Wikipedia Envy

I recently read a post on Facebook from an author friend. She shared some unexpected news: someone had immortalized her on Wikipedia. The author in question wrote how it felt kind of odd to read the entry.

I had never really considered what reading about myself on Wikipedia would be like until I saw her status update. I imagine it opens up a whole host of conflicting emotions.

And I had to admit that I desire a Wikipedia entry of my own. I know it’s silly and vain of me, but I’m not going to lie. Achieving Wikipedia status appeals to that basic human need in me to leave a mark on this world. Even if it’s a tiny little virtual scratch.

Wikipedia justifiably generates many detractors because it is crowdsourced. But it’s precisely Wikipedia’s neo-populist model that makes it a useful indicator for a writer, or any artist, who has decided to create for public consumption. A Wikipedia entry carries an implied proof that at least one person reacted strongly enough to an artist’s creation (in my friend’s case, it was a novel) to go to Wikipedia and generate a new page. Further, other people have agreed with the first person’s assessment enough to add to the entry and link to it. It’s validating to be immortalized in what has become the world’s encyclopedia.

But, unlike a traditional encyclopedia, Wikipedia presents a whole host of ethical dilemmas:

Is it okay for the subject of an entry to go in and edit his or her own page? Can an unknown like me bypass the work legitimate notability requires by simply starting my own entry? What differentiates justifiable, healthy self-promotion from crass, cynical manipulation of the crowdsourcing format?

Having the ability to edit one’s own encyclopedia entry is a can of moral worms, but, truth be told, I worry my biggest problem would be curtailing the amount of time I spent going to my entry to see if anyone had changed it.

Actually that’s not the worst possibility.

What if my hypothetical Wikipedia entry died an “orphan,” without any articles linked to it? What if I never met Wikipedia’s minimum “notability guidelines?”

What happens at that point? Do the Wiki gatekeepers just remove you at three a.m. when no one’s looking?

How horrible! You get up in the morning and go to check on your little Wiki-corner of the world, but it’s gone. Erased from the Wiki world.

That kind of rebuff might prove too much for the flimsy structure that is my writer’s ego.

Maybe my lack of “success” is a good thing. At least at this point. Maybe I’m not quite ready to be carved into the heights of Mt. Wiki. Maybe I need more time and experience to toughen myself up. Maybe joining the world’s gallery of notable names might be too stressful for me, at least at this point in my career.

Maybe instead of wasting my imagination on these monumentally hypothetical musings, I should try to keep myself focused on more concrete, immediate goals like finishing this short story I’ve been stuck on for a couple of weeks.

Hmm, I think I might be onto something.

The Book Thief Did Not “Make My Heart Race”

I finally got around to reading The Book Thief. It’s mind-bogglingly good. Its author, Markus Zusak, does everything right. Perhaps the most striking thing about the book is the voice of the narrator. This omniscient but reticent observer expresses most of his opinions and sympathies through seemingly simple verb choices and elegant descriptions. I haven’t had that kind of emotional reaction to a novel in years. If you haven’t read it, stop what you are doing and go out and get it. Don’t wait for the movie. I’m serious. Move it to the top of your reading list right now.

But I’m not here to write another rave review of The Book Thief. I only mention it because it’s a perfect example of what can happen when a writer pushes through those first, easy word choices, refusing to settle on the merely adequate. I don’t pretend to know Zusak’s writing process. But the great lesson I took from his novel and am striving to apply to my own writing is this:

If my word choices feel like they’re coming easily, then that’s a sure sign they’re not very interesting.

A couple of books I went on to read after The Book Thief are examples of what I’m talking about. They too were YA. And the authors each did fabulous jobs constructing well-paced, compelling plots. But they undercut all the great action in their stories by constantly using their hero’s hearts as emotional indicators instead of digging deeper to try to find a more perfect verb or describe a less worked over bodily function.

Early on in my editorial career, I had a conversation with a veteran managing editor. This is the person who gave me one of my earliest shots. She assigned me to work one-on-one with a YA novelist on a full rewrite. During one of our check-in meetings I confessed my frustrations with my assigned author’s reliance on cliché cardiopulmonary metaphors. My mentor agreed that the pounding heart was used way too much in YA fiction but then went on to excuse it as a necessary evil. She described it as a type of writerly shorthand that allows an author to communicate a high stress emotional state without getting bogged down trying to come up with a new way of describing it.

I chose not to argue. Who was I to tell this much more experienced editor that she was wrong? But I have to say that conversation broke my heart a little (yes, I realize that’s a cliché word choice, but this is a blog post, not a novel). Ever since, I’ve struggled with whether or not what she said was true. I don’t think it is.

Isn’t coming up with new and singular ways of expressing truths at least part of why we write?

Great writing is great writing whether it’s in a picture book or a historical monograph. Readers respond to it in profound and unpredictable ways because it changes them. Sure, using shorthand word choices is easier and it basically gets the point across. It’s just not as good. And writing which relies on shorthand and cheats can never rise to the immortal greatness of The Book Thief because it doesn’t create a different reality the way relentlessly crafted-down-to-the-last-word fiction does

Like pretty much everything, if it comes easy it’s probably not worth the effort.

Five Basic Critique Group Rules

Over the years I’ve taken part in a lot of critique groups. I’m a big fan of them. They provide writers of all levels with a forum for finding honest and supportive feedback, assuming everyone knows the general rules of critique group behavior. Few things are worse than getting stuck at a table with a writer who doesn’t play well with others. This is one of the reasons why I prefer open critique groups to be moderated by someone with lots of writing workshop experience.

