How Do My Books Fit an Agent's Criteria?

Ki'shto'ba Huge-Head
Stands Guard
In the foreground (from left):
A'zhu'lo (Ki'shto'ba's twin),
Wei'tu and Twa'sei
(the smallest Worker),
Di'fa'kro'mi the Remembrancer
(a Star-Winged Alate)
 

       On his excellent blog Nicholas Rossis recently published a post entitled The Worst Way to Begin a Novel. His criteria are excerpted from The Write Life and enumerate complaints of agents that can cause rejection.  I decided it would be interesting to consider some of my own books in relation to these criteria, so here goes!
 

"Prologues: not so much! Agents find them boring and think that it’s much better to include the description of the prologue in the actual story plot."

       I have only one book with an addition called "Prologue" at the beginning.  It's my WIP entitled The Man Who Found Birds among the Stars.  I extracted this and published it in the first Read for Animals book (proceeds going to support animal shelters) because it deals with a wounded eagle.    I'm thinking if I ever publish that humongous novel, I might retitle the Prologue as Chapter 1, because it relates directly to something that happens early on in the book and also to the book's broader theme of the eponymous Captain as a wounded man.  Furthermore, it's quite absorbing in itself.  I wouldn't want to omit it.

       However, all of my Ki'shto'ba books have introductory matter, specifically, a Translator's Foreword, because I've set up a scholarly framework.  These are tales written by an extraterrestrial and they require scholarly explanations. 

 

"No dreams in the first chapter: it makes readers identify with a story plot and/or a character/situation and then realize there was no point it, since it was not real. This can make them feel cheated."

       Not sure I agree with this premise, because dreams can be quite revelatory of a character's psychological state, so they can enrich the reader's understanding.  Why would that make you feel cheated?  That said, I've never written a dream in a first chapter.

"Too many descriptive adjectives: 'overwriting' is considered the mark of amateurish writing, as is language that’s too rich for its good.  As I always say, don’t let your writing get in the way of your story."

       I think Nicholas and I agree on this one.  I may occasionally violate it, although I'm not going to dig for an example.  You'll just have to read my books and decide for yourselves.

"No long descriptions: it’s all a question of balance between plot and description. You want to create a setting, but describing the colour of the flower in the vase for three paragraph could be dull."

       I think I deal with that pretty well, most of the time.  In Chapter 2 ("In the Nu'wiv'mi Marsh") of the second volume of the Ki'shto'ba series, there is quite a lot of description of the Companions' surroundings, including the plants and animals. I think any conworlder would appreciate that -- how can you construct a world and then not describe it?  And this watery environment is new to the characters in the story as well, so it fascinates them.

      

"Action: literary agents want action in the first chapter so that they -- and the readers -- get hooked."

       I sometimes violate this one.  I think I handled it OK in The Termite Queen, v.1, because the first short chapter is an internal monologue of the captive termite, and the second chapter introduces some characters in a way that doesn't explain everything (Who is this strange being on the other end of the com link?  Why does he talk in musical notes?  I want more!)  However, I confess that in the Ki'shto'ba series, I sometimes open with a chapter where Di'fa'kro'mi is simply talking with his scribe about his present life, his old age, how he happened to invent writing, etc.  The books often don't have much action until the second chapter or even later because that's where our narrator begins the actual story.  But when you get to that point, things pop. 
 

       Here are some sample openings of the main part of the text:

       Vol. 2: The Storm-Wing:

“We are lost.  I mean, we are quite lost!  Yes, I have to admit it.  I am not at all sure of the way!”

Ra’fa’kat’wei’s confession did nothing to improve my mood.  I was covered with mud, my wings were encrusted with drying shreds of water-weed, and I was sprawled on my belly huffing with fatigue.  So my rejoinder was tart.

“A fine guide you have turned out to be!  You said you knew all the paths!”

 

Vol. 3: The Valley of Thorns (this sets a tone of nostalgia, an anticipation of something that will be lost, including a bit of foreshadowing):

As travel-weary as they were, the Marcher Commander Gri’a’ein’zei’a disdained to rest its company long, saying that the situation demanded speed.  The following day we spoke our final farewells to our good friend Sa’ti’a’i’a, girded on our gear, and regretfully allowed No’sta’pan’cha to slip into our past.  When we came to the Ya’ur’akh’on, I looked down the valley toward the land where that river had another name.  My home fortress of Lo’ro’ra lay somewhere out there, past the distant haze that eternally hung upon the swamp Nu’wiv’mi, down the river called Rim’pol’bu, between the volcanoes, beyond Za’dut’s home fortress of Kwai’kwai’za.  I would not come even that close to the place of my hatching again in many season-cycles … so many …

 

