Wherein I show, not tell
Dear authors of fandom,
I have loved all your fics since I joined fandom waaaay back in the day of like 11 months ago. I have read so many wonderful pieces of writing that I kinda wish that I owned a publishing house and make all of you published, royalty-earning authors.
However lately I can't help but feel like either fandom in general is tired or bored or both because a number of issues that have not been issues are now issues everywhere. I just want to contribute a simple suggestion to make things easier for people who are authors (kudos!) or are planning to be authors in future.
Writing recommendation: Show, don't tell
Remember this saying from high school English class? It applies in every area of creative writing, not just essays. Explanations are cop-outs and are always long winded and stop the tempo of the story. They run the risk of pushing you into "boring fic" territory please avoid them.
He’s running on empty by the time they make it to Chuck’s. For the past twelve hours Dean’s fueled himself with nothing but sugar and caffeine, downing Red Bulls like there’s no tomorrow each time the black whip of road winding out before the Impala began to blur too much. Munching on candy bars for sugar, French fries for carbohydrates, at least six extra-large soda cups tossed into the backseat sucked dry of their syrupy caffeine. Over the years he’s grown used to it - grown accustomed to living with frayed ends and reddened eyes. Him and Sam both have. More than once Dean has stayed awake for so many consecutive hours it defies logic, and he’s even given thought to trading himself into sleep laboratories for scientists to marvel over once this whole Apocalypse thing blows over.
But he was raised a hunter, which means he was brought up to be resilient. He could channel adrenaline with the best of them, feeding off of base chemical reactions in the event of an unexpected altercation. Hunters had to be on their toes all the time, and Dean Winchester was just about the most adept at living a life on a carefully-balanced knife edge. He could shoot a perfect bullseye at twenty yards after staying awake for thirty-odd hours, could pin a vampire or slip a werewolf, wrestle a demon into a devil’s trap after no sleep and ten rounds with a royally pissed off poltergeist. Any way you slice it, Dean could get the crap beat out of him and still be centered enough to keep his hands steady.
Which is why he can’t quite figure it out when he finds himself standing in the middle of a suburban street staring at the blackened remains of a familiar house that’s been leveled, with Sam mumbling an impromptu oh my god at his back and Chuck sitting on the curb, swilling whiskey out of a bottle as if none of this has quite sunk in yet, and he absolutely cannot stop his hands from shaking.
Writing Recommendation: Conversations should always have a point
Even lazy, happy/sad conversations that go to show the state of mind of any two/three characters at the time. Pointless banter proves nothing, shows nothing and worst of all wastes your time and the reader's. Keeping dialogs short and to the point without trying to be overtly witty and/or funny will help you reach heights of awesome like this author did:
"Dude? Are you pissed because the internet's not obsessed with us having fake sex any more?"
Sam gives him his patented 'fuck you' face, but Dean's far too amused to drop it that easily.
"You are!"
"I am not, I just-" Sam's expression turns almost miserable. "I barely turn up at all in the fanfic any more and when I do I'm either evil, or I get killed."
There's absolutely no way Dean isn't going to laugh at that.
"Dean, I'm serious! I've just been-" Sam sighs, loud and helpless. "I've been trying to work out why they don't like me. Or at least why they suddenly like Castiel more when Chuck's been writing about us for-"
Dean throws a book at him.
"Ow!"
"Seriously, don't make me do that again," Dean complains. "You sound like a twelve year old girl. This isn't a popularity contest."
Writing recommendation: Language should be simple but watch out for redundancy
Big gestures in writing almost always fail. Keeping the prose short and to the point always helps. Writing is such a wonderful medium that the reader's imagination helps fill in the blanks, so don't sweat the small stuff. Not everyone feels Harlequin levels of love that makes the heart sing Halelujah or experiences orgasms that make their world spin and colors explode in their mind.
