secret, and additional complications might ensue, such as the police coming to arrest the character or maybe some of their former criminal associates showing up to collect an unpaid debt. These complications are eventually dealt with, the other characters get over their distrust of the deceptive character (maybe by learning their backstory, as I mentioned earlier) and then everyone gets back to the regularly scheduled plot and the story moves on from there.

·         Sidetracks: One of the earliest tie-in novels I wrote was a young adult Dragonlance novel for Wizards of the Coast called Temple of the Dragonslayer. This was the first YA novel WotC produced, and after I turned in my draft, my editor contacted me and said, “I know we told you we wanted 40,000 words, but we’ve decided the book should be 50,000 words.” So I had to add another 10K words, but I wanted to avoid significant rewriting. I needed 10K words of story that I could drop into the novel somewhere without changing anything before or after it. My heroes were traveling to a valley where the temple mentioned in the title was located, and in the original version, they reach the edge of the valley (after a long and hazardous journey), look down upon the temple with relief, and head down toward it. For my extra 10K words, I decided to have one of the characters be kidnapped by goblins and dragged down into their subterranean lair. Then I had the other characters go in search of her. (Basically, I added a mini-Rescue story.) I wanted to make this sequence important to the overall book, so I decided to make it an explanation for why goblins always seem to pop up out of nowhere in D&D campaigns. They travel through a series of underground tunnels, come up, cause their mischief, then escape back into the tunnels. The rescue was successful, my characters got back to the edge of the valley, they took a deep breath, relieved that they could finally head down to the temple, and started forward again. I’d plopped an additional mini-story into an already complete draft, but readers had no idea when they read the finished book. I made the rescue exciting and made it pertinent to the overall story by showing something about the world. Having characters get sidetracked, maybe for a lengthy portion of your novel, can work great to add length. It’s a variation on adding more obstacles, but this is a big one, one that might add several chapters to your book instead of a few pages.

·         Wrong turns: Even if characters encounter obstacles on the way toward meeting their goals, beginning writers still have their characters make right choices along the way. But you can add length to a novel, and make the story more interesting, if your character makes a mistake that sends them off in a wrong direction, especially if they don’t know they’re headed in the wrong direction. Ever seen a movie in which characters are searching for a treasure, and after deciphering a series of clues, get to what they think is the location of the treasure, only to find it’s not there and in reality it’s located at the place where they started their search? The entire damn story is a wrong turn, sending the characters on an absolutely unnecessary journey. Unnecessary for them, but maybe quite entertaining to an audience. Characters should make mistakes, operate under false assumptions, follow bad (or deceitful) advice on how to proceed, etc.

·         Ask yourself, “What couldn’t possibly happen next?” then make it happen. This is a piece of advice I share with aspiring writers all the time. Too often our plots are simple, contrived things, a subconscious recycling of stories we’ve read or viewed before. Let’s say one of your characters is going to confront their spouse about having an affair, and you imagine them having a huge argument that ends with them deciding to divorce. Nothing especially interesting about that, plus it’s not that long. So ask yourself what couldn’t possibly – at least in the way you currently envision the story – happen next, then make it happen. Maybe your character walks into the house and finds their spouse dead. Maybe they find the spouse being held hostage by someone they’ve never seen before. Maybe the spouse isn’t there, and there’s nothing to indicate where they went. Maybe the spouse’s mother has dropped by for a visit and they can’t have a discussion about the affair. Or maybe they do have it with the mother, and maybe she’s the one that unexpectedly starts it. Maybe that’s the moment when an alien race invades Earth. Whatever. This technique works better in the outline stage if you’re a plotter, but you can try it anytime in the drafting process if you’re a pantser. I’m a little of both, but I’m never hesitant to make a sudden swerve in my story if a good change occurs to me, and I need to make my novel larger.

So if your novel turns out to be shorter than you (or your editor) would like, hopefully the tips I’ve given you will help you expand it. Just remember what I said several times above: Anything you add should be pertinent to the story and interesting to the reader, not just random words crammed into your novel only to make it longer. You want your novel to be both bigger and better.