Vol. 4: Beneath the Mountain of Heavy Fear (where  the Companions first encounter Bu'gan'zei, the Orpheus character):
       A wind had sprung up – the tree limbs seemed to be dancing and from a nearby overhang some stones broke loose and skittered down …
       Is’a’pai’a was the first to receive the sending and it stopped so abruptly that Wei’tu and Za’dut bumped into its posterior.  Then we all took the sensation – an antenna-buzz at once penetrating and delicate, so unusual that we were all entranced.  Simultaneously there was the smell of a male At’ein’zei Alate, along with the rank odor of reptiles and the feather-stench of birds!
       “Holy Nameless!  What can that be?” Ra’fa’kat’wei exclaimed.
       And then we detected words in the sending …

 

Finally, my latest publication, v.5: The Wood Where the Two Moons Shine (also an example of my description):

       After safely negotiating the daunting bridge that crossed the Sho’gwai’grin at the Great Waterfall, we found ourselves descending an ancient zigzag path that had been hollowed out by the scraping of countless claws.  Off to our right, the escarpment, an impassable precipice layered with gray and white and brown stone, stretched westward until it vanished into the distance.  To the southeast, beyond the end of the spur, we could see the glinting line of the river, with cliffs continuing to abut it on the east.  If we were to follow the west bank of that river, it would bring us into Gwai’sho’zei country and lead us quickly to the sea.
       Our immediate destination lay southwest, however.  In that direction we could see stubby hills thickly covered with dark trees and hung about with mist.  I always associate mist with these lands in which we would spend the final days of Ki’shto’ba’s quest. 
 

Personally, I think those are pretty good opening paragraphs, but I could be prejudiced!

"Make the reader want to learn more: the literary agent wants to see something captivating about the character, something that will make her read more in order to discover the plot and how the character unwinds."  And I'm combining with this: "Characters that are too perfect."

       Character is all, in my opinion!  Well, not all, of course -- a good tale needs many layers and aspects -- but still, if the characters are crudely drawn, cliched and commonplace, the whole story falls flat.  The good guys and the heroines need to have flaws and quirks that make them human (even if they are alien termites! -- "human" is in the eye of the beholder!)  And the villains ...  well, it's nice to have a villain that has redeeming qualities -- whose motivations are comprehensible -- although I confess to finding few redeeming qualities in Mo'gri'ta'tu (the villain who wreaks such havoc in The Termite Queen).  But then I based Mo'gri'ta'tu on Iago in Othello, who is frequently criticized for having unclear motivations.  The villain in The Wood Where the Two Moons Shine is possibly a little easier to understand, although he is even more devious and evil than Mo'gri'ta'tu, if that's possible.

"Don’t describe your characters fully in the first chapter: a), it’s boring, b) you really need to leave mystery for the rest of the book."

       My characters never emerge all at once; after all I've written some 600,000 words in the Ki'shto'ba series (averaging about 100,000 words per volume).  If they all emerged in the first chapter, nothing would be left to write!  They change and grow as the series progresses -- every single one of them.

"Unrealistic situations: literary agents feel that however inventive and imaginative a book can be, some things have to remain genuine and authentic, especially when it comes to human reactions."
       So how do you remain "genuine and authentic" when you're writing about giant alien termites?  You do it just as I said above -- you make them as close to human as you can.  You show that extraterrestrials -- aliens, if we must call them that -- may very well share the human qualities of compassion, caring, loyalty, self-sacrifice, adventurousness, joy, grief, and humor.  They also share characteristics  like intelligence, stupidity, anger, betrayal, sibling rivalry, a desire for revenge, and the ability to forgive.  It doesn't matter if they have three Castes and all of them are deaf and two Castes are blind.  It doesn't matter if they can only speak through their antennae, if they breathe through the sides of their bellies, if the Warriors can't feed themselves, if some of the species eat their own dung, or if all of them are necrophages.  What really matters is what is in their guts, or as humans might prefer to say, in their hearts -- their several hearts.  That is what makes them "genuine and authentic" and I'm egocentric enough to think I achieve that.  Whether a literary agent would ever think so is irrelevant.

Thanks again to Nicholas Rossis for giving me the idea for this blog post.

Termites Have Literary Theory, Too, by Golly!

THIS IS A RE-POST OF A PIECE ENTITLED

"LITERARY THEORY OF A REMEMBRANCER,"

ORIGINALLY POSTED ON MY TERMITESPEAKER BLOG

IN AUGUST OF 2012

 

PART OF THE OLD-POST RESURRECTION BLOG-HOP!

 

If you enjoy this post, read the page listed above entitled "Shshi Writing"

and check out The War of the Stolen Mother on Amazon or Smashwords

 

       Di'fa'kro'mi the Remembrancer (Bard) of the fortress of Lo'ro'ra is the author and narrator of the Ki'shto'ba tales. Di'fa'kro'mi invented writing and would have liked to write down his tales himself. However, he is quite elderly and his claws don't work as well as they used to (apparently arthritis strikes everywhere in the universe, even among intelligent insects). So he dictates to an amanuensis, an Alate named Chi'mo'a'tu. Chi'mo'a'tu is quite young and callow, but he was very quick at learning how to make these mysterious word-images on scrolls and so Di'fa'kro'mi takes him for his chief scribe.