Unfortunately that’s not always what you get. So today’s post is all about the basics of critique group etiquette. It’s a few ground rules to help everyone get what they need from the experience, regardless of whether it’s moderated.

My first critique group rule is the most important. And it’s really more of a foundation for all my others. It’s an attitude that all participants really need to adhere to in order to make a critique group function properly.

Critique Group Rule #1: Never forget you’re there to support each other.

A critique group is not a competition or a showcase. It’s a place for writers to help other writers write better. (Yeah, that last sentence was on purpose! Leave a comment and tell me how you’d handle it in a critique group.) It must start with acceptance and respect coming from all participants.

Critique Group Rule #2: Start your feedback with a compliment.

If you cannot find at least one thing good to say about the work, then don’t say anything at all. Period.

Critique Group Rule#3: Critique the work, not the writer.

Often this boils down to phrasing. For example, “Your metaphor doesn’t work” can be interpreted by the hearer as a general assessment of a writer’s ability to use metaphor in general. But if you say “That metaphor doesn’t work,” you’re just talking about the words on the page. It’s a fine distinction, but it can mean the difference between a comment being perceived as constructive or destructive.

Critique Group Rule#4: Don’t Defend Your Work. Not even a little.

This can be incredibly difficult to pull off, but you have to do it. Otherwise there’s a good chance you’ll twist the discussion into a debate about your authorial intentions. And that’s not helpful to anyone, especially you. Remember, your intentions are ultimately irrelevant because you won’t always be there to explain what you meant to your readers.

If questions or clarifications occur to you, note them as your work is being is critiqued. Then, once everyone’s given their opinions, you can ask any follow-up questions you feel you need to.

Corollary to Rule Number Four:

When you verbally justify your writing, you tend to get trapped in one-on-one discussions that usually end up wasting everyone else’s time. That’s not respectful.

Critique Group Rule#5: Don’t mess around on your phone while a writer is reading her work.

I can’t believe I even need to say this. But this very thing happened during a recent unmoderated critique group I participated in. It’s rude! There’s no excuse for it! And it sends a clear and unequivocal message that you hold those around you in contempt. If it’s an emergency, then excuse yourself and leave the room to take care of your business.

Sorry to get a little strident there, but that kind of self-absorption angers me. There is never a good excuse for it.

… Okay, I’ve taken some deep breaths, and I’m better now.

Just remember, critique groups are all different, and there are as many ways to structure them as there are writers who take part in them. But these five rules are pretty much universal. And they all grow out of what should be the basic organizing concept of any critique group:

Respect Each Other

Irony: Misunderstood and Misused

I know it’s been said, but, as this is one of the most misused words I run into, it never hurts to go over it again:

According to my forty-year-old dictionary:

Irony IS the use of words to convey the opposite of their literal meaning. It can also refer to a situation, utterance, or literary style that is marked by such a contrast between expected and perceived meanings.

Then it gets a bit muddy, because the definitions of irony also include the incongruity between expectations and results, itself, as well as any circumstance notable for such an incongruity.

Irony Is Not a funny coincidence or an interesting paradox. And it’s not necessarily the same as sarcasm. Though sarcastic statements are often ironic.

For all of my fellow geeks out there who have shouted “Aha!” and curled your fingers into typing position to begin your rebuttal: I am deliberately leaving dramatic and Socratic irony out of this discussion. But, by all means, feel free to comment with your definitions of those two specialized definitions of irony.

Jonathan Swift

One of the most famous examples of an ironic literary work isJonathan Swift‘s A Modest Proposal. If you haven’t read it then you’re missing out. Briefly, it’s a 1729 essay from an Irish writer/social commentator suggesting (ironically) that the best way to solve the problems of rampant Irish poverty and unemployment was for the upper class Irish to eat the infants of the Irish poor. Incidentally, he added that their soft skin would also “make admirable gloves for ladies, and summer boots for fine gentlemen.”

Gruesome but effective use of irony.

As Swift’s example teaches, irony rocks for pointing out the ridiculousness of a situation, even a really horrifying one.

Bob Harris

So what’s an example of the misuse of the term. Well, Alanis Morrisette‘s famous song “Ironic” is the most glaring contemporary one I can think of.  And, apparently Bob Harris agrees. In his2008 NY Times essay he sums it up beautifully, so I’ll just quote him:

Alanis Morissette

“Alanis Morissette’s song “Ironic” is equally useful.If it rains on your wedding day, that’s a coincidence, not an irony. If you win the lottery and drop dead before claiming the money, it’s good luck followed by bad luck. If you meet the man of your dreams and then meet his beautiful wife, it’s a bummer. But if a song called “Ironic” contains no irony, is that in itself ironic? Nope.”

In closing, please forgive my pedantry, but, while it’s annoying to misuse the term irony in conversation, as Harris points out when he quotes the NY Times style guide, the “use of irony and ironically, to mean an incongruous turn of events, is trite. Not every coincidence, curiosity, oddity and paradox is an irony, even loosely.”

Remember, writing ironically is difficult and, again quoting the Times manual, “where irony does exist, sophisticated writing counts on the reader to recognize it.”

So, please, for the sake of pedants like me, make sure you actually are being ironic if that’s what you’re trying to do.

Writing Advice from Elmore Leonard

Elmore Leonard counts down his top ten writing tips.

The fabulous Austin author, Lindsey Lane, brought this old NYT article to our attention, and it’s too good not to pass along. It’s a list of ten of Elmore Leonard’s rules for writing. Not surprisingly, he comes down pretty hard on adverbs and overwrought dialogue tags. But we had no idea he had such strong feelings about what Steinbeck called “hooptedoodle.” Take a look and let us know what you think!