DEPARTMENT OF SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION

We Will Rise Release

We Will Rise, my ghost apocalypse novel, is finally out from Flame Tree Press! Early reviews have been good so far. But you don’t have to take my word for it – here’s a sampling:

 

“We Will Rise is a tense, emotional, scary ride and one of Waggoner’s best.” – Zach Rosenberg, Horror DNA

 

“The book is CREEPY. It's devastating and brutal, with parts not for the faint hearted. It's definitely a horror, and one of my new favourite horrors that's for sure!” – Melissa

 

“Such a fun, horrifying rollercoaster of a book! Once I started, I couldn’t put it down.” – Sugar Spice Coffee

 

“From the first page on Waggoner had me hooked. His imagination is truly off the charts, and never could I have predicted what would happen next.” – Julia C. Lewis

 

If you read We Will Rise, I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d leave a review/rating somewhere. Reader reviews are the lifeblood of a book, and they help publishers decide whether to bring out more work from an author.

 

You can also hear me read the first scene from the book here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pqQWpRmZRAc&t=52s

 

Synopsis

In Echo Hill, Ohio, the dead begin to reappear, manifesting in various forms, from classic ghosts and poltergeists, to physical undead and bizarre apparitions for which there is no name. These malign spirits attack the living, tormenting and ultimately killing them in order to add more recruits to their spectral ranks.

A group of survivors come together after the initial attack, all plagued by different ghostly apparitions of their own. Can they make it out of Echo Hill alive? And if so, will they still be sane? Or will they die and join the ranks of the vengeful dead?

Purchase Links

Flame Tree Press

https://www.flametreepublishing.com/we-will-rise-isbn-9781787585249.html

Amazon Paperback

https://www.amazon.com/We-Will-Rise-Tim-Waggoner/dp/1787585220/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1635525326&sr=1-1

Kindle

https://www.amazon.com/We-Will-Rise-Tim-Waggoner-ebook/dp/B09JPF5XZD/ref=sr_1_1?crid=11ZC2NOOC3S1J&keywords=tim+waggoner+we+will+rise&qid=1635593108&sprefix=tim+waggoner+we+wi%2Caps%2C192&sr=8-1

Amazon Hardcover

https://www.amazon.com/We-Will-Rise-Tim-Waggoner/dp/1787585247/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=tim+waggoner&qid=1635525512&s=books&sr=1-2

Barnes & Noble Paperback

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/we-will-rise-tim-waggoner/1140376625?ean=9781787585225

NOOK Book

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/we-will-rise-tim-waggoner/1140376625?ean=9781787585263

Barnes & Noble Hardcover

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/we-will-rise-tim-waggoner/1140376625?ean=9781787585249

 Writing in the Dark: The Workbook

This workbook is my follow-up to Writing in the Dark, and I’ve gotten some really good feedback on it so far. While you can use it in conjunction with Writing in the Dark, I wrote it so it could be used on its own as well. It’s available at all the usual places online, but here’s a link to the publisher’s website if you’d like to learn more about it (and order it from them). Plus, you can download some sample exercises for free!

 

https://rawdogscreaming.com/books/writing-in-the-dark-workbook/#:~:text=Like%20Tim%20Waggoner's%20Bram%20Stoker,developing%20the%20art%20of%20suspense.

 

I hope you’ll help spread the word about the workbook. Like Writing in the Dark, I wrote it to help people improve their horror fiction – or if they’re new to horror, to help them get started in the genre – and I want to help as many people as I can. You can help me do that. And for those of you who’ve already spread the word, thank you so much!

 Want to stalk me in real life?

 No one knows what impact COVID is going to have in the future, so I might end up canceling any or all of the following appearances. I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, here are all the convention appearances I have lined up for the next year. If you attend any of them, make sure to say hi! I’ll be doing panels and workshops, I’m sure, but I don’t have any specific schedules yet.

 

Chicon 8: The 80^th World Science Fiction Convention: Chicago, Sept. 1-5.

 

World Fantasy Convention. New Orleans: Nov. 3-6.

 

Authorcon 2. Williamsburg, Virgina: March 31-April 2.

 

Stokercon. Pittsburgh: June 15-18.

 

Want to stalk me virtually?