        However, Chi'mo'a'tu's inexperience makes him skeptical about some of his mentor's narrative techniques. For example, "The War of the Stolen Mother" contains an account of how the Companions steal the talisman whose presence keeps the fortress of Thel'or'ei safe (you can about read that on my Ruminations blog -- it's Chapter 22 in the book). At the beginning of the following chapter, Chi'mo'a'tu accuses Di'fa'kro'mi of being a liar. Here's the exchange (remember, until now the Shshi operated only in an oral literary tradition):

 

        Now, I do not know what to think about this comment of yours, Chi’mo’a’tu! First you say – the most amusing narrative you have ever received, and touching as well – and then you proceed to remark that it is too bad the whole thing was a lie!

This tale was absolutely truthful! I know I was not present to take the exact words of the conversations, but – tha’sask| – Za’dut, and A’zhu’lo as well, recounted their adventures often enough! Their versions did not always agree, but I have reconciled them here. I thought it was highly effective! Would you have preferred a tedious accounting of the number of missing stones in the flank of Thel’or’ei, or a complete list of the number and location of each biter sting on the bodies of our Thieves?

I do not see why this manner of narration bothers you so much. We Remembrancers use it all the time – speaking not in our own person. When I tell the Tale of the Battle of Mor’kwai’cha, I do not tell it as if I were engaged in it, do I? I agree – it is an ancient tale and I certainly could not have been present to view it! What is the difference? I could not be present to view A’zhu’lo’s head getting stuck in the eye-hole, either!

Of course Mor’kwai’cha is traditional! This will be traditional, too, one day! Besides, no two Remembrancers tell their traditional tales exactly the same – it cannot be expected. Such tales are not meant to be dry historical recitations, like those the Teachers recount to the nymphs in the nursery. The thing we call a galt’zi| is meant to entertain! As long as one remains true to the spirit of the story – that is what matters.

Well, perhaps we can discuss these theories of tale-telling another time. I need to rest now and then eat, and your claw must be tired. Come back in three turnings of the water vessel, will you? We will continue the dictation then.

***

In the next volume ("The Storm-Wing") Di'fa'kro'mi enlightens Chi'mo'a'tu's understanding with an even more entertaining bit of theory. Ki'shto'ba has just fought a monster and the Companions are lingering at a fortress called Ei'tot, resting up before continuing their journey.

***

I had never told so many tales in so short a time as I did in Ei’tot. It was the first time I ever narrated the War of the Stolen Mother in a formal setting (not that anything the ei’tot’zei| did was very formal). I had been thinking the tale through even while we were tramping across Nu’wiv’mi. That early version was not very like what you have been writing down, Chi’mo’a’tu …
What? Oh, bother! Both versions are true! … Of course, a tale can be told in different ways and still be true! I am getting a bit annoyed at being called a liar! Now, now, do not get upset! It is only that for someone who started life training to be a Remembrancer, you know very little about tale-telling! Perhaps it is a good thing you turned to this novel occupation of writing down the words of others!
Let me give you a metaphor for the structure of a tale. It is like the body of a Shi. It has a chitin framework to hold it together – the basic facts of the plot, articulated in a certain cunning pattern. Then it has the muscle – the details that move the action of the plot along. It has the gut – the spirit, the passions of the characters. And finally it has the fat – the descriptions, the asides, the little bits of humor and philosophy that pad the story. Now there can be too much of that – if I have any failings, it is in incorporating too much fat! Like this digression here, if you are writing it down! No, do not smudge it out. Ru’a’ma’na’ta may find it amusing, if no one else does.
Oh, one more thing. Sometimes one must adapt one’s tale to the situation. If one is in a hurry or merely giving information, one can reduce it to the bare chitinous structure. Of course, it is not very entertaining that way, but occasionally such a thing is necessary. Sometimes one omits certain parts if one thinks the audience might find them offensive and be moved to murder the teller! If one is speaking to a group of little nymphs in the nursery, one omits the scary parts and keeps it simple and short. If the audience is exclusively Warriors, one emphasizes the action – the battles and the violence – for Warriors get restless if the tale is too subtle or mentally complex. Of course, the opposite is true of Alates. Workers like almost anything as long as it relieves the tedium of their duties – in fact they make the most enthusiastic audience. And a mixed group – well, one tells the prime version of one’s tale and feels satisfied if no more than a third of the audience falls asleep!

That broadens your understanding, my friend? Well, good! Can we get back to work? Whatever was I saying? … An anus? Oh, that is amusing! That dormant twig of humor in your mind is developing a few leaf buds! Yes, perhaps every tale ought to have an exit hole for the indigestible parts!

***

Pretty good advice for any writer!