Debatable: How Much Craft Do You Need?

When to Learn and When to Just Write

Donald Maass

We live in a simplified, reductive, white screen, checklist age.

I blame Apple. And the women’s magazine Cosmopolitan. Real Simple, too. You can probably envision the headlines now: “Six Steps to Perfect Happiness!” “It’s Easy!” “You’re Almost There!”

Yeah, well, certain things are not that simple. Composing a symphony, for instance. Designing a space shuttle. Getting a bill through Congress. Emigrating to the U.S.A. Treating PTSD. Network administration. Closing a home purchase. Finding shoes for a wedding. Writing a publishable novel.

Publishable novel? There’s a helluva lot to get right if you want to get your upmarket crossover mash-up on the list of one of the Big Five in a preempt. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, hoo boy, you’re just at the beginning of complexity.) Simple it’s not. We’re talking fifty to a hundred story elements that need development; twenty methods for each; divine inspiration; buckets of perspiration; a multidraft, multiyear process; and the sickening suspicion that none of that really matters because, well, you know, fiction is an art.

And yet the reductive mind-set persists, even among literary giants and the authors of best-selling commercial blockbusters. Take ThrillerFest, the annual convocation of thriller writers. Each year the conference offers a teaching track in which thirty or more top thriller writers reveal the tricks of the craft—three each. To hear them explain it, keeping readers on the edge of their seats for four hundred pages is as easy as downloading iTunes. One, two, three—terror! Then there are Elmore Leonard’s ten rules, the thirteen points in The Hero’s Journey, and so on. Easy peasy.

Sure.

On the other end of the spectrum are those who eschew methodology in favor of intuition, experience, seat-of-your-pants story assembly, and the honing of steel-edged, luminous writing in the refining fire of critique and revision. It’s another kind of reductive thinking akin to leaving the management of the world economy to the “magic” of supply and demand. Good luck with that.

But wait—isn’t it true that at a certain point you need to stop thinking about your writing and just let it flow? Isn’t it equally true that the stream sometimes needs to be diverted, shored up with levees and dams, regulated and tested for purity? Don’t you need a certain amount of craft to start with, and if you do, how much?

STRIVE FOR A STRIVER’S MIND-SET

The question of how much craft you need comes down to the difference between wingspan and flying, outlining and intuition, faith in technique and trust in instincts. It’s a tricky balance, and it’s different for each writer. That said, here are a few considerations:

1. If you believe that too much craft will keep you revising until you die, you may have a point. But think about this: The most important piece of craft is the one you don’t know.
2. If you believe that leaning solely on process is inefficient and that methodology (particularly outlining) will speed things up, that’s somewhat valid. But think about this: The more you plan, the less you improve.

What you need is both craft and process—but again, how much? Enough to compensate for your writing weaknesses, push you out of your comfort zone, and challenge you to aim higher, because without reading a word of your work-in-progress, I can tell you this: However crafty you are, no matter your level of native genius, your manuscript is full of unused potential. Whether by craft or critique, you can still master more. And the more you master, the deeper and richer—and easier—each new project gets.

Isn’t it sad when good authors fall back on familiar tricks and become boring? The best writers I know never stop learning. The best give themselves challenges. They stretch. They stay fresh. They read craft books, attend conferences, study fiction analytically, and participate in writers’ communities.

ATTEND DELIBERATELY TO THE ESSENTIALS

Okay, though, what are the craft fundamentals? What is essential to know? Certainly a grasp of novel structure is helpful. There are a hundred ways to conceptualize it, so take your pick, but do remember that the type of story you are writing requires—and the audience you are writing for demands—certain things. Don’t let down your readers. Solve the mystery. Build the world. Girl gets boy. Redemption is real. Even when it’s ugly, life is beautiful.

Having an approach to scene structure is also helpful, as is knowing when to use a scene and when to use summary. Authors who write gripping novels, what we sometimes call “page-turners,” have also mastered the methods of microtension: the line-by-line tension that makes everything on every page necessary to read. Character development, arc of change, story world detailing, thematic intention … it’s a good idea to come at those things deliberately. You know how it is: If it isn’t on your to-do list, then chances are it won’t get done.

And then there are the techniques you don’t know or thought you knew but forgot. Only further study or review will give you those. Remember: Major corporations spend a lot on research and development. You may not have billions for those tasks, but you definitely have time. Ask yourself: Can you afford not to invest in getting better?

How much more process do you need? If you’re not in a critique group or working with critique partners who are at your level or better, well, you’re losing out. Beta drafts nowadays are also an essential step. Film and television writing is collaborative and not automatically analogous to fiction, but singly authored stage plays are extensively workshopped. Why? You can’t gauge audience reaction until you have an audience. Remember that revising for yourself is okay, but if you do that, your revision will probably please only you.

Whether you’re considering craft as such or seeking more from process, have a plan. The best plan is one that makes you a better writer every day. The worst plan is one that sends you wandering alone in the wilderness of book publishing. Your chances of survival aren’t very good.

UPDATE AND CUSTOMIZE YOUR UNIQUE TOOLBOX

One more thing: You might need to unlearn some craft. “Tried and true” techniques like cliff-hangers can be clunky. Description using the five senses is passé. The more modern method is building a story world, conveying that world not objectively but through the subjective experiences of your characters.

Why not outfit your own customized toolbox? Put into it everything you know, and then add to it some new tools you borrow or even invent. Do the same for process: Add what you’re missing, but regardless of your approach, include time for feedback, honing, and play.

Finally, here’s the most important piece of craft advice I can offer: Be human. Fiction comes from life, and your unique fiction can only come from yours. From what inspires a story to the interior life of your people to the truths that we urgently need to see, the most essential technique underlying the art is nothing more than your own passion.