 

Want to follow me on social media? Here’s where you can find me:

 

Website: www.timwaggoner.com

Twitter: @timwaggoner

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tim.waggoner.9

Instagram: tim.waggoner.scribe

Blog: http://writinginthedarktw.blogspot.com/

YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCZEz6_ALPrV3tdC0V3peKNw

TikTok: @timwaggonerscribe

 

Why Horror (Still) Matters

In the aftermath of 9/11, horror writers went through an existential crisis. “How can we continue writing horror fiction,” they asked, “when the world is filled with real-life horrors that are so much worse?” Was it even moral to write horror fiction in the face of terrible tragedies? Were we mocking them? Worse, were we somehow contributing to them?

 

After the recent mass shooting at Uvalde elementary school in Texas – in which an eighteen-year-old gunman took the lives of nineteen children and two adults and injured seventeen others – writers of dark fiction are doubtless asking themselves the same questions that they did when the towers fell. I know I am.

 

If you feel you need to step away from writing the dark stuff for a while, I get it. If you feel you need to take a longer break, maybe even a permanent one, I get that too. But even in a world which contains such true darkness in it, I think horror fiction, film, TV, and games still play an important role, maybe even a vital one.

 

I wrote about the importance of horror fiction to humanity in the first chapter of Writing in the Dark, which I’ve posted below.

 

WHY HORROR MATTERS

Originally published in Writing in the Dark, 2020

 

Years ago, a student asked me why I write horror. “You seem like such a pleasant person,” she said.

            I looked into her eyes and smiled a slightly wicked smile.

            “Writing horror is what keeps me pleasant.”

We all have a dark side that whispers to us, a side that we struggle against and ultimately need to make peace with if we don’t want it to destroy us. In many ways, that’s probably the most primal story of humanity. Horror fiction gives us a safe way to explore and – hopefully – come to terms with our dark side.

Horror stories allow us to confront our deepest fears through the buffer of fiction. Wrestling with the darkest questions of human existence – why is there violence, pain, cruelty, and death? – can be emotionally overwhelming. These questions can be too intense to deal with directly. Like an eclipse, the only way to safely view these aspects of life is indirectly. Horror allows us to do this. Horror can serve as a buffer in another way. It can distract us from the horrors of the real world, all of which are far more terrifying than any story about a ghost or vampire. Horror writers are like dark clowns that caper in front of our readers, making grotesque faces in the hope that the audience won’t look over our shoulder and see the true darkness of existence behind us.

Not that most readers think that deeply when they pick up (or download) a horror book. They’re looking to be entertained, and probably even more so with film and television horror. They want to enter a dark dream and experience the delightful frisson that comes from feeling they’re in mortal danger, when in reality they’re perfectly safe. It’s the same for people who enjoy a trip through a carnival spookhouse. It’s a fun experience that gets the blood pumping, that jolts people out of their everyday existence and – if only for a short time – makes them feel alive. And if this was all horror did, it would still be important. Who doesn’t want to feel really alive? But even when it entertains, horror can do so much more, be so much more.

Horror is as much, if not more so, about an individual character’s experience than it’s about whatever dark force confronts them. There’s an old saying that an adventure is someone else having a hell of a tough time a thousand miles away. Any type of fiction can teach us more about ourselves and our fellow humans by showing us how particular characters deal with conflict – both external and internal. But horror turns up the conflict all the way to eleven. How do characters deal with the unknown, the impossible, the nightmarish? How do they deal with being exposed to – or tempted by – evil, whether demonic, mundane, or symbolic? What would we do in those situations? Would we be smarter, braver, more resistant to corruption? Would we be smart enough not to go into the dark basement, to resist opening the Necronomicon, to not invite the vampire into our house? Could we hold onto our sanity in the face of the awful things we encounter – or become? Psychologists suggest that reading and watching horror allow people to develop stronger survival skills. We engage in fictional scenarios to explore what we would do in dangerous situations. How many of you have spent time arguing with friends about the best way to survive a zombie apocalypse or how you’d react during a home invasion by a Michael Meyers-like serial killer?

All fiction can make people more empathetic by simply dropping us into a character’s life and allowing us to experience how he or she tries to deal with problems. But horror fiction allows us to follow characters pushed to the absolute limits of human experience and beyond. The more pain – of all sorts – a character experiences in a story, the greater our empathy for that character.

