Todd Strasser's Blog, page 2
July 5, 2014
Learning to Write What Your Know
Between 1973 and 1977, toward the end of my sojourn as a college student, and then while working as a newspaper reporter, I wrote the first draft of a more-than- semi-autobiographical novel that would eventually become my first -- Angel Dust Blues, about a teenager on Long Island who, among other indiscretions, is arrested for selling drugs.
Not aware at the time that there existed a genre of literature called Young Adult, I reread what I’d written and found myself concerned that my story about teenagers falling in love and getting in trouble lacked the action, excitement, international scope, and historical perspective necessary to catapult it onto the best seller lists.
However, being youthful and resourceful, and naively believing that the answer to this problem could be found on a shelf at the local stationary store, I purchased a copy of Writer’s Digest to see if I could glean any advice as to how to transform my book into something with sales that would rival those of Stephen King and Robin Cook.
And thus I learned that at that moment in literary history, at least according to the magazine, the two ingredients every book needed to insure vast commercial success were Nazism and cocaine (I have no idea where they got that idea. I’ve since checked the historical bestseller list and it appears that not a single book in the top 50 that year had anything to do with either).
Nonetheless I got busy creating a new character, a Nazi, who had escaped from Germany in a submarine at the end of World War II and sailed it to Colombia, South America (right? Right?).
From there he regularly smuggled cocaine, via his submarine, all the way to the north shore of Long Island, New York. And, to tie it into my story, I made this Nazi the uncle of one of my protagonist’s best friends.
You might ask, why sail his submarine all the way to New York (2,300+ miles) when he could have much more easily traveled to the Florida Keys (1,200 miles) like legions of other drug smugglers? Because my story was set in New York, that’s why. I wish I could say that I’m pulling your leg about this, but I’m not. I was young, guileless, and ignorant.
Thanks to a stroke of luck that will be saved for another blog, I was able to secure the services of a reputable agent who began to submit the manuscript to publishers. Rejections quickly piled up from the first dozen editors who read it. This was a tough time for me. Other than working as a part-time fact checker for Esquire Magazine, I had no income, nor any real reason to believe I could make a career of writing. I’d even given myself a deadline: if I couldn’t publish a book by the time I was 32, I’d chuck the whole deal and start over at something new, even if I couldn’t imagine what that would be.
Then one day my agent called with good news: an editor named Ferdinand Monjo at a publisher called Coward, McCann & Geoghegan wished to have lunch with me. Was I interested? At the time I was so strapped for money that I was eating my way through a case of tuna fish that I’d purchased at a bulk discount. Of course I was interested in having lunch with him. I probably would have gone to lunch with Charles Manson if he’d offered to pay (and promised to come unarmed).
And so I went to my first literary lunch, meeting Mr. Monjo and his assistant, Jim Bruce, in the restaurant of a small, elegant East Side hotel. They were already seated when I arrived. Mr. Monjo was a refined, dapper man dressed in a sport jacket and tie. His wavy silver gray hair was combed back, his wire-rim glasses sparkled, and he smoked cigarettes in a long gold cigarette holder. Jim, with his blond hair and light blue crew neck sweater, was the very image of prep.
This was to be an experience unlike any I’d had before. After rising and graciously thanking me for coming to lunch (shouldn’t it have been the other way around?), Mr. Monjo gestured for me to sit at the table set with linens, crystal, and silver. During the conversation that followed, the editor consumed two vodka gimlets while discussing theater, classical music, and opera with Jim (Clearly the least cultured person at the table, I mostly listened and sipped a Coke).
Still, I suspected they were feeling me out, trying to assess my background and how much I knew about culture (not much, although I could sing some of the songs from My Fair Lady). Meanwhile, I nervously, yet hungrily feasted on a hamburger (my first in months!) and fries, and wondered when we’d get around to discussing my book.