And then he kisses him. Hard. As hard as Castiel kissed him that time, like he’s nothing more than something for Dean to jam his face against. Castiel’s eyes widen in shock and he raises both his hands in the air but doesn’t seem to know what to do with them. Dean places his own hands on the angel’s cheeks, holding him in place, pressing so hard I can only imagine it must hurt, and his body falls until it’s lined up against Castiel’s, groin to groin.
He kisses him. He kisses him, and I want to tear out my own eyes so I don’t have to watch, but I don’t have any to tear out. It’s funny, though, because I also don’t have a heart, and that’s being torn out of me for sure.
Castiel looks as though he’s struggling to break away, like he wants to say something, but after a few seconds he gives up. His hands finally fall on Dean’s back and he pulls him close, one palm falling to his ass, and Dean jerks away from him at the touch as though he’s gone too far. He releases his mouth and steps back, panting, staring at Castiel through narrowed eyes.
“Dean,” Castiel gasps. “This is...”
But then Dean shoves him again, so hard that the wood splinters against Castiel’s back. The angel hisses in a breath - in surprise, not shock, because he doesn’t seem to feel pain - and then Dean grabs him by the lapels of his coat and drags him towards a shelving unit stacked with everything from china plates to ceramic figures. They all go smash as Castiel hits the unit, flying left, right and center as Dean turns the angel round to face him and starts tearing off his coat as though if he doesn’t get it off soon he’ll explode. Castiel is clearly out of his depth; he’s blinking at Dean in stunned amazement, staring down at Dean’s hands as they yank on his tie and pull it from his neck, and then Dean is kissing him again and more statues hit the ground around them as Castiel is thrown back against the unit with a soft groan of shock.
Author's Note: My very sincere thanks and apologies to thevinegarworks, entangled_now and strangeandcharm for shamelessly using their materials. They are absolutely brilliant authors and if you haven't read their works, I suggest you really do.
Thank you for listening to me blab. This is not intended to be disrespectful to any of you writers out there but hopefully you'll read this and see where improvements can be made in your own works.
I have loved all your fics since I joined fandom waaaay back in the day of like 11 months ago. I have read so many wonderful pieces of writing that I kinda wish that I owned a publishing house and make all of you published, royalty-earning authors.
However lately I can't help but feel like either fandom in general is tired or bored or both because a number of issues that have not been issues are now issues everywhere. I just want to contribute a simple suggestion to make things easier for people who are authors (kudos!) or are planning to be authors in future.
Writing recommendation: Show, don't tell
Remember this saying from high school English class? It applies in every area of creative writing, not just essays. Explanations are cop-outs and are always long winded and stop the tempo of the story. They run the risk of pushing you into "boring fic" territory please avoid them.
He’s running on empty by the time they make it to Chuck’s. For the past twelve hours Dean’s fueled himself with nothing but sugar and caffeine, downing Red Bulls like there’s no tomorrow each time the black whip of road winding out before the Impala began to blur too much. Munching on candy bars for sugar, French fries for carbohydrates, at least six extra-large soda cups tossed into the backseat sucked dry of their syrupy caffeine. Over the years he’s grown used to it - grown accustomed to living with frayed ends and reddened eyes. Him and Sam both have. More than once Dean has stayed awake for so many consecutive hours it defies logic, and he’s even given thought to trading himself into sleep laboratories for scientists to marvel over once this whole Apocalypse thing blows over.
But he was raised a hunter, which means he was brought up to be resilient. He could channel adrenaline with the best of them, feeding off of base chemical reactions in the event of an unexpected altercation. Hunters had to be on their toes all the time, and Dean Winchester was just about the most adept at living a life on a carefully-balanced knife edge. He could shoot a perfect bullseye at twenty yards after staying awake for thirty-odd hours, could pin a vampire or slip a werewolf, wrestle a demon into a devil’s trap after no sleep and ten rounds with a royally pissed off poltergeist. Any way you slice it, Dean could get the crap beat out of him and still be centered enough to keep his hands steady.