Horror also allows for deep catharsis. The ending of the movie Jaws is a perfect example. After an entire film dealing with an implacable inhuman force, Sheriff Brody – clinging to the mast of the sinking Orca and literally in the shark’s environment – manages to kill the beast at the last moment. And the resultant explosion is a huge catharsis. When characters not only survive but triumph against dark forces, we feel relief. We also feel that if characters in a story can do it, maybe we can too in real life. But good horror isn’t predictable, isn’t safe. Maybe the heroes succeed in banishing the evil, maybe they don’t. Maybe they’re defeated by it, changed by it, become part of it. Or maybe they only believe they’ve won, but it’s a temporary victory at best because the evil returns in the sequel. (I contend this, aside from being a marketing tactic, reflects how we deal with darkness in our own lives. We can never banish it entirely. The best we can manage is a holding action or temporary respite until it returns, and it will keep returning until it finally claims us. How’s that for a cheery thought?) Uncertain outcomes like these keep readers and viewers on their toes mentally and force them to deal with the more complex and mixed emotions uncertain endings bring.

Horror also offers another kind of catharsis. We get the chance to experience what it’s like to be the monster, to not be constrained by morality or even our humanity. We can stalk, torture, maim, kill, despoil souls, destroy worlds, all without ever committing an actual act of violence in the real world. We can get in touch with our dark side, explore it, map it, acknowledge it . . . and once we do, it ceases to have power over us. Or at least, its power is lessened. We’re no longer afraid of thinking “bad” thoughts or imagining “bad” things. It’s like The Purge, only without all the blood, death, and screaming.

Horror can be deeply existential, too. How can we mere mortals hope to defeat all the things that make up Darkness with a capital D: death, disease, violence, temptation, degradation, insanity? What does it mean to be human in a world where the dead can return to life and seek to drain your blood or devour your flesh? What does it mean when otherworldly forces – infinitely more powerful than we are – seek to destroy or dominate us? What does it mean to be human when the monster is inside us, growing stronger every moment? The vast majority of audience members don’t think this consciously about the horror they consume as entertainment, but subconsciously? I believe they do engage with the existential questions horror raises on that level, just below the surface of everyday normal thought.

Horror can provide comfort for the weird ones among us. (And I count myself as a member of this tribe.) With horror’s focus on monstrous distortion – on Otherness – those of us who for one reason or another don’t fit into society’s paradigm of normal can find a place to belong. My wife once told me, “You talk about monsters as if they’re your best friends.” That’s because in many ways they are.

A lot of you reading this might be thinking that literature of any sort has the potential to do all the things I’ve discussed so far – and you’re right. This proves my ultimate point. Horror is literature, and it’s just as important and vital as any other type for the health and growth of humans and their culture.

This sounds cool and all, you might be thinking, but I like to read and write horror because it’s fun.

There’s nothing wrong with fun. If we didn’t have fun from time to time, imagine how miserable our lives would be. But I believe even popular fiction meant primarily for entertainment can fulfill a higher purpose, too. We all know that entertainment can provide an escape from our everyday lives, but it wasn’t until my senior year in high school that I truly understood what this meant.

There was a small bookstore in the town next to ours. (This was back in the pre-Amazon past, when such places still existed.) My dad and I were browsing the bookshelves, and I was happily surprised to see a new novel by Piers Anthony in his Xanth series called Centaur Aisle. I’d loved the first three books in the series and had no idea there was going to be a fourth. Dad and I went up to the register, and when he saw the book I was holding, he asked, “Do you mind if I read it first?” I was shocked. In my family, whoever bought a book was always the first one to read it. No exceptions.

My mother – who suffered from a number of health problems – was scheduled for surgery the next day. The procedure wasn’t a very serious one (or so my parents claimed), but I understood then that my father was worried, and he wanted something to distract him in the hospital during my mother’s surgery and recovery. I said yes, of course. And I realized then that popular fiction of all kinds – fiction written to be fun – has a profound power. It can provide comfort to someone who’s scared. It can take someone’s mind off their worries, help them get through some of the hardest times in their life.

Not only do horror writers work in a genre with a long and rich history, the stories we create perform numerous important functions for people as individuals and for civilization as a whole. So if anyone ever asks you why you’re wasting your time writing horror instead of “real” fiction, tell them, “Horror is as real as it gets, baby.” Then for good measure hiss and bare your fangs, then get back to work.