It turned out that this would not happen until after Mr. Monjo had consumed a red caviar omelet (I’d never seen one before, nor have I seen one since), as well as a third vodka gimlet. Finally, over coffee and dessert, Mr. Monjo got down to business. Would I, he asked, possibly consider rewriting my book? He asked this so apologetically that you would have thought he’d forgotten his wallet and needed me to pay for lunch. Fortunately this was the one question I was prepared for. My agent had already warned me that this query would be at the crux of the lunch, so I had an answer prepared. I would be glad to rewrite it, I said. And did Mr. Monjo have any suggestions as to just how he thought it could be improved?
“Yes,” he replied, appearing pleased and relieved that I had asked. It quickly became obvious that he had prepared a small speech for the occasion. “In this business it is important to write about what you know, Todd. And it is obvious that you know a great deal about being a teenager in the suburbs.” At this point he paused to clear his throat and take another sip of his vodka gimlet.
“However, I hope you will not be offended if I add that it is equally obvious that you know very little about Nazis, submarines, and cocaine smuggling. The important thing, Todd, is to write about what you know. Focus on the teenagers and make it a story about them.”
I suppose all this transpired with a bit of temerity on his part. As genteelly as possible, he’d carefully tossed down the gauntlet without knowing how I’d react. Another author might have insisted that the cocaine smuggling uncle Nazi had to stay.
Or, even worse, might have felt insulted that his knowledge of cocaine smuggling and/or Nazis had been challenged.
Even though I already knew what my answer to Mr. Monjo’s request would be, I hesitated -- as if pondering all the ramifications of this suggestion -- when in reality there was only one: either I agreed to rewrite my novel or went looking for another publisher. Like the editors at the publishing houses that had rejected my manuscript, Mr. Monjo had found that the original story I’d created was neither plausible nor interesting. But unlike the others, he (perhaps because he himself was a writer) had detected a potential which, given the opportunity, might eventually develop into something decent.
Today there are still many devoted and erudite editors around, but I wonder how many would be allowed to gamble on a brand new author and an unmarketable manuscript the way Mr. Monjo did.* The impression I have is that nowadays editors are rarely allowed to speculate on what a manuscript might become, and must instead base their decisions on the manuscript they have in hand (provided the marketing and sales departments give them the green light. Many books today are purchased by committee. I cannot imagine any marketing or sales department approving of the manuscript Ferdinand Monjo read.)
At lunch that day, I thanked him for his suggestion (and resisted the temptation to ask if I could possibly get yet another hamburger to go). Later, speaking to my agent, I learned that Mr. Monjo had offered a $3,000 advance to see if his hunch was correct. While small by today’s standards, in 1978 this was not an inconsequential amount to pay on an unproven first-time novelist with only the promise of a story. In the months that followed I would take his advice to heart and eventually produce a book that was driven much more by character, and much less by plot.
Mr. Monjo (his full name was Ferdinand Nicolas Monjo III) was born into an old and well-to-do Connecticut fur trading family that, in the 1800s, had had sailing ships plying trade all over the world. In 1974 one of his books won the National Book Award – a tremendous achievement for any writer. Sadly, he died in October of 1979, just a few months before Angel Dust Blues was published, and never got to see the fruits of his sage advice (very good reviews and an auction for the paperback rights). I consider myself very fortunate to have caught the tail end of the era when publishing was called a gentlemen’s occupation. He was certainly a sterling example.
* Among the other YA authors who got their start thanks to Mr. Monjo is Robert Lipsyte, whose wonderful YA novel, The Contender, came about when the editor wrote to him out of the blue and asked if he’d consider writing a novel about a teenage boxer. Before that, Mr. Lipsyte, a sports reporter for the New York Times, had never written fiction.
Not aware at the time that there existed a genre of literature called Young Adult, I reread what I’d written and found myself concerned that my story about teenagers falling in love and getting in trouble lacked the action, excitement, international scope, and historical perspective necessary to catapult it onto the best seller lists.
However, being youthful and resourceful, and naively believing that the answer to this problem could be found on a shelf at the local stationary store, I purchased a copy of Writer’s Digest to see if I could glean any advice as to how to transform my book into something with sales that would rival those of Stephen King and Robin Cook.