Which is why he can’t quite figure it out when he finds himself standing in the middle of a suburban street staring at the blackened remains of a familiar house that’s been leveled, with Sam mumbling an impromptu oh my god at his back and Chuck sitting on the curb, swilling whiskey out of a bottle as if none of this has quite sunk in yet, and he absolutely cannot stop his hands from shaking.
Writing Recommendation: Conversations should always have a point
Even lazy, happy/sad conversations that go to show the state of mind of any two/three characters at the time. Pointless banter proves nothing, shows nothing and worst of all wastes your time and the reader's. Keeping dialogs short and to the point without trying to be overtly witty and/or funny will help you reach heights of awesome like this author did:
"Dude? Are you pissed because the internet's not obsessed with us having fake sex any more?"
Sam gives him his patented 'fuck you' face, but Dean's far too amused to drop it that easily.
"You are!"
"I am not, I just-" Sam's expression turns almost miserable. "I barely turn up at all in the fanfic any more and when I do I'm either evil, or I get killed."
There's absolutely no way Dean isn't going to laugh at that.
"Dean, I'm serious! I've just been-" Sam sighs, loud and helpless. "I've been trying to work out why they don't like me. Or at least why they suddenly like Castiel more when Chuck's been writing about us for-"
Dean throws a book at him.
"Ow!"
"Seriously, don't make me do that again," Dean complains. "You sound like a twelve year old girl. This isn't a popularity contest."
Writing recommendation: Language should be simple but watch out for redundancy
Big gestures in writing almost always fail. Keeping the prose short and to the point always helps. Writing is such a wonderful medium that the reader's imagination helps fill in the blanks, so don't sweat the small stuff. Not everyone feels Harlequin levels of love that makes the heart sing Halelujah or experiences orgasms that make their world spin and colors explode in their mind.
And then he kisses him. Hard. As hard as Castiel kissed him that time, like he’s nothing more than something for Dean to jam his face against. Castiel’s eyes widen in shock and he raises both his hands in the air but doesn’t seem to know what to do with them. Dean places his own hands on the angel’s cheeks, holding him in place, pressing so hard I can only imagine it must hurt, and his body falls until it’s lined up against Castiel’s, groin to groin.
He kisses him. He kisses him, and I want to tear out my own eyes so I don’t have to watch, but I don’t have any to tear out. It’s funny, though, because I also don’t have a heart, and that’s being torn out of me for sure.
Castiel looks as though he’s struggling to break away, like he wants to say something, but after a few seconds he gives up. His hands finally fall on Dean’s back and he pulls him close, one palm falling to his ass, and Dean jerks away from him at the touch as though he’s gone too far. He releases his mouth and steps back, panting, staring at Castiel through narrowed eyes.
“Dean,” Castiel gasps. “This is...”
But then Dean shoves him again, so hard that the wood splinters against Castiel’s back. The angel hisses in a breath - in surprise, not shock, because he doesn’t seem to feel pain - and then Dean grabs him by the lapels of his coat and drags him towards a shelving unit stacked with everything from china plates to ceramic figures. They all go smash as Castiel hits the unit, flying left, right and center as Dean turns the angel round to face him and starts tearing off his coat as though if he doesn’t get it off soon he’ll explode. Castiel is clearly out of his depth; he’s blinking at Dean in stunned amazement, staring down at Dean’s hands as they yank on his tie and pull it from his neck, and then Dean is kissing him again and more statues hit the ground around them as Castiel is thrown back against the unit with a soft groan of shock.
Author's Note: My very sincere thanks and apologies to thevinegarworks, entangled_now and strangeandcharm for shamelessly using their materials. They are absolutely brilliant authors and if you haven't read their works, I suggest you really do.
Thank you for listening to me blab. This is not intended to be disrespectful to any of you writers out there but hopefully you'll read this and see where improvements can be made in your own works.