Michael Allen - A Writer's Guide To Everything Important - The Omnibus Edition Of Seven Essential Guides For Fiction Writers

And once you’ve got some characters and a few events sketched out, to what extent do you develop this material? If you’re a literary sort of person, your short story will probably be one of those New Yorker pieces, in which pretty much nothing happens. (I really dislike those.) On the other hand, if you’re a person with vulgar tastes, like me, and a thriller reader, or a fan of detective stories, you will probably start looking for motives for a good juicy murder, or a reason for stealing lots of money.

And, finally, to what extent are you going to consciously vary your style?

If we survey the average writer’s career, over a period of years, it will probably be the case that a lot of the output will be in the traditional third-person omniscient viewpoint. And in that case, your style can to a large extent be considered as a function of your personality.

If you take life awfully seriously (and you may well have good reason), that will be reflected in the way you write; and also, of course, in your choice of material and how you develop it.

Conversely, if you’re a happy-go-lucky sort of person, always optimistic, always in search of a good laugh, you will end up writing a book which reflects that attitude.

I mention this because one aspect of writing that troubles a number of writers of my acquaintance is that your output will inevitably reveal quite a lot about yourself.

A young man asked me about this point only recently. Is it true, he asked, that if you publish something, you reveal what sort of person you are? I had to tell him that this was indeed the case. I also pointed out – not that he took much comfort from it – that if you choose not to publish anything, for fear of revealing truths about yourself, you still reveal facts about yourself, at least to those who know the nature of your decision, and the reason for it. You show us that you are a cautious, nervous person, perhaps with something to hide. So there’s no escape.

A retired police officer, an old friend of mine, once read a whodunit that I wrote when I was in my thirties. ‘You reveal yourself to be a bit of ladies man,’ he told me afterwards, as if he thoroughly disapproved. I had to admit that, yes, on the whole I did prefer having sex with women to sex with men.

So. Your style tells us who you are. Not that we readers care, necessarily. Most of us just care about the story. If it’s a good-humoured story, we might think that you’d be a pretty good person to have a drink with. But mostly we just want to know whether the lovers get married, or the murderer gets caught, and whether we understand what you mean.

In any event, writing fiction can be a lot of fun to do.

Good luck. And please turn the page.

AFTERWORD

The author of this book, Michael Allen, has written several other books (with more planned) that are designed to provide straightforward and practical advice for writers at all stages of their careers.

If you are now ready to read more about how to apply what you have learnt about style to the down-to-earth business of actual writing, try the following:

How to Write a Short Story that Works

How to Write a Novel that Works

In addition, much useful background on the worlds of book publishing, theatre, and screenwriting can be found in Michael Allen’s The Truth about Writing.

There are also two other books in the Writer’s Guide series:

A Writer’s Guide to Emotion

A Writer’s Guide to Viewpoint

More will follow soon.

To get a good overview of the kinds of fiction and non-fiction books that Michael Allen has available, please visit his author page on either the American branch or the co.uk branch of Amazon.

Finally, please consider writing a brief review of this book on your local branch of Amazon.

Thanks for reading this far. A little freebie follows.

The Rescue of Bertie’s Mummy

by

Michael Allen

If I had to choose one short story which epitomises my (current) style of writing, with accompanying, inevitable, self-revelation, it would probably be this one. In addition to being printed here, it is also available in Kindle as a stand-alone publication.

It was Christmas Day in the workhouse. Which was how Sergeant Perkins liked to think of the nick. Or the police station, to use its proper designation.

It was a small nick in a small town, and everything was quiet. Which was how Sergeant Perkins wanted it. There had been considerable competition among the three eligible Sergeants as to which of them should actually be on duty on Christmas Day, so they’d drawn lots. And Sergeant Perkins had won. Success! He would be on duty from 8.00 a.m. to 4 p.m., and with a bit of luck could stretch it to half past four.

Success meant that he didn’t have to sit through the full Christmas dinner, with dried-up, overcooked turkey. More importantly he had an incontestable reason for not having to sit down with his wife and mother-in-law afterwards, to watch that video of The Sound of Music . Again.

No doubt about it. Sergeant Perkins was a lucky man. And he wasn’t really expecting much to happen. Not on Christmas Day. But when it did, he was ready for it. Oh yes.

The phone rang. And it turned out to be the two constables who were driving around the town in the one police car which was actually out and about in the whole area. Sergeant Perkins had never quite mastered all the skills of the digital age, and he much preferred it, when on duty, if his staff would communicate with him via technology that he understood. And a phone on his desk was one such.

‘We had a 999 call Sarge.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘From Fred. In the town square. He’s found a little boy.’ Fred was the town drunk.

‘Fred’s found a what?’

‘A kid. A nipper.’

‘But it’s only half past eight. Bit early for Fred.’

‘I know, but he was sleeping it off in Goffins doorway, and he was woke up by this little kid prodding him.’

‘Have you got this lad?’

‘Oh yes. He’s pressing all the buttons in the car, and squirming about on Moreton’s knee. Looks a bit cold. Hasn’t got a coat on.’

‘No sign of Mum or Dad?’

‘No. Not so much as a stray dog.’

‘Oh, all right then. I suppose you’d better bring him in.’

Now already, even at this point, a little scheme was developing in Sergeant Perkins’s mind. It so happened that one of the inhabitants of the small town in which this lost child had appeared was a young lady named Emily. She worked for the local evening paper. Well, actually it was the evening paper in a larger town ten miles away, but it passed for a local rag. And Emily was ambitious. So ambitious that, on a recent visit to London, she had got herself appointed as the semi-official local reporter for the Sun. Actually, when she had first presented herself to the duty news editor for that day, he had assumed, on account of the fairly sensational bosom which was generously exposed for his benefit, that Emily was seeking an audition for page 3. But she wasn’t. No. Emily really did want to be a Fleet Street reporter. Well, in so far as Fleet Street still existed, she did. And by dint of giving the impression that, if she were to be appointed, Emily would offer the news editor free use of her body, Emily had succeeded in coming to an unofficial but potentially beneficial (to both parties) sort of arrangement. Come up with the right stuff, darling, the editor had said, and we will see you all right. And come up with enough of the right stuff, on a regular basis, and Fleet Street will queue up to lick your boots. Or some approximation thereof.

The man at the Sun was not the only person to whom this kind of quid pro quo had been offered by the rabidly ambitious Emily. By no means. Sergeant Perkins had been approached, one quiet moment in the Fish and Ferret, with something similar. Emily had explained the urgent need for her to be acquainted, at the earliest opportunity, with anything that loosely resembled Sun material, and had also made it plain that, if Sergeant Perkins tipped her off before even thinking about taking any other action, then, as she tactfully put it, ‘My body is at your disposal, Sergeant, to do with as you will.’