Exploring Perception in Dark Fiction: Guest Blog byTori Eldridge

 

Exploring Perception in Dark Fiction

by Tori Eldridge

Every day, people make decisions that take them toward empowerment and righteousness or toward resentment, bitterness, and despair. Not all of these choices are clearly marked like forks in a road. Some creep up on us with insidious stealth, altering our perception and twisting the truth. The micro decisions we make every day can lead us to irrevocable actions that cause our own demise. They can also raise us from literal or emotional poverty and set us on a nobler path.

In Dance Among the Flames, we meet Serafina Olegario at a vulnerable time in her life. Born in the stilt-shack slums of São Salvador, Brazil, sixteen-year-old Serafina takes her newborn son to meet her married politician lover. When commanded to do the unthinkable, she finds her strength through a supernatural force that changes the course of her tragic life. From this moment forward, every choice she makes pushes her toward the light or the dark. How the readers perceive her evolution is up to them.

It’s these gray areas of human behavior fascinate me the most.

I have yet to meet a person who is a hundred percent in the right or in the wrong. Nor have I met anyone who always acts in the best interest of others or even themselves. Although we might aspire to the most noble course of action, our past experiences and beliefs can lead us astray. Everything we have seen, heard, thought, or been taught; every joy, heartache, failure, and success; every suffering, privilege, or injustice leaves its mark and alters how we perceive.

Dark fiction takes on on a journey of discovery without judgment and let’s us see the world and ourselves in a whole new way.

“Purity was a lie made up by weak people without the guts to face the truth. There was no good or bad: There was only context and conditions. View something as bad and it was. View someone as evil and they were. Spend your life bemoaning your fate and you suffered.”

 —Thoughts from Serafina Olegario in Dance Among the Flames

Could we spiral into the darkness like some of the characters we read about or write? Dark fiction gives us the privacy and context to ask: Where are the lines in the sand after the tide rises and ebbs out to sea?

Our perceptions about everything change slightly—or sometimes dramatically—from one moment to the next. This is one reason why I aspire to write every day. I never know what creative ideas my new perceptions will bring.

DANCE AMONG THE FLAMES by Tori Eldridge

From the national bestselling author of the Lily Wong thriller series comes a “stunningly original novel” (F. Paul Wilson) about a desperate mother who rises from the slums of Brazil to become a powerful wielder of Quimbanda magic. Across forty years, three continents, and a past incident in 1560 France, Serafina Olegario tests the boundaries of love, power, and corruption as she fights to escape her life of poverty and abuse. Serafina’s quest begins in Brazil when she’s possessed by the warrior goddess Yansã, who emboldens her to fight yet threatens to consume her spirit. Fueled by power and enticed by Exú, an immortal trickster and intermediary to the gods, Serafina turns to the seductive magic of Quimbanda. Passion. Horror. Betrayal. It’s dangerous to dance in the fire. But when you come from nothing, you have nothing to lose.

“Eldridge masterfully navigates the nuances of Brazilian religious syncretism and takes a deep and daring look into the issues of colorism, class, generational trauma, and physical, sexual, and emotional abuse. Spanning decades and generations, this is both a page-turner and an emotional powerhouse.” —Publishers Weekly (Starred Review)

Tori Eldridge is the national bestselling author of the Lily Wong mystery thriller series—THE NINJA DAUGHTER, THE NINJA’S BLADE, and THE NINJA BETRAYED—nominated for the Anthony, Lefty, and Macavity Awards and winner of Suspense Magazine’s Crimson Scribe Award for Best Book of 2021. Her shorter works appear in the inaugural reboot of Weird Tales Magazine and other horror, dystopian, and literary anthologies. Her short story, “Missing on Kaua‘i” appears in the 2022 Mystery Writers of America anthology, CRIME HITS HOME. Her horror screenplay THE GIFT, which inspired DANCE AMONG THE FLAMES, earned a semi-finalist spot for the Academy Nicholl Fellowship. Born and raised in Honolulu, Tori’s deep interest in world culture and religions has prompted her to visit nine countries, including Brazil.