And thus I learned that at that moment in literary history, at least according to the magazine, the two ingredients every book needed to insure vast commercial success were Nazism and cocaine (I have no idea where they got that idea. I’ve since checked the historical bestseller list and it appears that not a single book in the top 50 that year had anything to do with either).
Nonetheless I got busy creating a new character, a Nazi, who had escaped from Germany in a submarine at the end of World War II and sailed it to Colombia, South America (right? Right?).
From there he regularly smuggled cocaine, via his submarine, all the way to the north shore of Long Island, New York. And, to tie it into my story, I made this Nazi the uncle of one of my protagonist’s best friends.
You might ask, why sail his submarine all the way to New York (2,300+ miles) when he could have much more easily traveled to the Florida Keys (1,200 miles) like legions of other drug smugglers? Because my story was set in New York, that’s why. I wish I could say that I’m pulling your leg about this, but I’m not. I was young, guileless, and ignorant.
Thanks to a stroke of luck that will be saved for another blog, I was able to secure the services of a reputable agent who began to submit the manuscript to publishers. Rejections quickly piled up from the first dozen editors who read it. This was a tough time for me. Other than working as a part-time fact checker for Esquire Magazine, I had no income, nor any real reason to believe I could make a career of writing. I’d even given myself a deadline: if I couldn’t publish a book by the time I was 32, I’d chuck the whole deal and start over at something new, even if I couldn’t imagine what that would be.
Then one day my agent called with good news: an editor named Ferdinand Monjo at a publisher called Coward, McCann & Geoghegan wished to have lunch with me. Was I interested? At the time I was so strapped for money that I was eating my way through a case of tuna fish that I’d purchased at a bulk discount. Of course I was interested in having lunch with him. I probably would have gone to lunch with Charles Manson if he’d offered to pay (and promised to come unarmed).
And so I went to my first literary lunch, meeting Mr. Monjo and his assistant, Jim Bruce, in the restaurant of a small, elegant East Side hotel. They were already seated when I arrived. Mr. Monjo was a refined, dapper man dressed in a sport jacket and tie. His wavy silver gray hair was combed back, his wire-rim glasses sparkled, and he smoked cigarettes in a long gold cigarette holder. Jim, with his blond hair and light blue crew neck sweater, was the very image of prep.
This was to be an experience unlike any I’d had before. After rising and graciously thanking me for coming to lunch (shouldn’t it have been the other way around?), Mr. Monjo gestured for me to sit at the table set with linens, crystal, and silver. During the conversation that followed, the editor consumed two vodka gimlets while discussing theater, classical music, and opera with Jim (Clearly the least cultured person at the table, I mostly listened and sipped a Coke).
Still, I suspected they were feeling me out, trying to assess my background and how much I knew about culture (not much, although I could sing some of the songs from My Fair Lady). Meanwhile, I nervously, yet hungrily feasted on a hamburger (my first in months!) and fries, and wondered when we’d get around to discussing my book.
It turned out that this would not happen until after Mr. Monjo had consumed a red caviar omelet (I’d never seen one before, nor have I seen one since), as well as a third vodka gimlet. Finally, over coffee and dessert, Mr. Monjo got down to business. Would I, he asked, possibly consider rewriting my book? He asked this so apologetically that you would have thought he’d forgotten his wallet and needed me to pay for lunch. Fortunately this was the one question I was prepared for. My agent had already warned me that this query would be at the crux of the lunch, so I had an answer prepared. I would be glad to rewrite it, I said. And did Mr. Monjo have any suggestions as to just how he thought it could be improved?
“Yes,” he replied, appearing pleased and relieved that I had asked. It quickly became obvious that he had prepared a small speech for the occasion. “In this business it is important to write about what you know, Todd. And it is obvious that you know a great deal about being a teenager in the suburbs.” At this point he paused to clear his throat and take another sip of his vodka gimlet.
“However, I hope you will not be offended if I add that it is equally obvious that you know very little about Nazis, submarines, and cocaine smuggling. The important thing, Todd, is to write about what you know. Focus on the teenagers and make it a story about them.”
I suppose all this transpired with a bit of temerity on his part. As genteelly as possible, he’d carefully tossed down the gauntlet without knowing how I’d react. Another author might have insisted that the cocaine smuggling uncle Nazi had to stay.
Or, even worse, might have felt insulted that his knowledge of cocaine smuggling and/or Nazis had been challenged.
Even though I already knew what my answer to Mr. Monjo’s request would be, I hesitated -- as if pondering all the ramifications of this suggestion -- when in reality there was only one: either I agreed to rewrite my novel or went looking for another publisher. Like the editors at the publishing houses that had rejected my manuscript, Mr. Monjo had found that the original story I’d created was neither plausible nor interesting. But unlike the others, he (perhaps because he himself was a writer) had detected a potential which, given the opportunity, might eventually develop into something decent.
Today there are still many devoted and erudite editors around, but I wonder how many would be allowed to gamble on a brand new author and an unmarketable manuscript the way Mr. Monjo did.* The impression I have is that nowadays editors are rarely allowed to speculate on what a manuscript might become, and must instead base their decisions on the manuscript they have in hand (provided the marketing and sales departments give them the green light. Many books today are purchased by committee. I cannot imagine any marketing or sales department approving of the manuscript Ferdinand Monjo read.)
At lunch that day, I thanked him for his suggestion (and resisted the temptation to ask if I could possibly get yet another hamburger to go). Later, speaking to my agent, I learned that Mr. Monjo had offered a $3,000 advance to see if his hunch was correct. While small by today’s standards, in 1978 this was not an inconsequential amount to pay on an unproven first-time novelist with only the promise of a story. In the months that followed I would take his advice to heart and eventually produce a book that was driven much more by character, and much less by plot.
Mr. Monjo (his full name was Ferdinand Nicolas Monjo III) was born into an old and well-to-do Connecticut fur trading family that, in the 1800s, had had sailing ships plying trade all over the world. In 1974 one of his books won the National Book Award – a tremendous achievement for any writer. Sadly, he died in October of 1979, just a few months before Angel Dust Blues was published, and never got to see the fruits of his sage advice (very good reviews and an auction for the paperback rights). I consider myself very fortunate to have caught the tail end of the era when publishing was called a gentlemen’s occupation. He was certainly a sterling example.
* Among the other YA authors who got their start thanks to Mr. Monjo is Robert Lipsyte, whose wonderful YA novel, The Contender, came about when the editor wrote to him out of the blue and asked if he’d consider writing a novel about a teenage boxer. Before that, Mr. Lipsyte, a sports reporter for the New York Times, had never written fiction.
July 3, 2014
How I Became Trapped (Happily) in My Longest Book Series
These days we often think of a book series as being conceived with the express purpose of eventually growing into many volumes. Creating series this way is nothing new. It goes back to the late 19th century when Edward Stratemeyer and his Stratemeyer Syndicate created The Bobbsey Twins, The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew and other famous collections. These days book series are often carefully orchestrated “events” with as much time put into planning and publicity as into the writing of the books themselves.
But occasionally a series still comes along that has a more serendipitous beginning, one which starts with an author writing a single one-off novel without thought of it multiplying. And when it does, he or she is as surprised as anyone else.
This was the case with my Help! I’m Trapped In …. series, which gradually grew to 17 volumes and has thus far sold (this is my best guess) perhaps 5 million copies worldwide. I never expected, or even imagined, that anything like that could happen when I wrote the first volume, Help! I’m Trapped in My Teacher’s Body.
This was back in the early 1990s when I would occasionally write one-offs for the Scholastic Book Clubs. My Scholastic editor would call and say she needed a book for Halloween, or Valentine’s Day or, in the case of Teacher’s Body, the fall return- to-school season. In that first Help! book I wrote about Jake Sherman, who misbehaves so much in class that it threatens to drive his teacher crazy. Then by accident, Jake and his teacher switch bodies, thus giving the teacher – in Jake’s body -- the opportunity to exact his revenge, and Jake – now in the teacher’s body -- the aggravating experience of learning his lesson.
With its cover featured on the front page of the Scholastic Book Club order form, Help! I’m Trapped in My Teacher’s Body had respectable sales, but nothing worth getting excited about. So I wasn’t surprised when, the next time my editor called, it was to suggest an entirely different idea, this time a book embracing the concept of the movie Ground Hog Day, only in a middle-school setting.
I got to work on that story, which I decided would be about a boy who has to do the first day of school over and over until he gets it “right.” About halfway through the manuscript, while searching for a possible title, it occurred to me that the book could very easily be called, Help! I’m Trapped in the First Day of School. All I’d have to do was change the main character’s name to Jake Sherman, give him an older sister named Jessica, and his two sidekicks from Teacher’s Body, Josh and Andy.
I proposed the idea to my editor, who saw no reason why I shouldn’t do it, although there was still no mention of a series. As far as we were both concerned, it would just be another book title that began with Help! I’m trapped in…
When Help! I’m Trapped in the First Day of School came out a few months later, it just did well enough for my editor to wonder what, if anything, I could imagine Jake Sherman switching bodies with next. Back in those days I had a yellow lab named Mac who liked to spend the day snoozing under my desk while I wrote. So I suggested Help! I’m Trapped in My Dog’s Body. My editor said she liked the idea, but felt the title needed to be tied to a school theme like the first two books.
It just so happened that I’d recently taken Mac to an indoor obedience school, with disastrous results (imagine the worst thing your dog could do in the middle of class, then think, big dog, like a Labrador retriever). So I suggested Help! I’m Trapped in Obedience School.
Thanks in no small part to a fabulous cover, that book alone sold hundreds of thousands of copies in the book clubs, and then a similar amount in the Scholastic Book Fairs. Suddenly, the word “series” began to be bandied about. The subsequent contracts were usually for two or three Help! titles at a time, among them Gym Teacher’s Body, Principal’s Body, and Lunch Lady’s. Only then, having run out of suitable school-related topics, was I allowed to extend the series with Sister’s Body, First Day of Camp, Professional Wrestler, Movie Star, etc.
After 17 books, it ended. By then the plots had become pretty complicated. In one book, Jake, Josh, Andy, and another character all switched bodies with each other and then had a hard time figuring out how to get their own bodies back. There were also books with incomplete switches, where someone’s head wound up on someone else’s body.
The one regret I have regarding the series has to do with how New-York centric some editors can be. While writing the Help! books I was often on the road speaking at schools, and at one point, almost everywhere I went outside of the New York metro area, kids were wearing NASCAR tee shirts. But back in New York, the sport had not caught on and only a few of the biggest races were televised annually. When I suggested Help! I’m Trapped in a NASCAR Driver’s Body, the editors in charge turned it down. I wish I’d fought harder for that title. It would’ve sold a ton.
But occasionally a series still comes along that has a more serendipitous beginning, one which starts with an author writing a single one-off novel without thought of it multiplying. And when it does, he or she is as surprised as anyone else.
This was the case with my Help! I’m Trapped In …. series, which gradually grew to 17 volumes and has thus far sold (this is my best guess) perhaps 5 million copies worldwide. I never expected, or even imagined, that anything like that could happen when I wrote the first volume, Help! I’m Trapped in My Teacher’s Body.
This was back in the early 1990s when I would occasionally write one-offs for the Scholastic Book Clubs. My Scholastic editor would call and say she needed a book for Halloween, or Valentine’s Day or, in the case of Teacher’s Body, the fall return- to-school season. In that first Help! book I wrote about Jake Sherman, who misbehaves so much in class that it threatens to drive his teacher crazy. Then by accident, Jake and his teacher switch bodies, thus giving the teacher – in Jake’s body -- the opportunity to exact his revenge, and Jake – now in the teacher’s body -- the aggravating experience of learning his lesson.
With its cover featured on the front page of the Scholastic Book Club order form, Help! I’m Trapped in My Teacher’s Body had respectable sales, but nothing worth getting excited about. So I wasn’t surprised when, the next time my editor called, it was to suggest an entirely different idea, this time a book embracing the concept of the movie Ground Hog Day, only in a middle-school setting.
I got to work on that story, which I decided would be about a boy who has to do the first day of school over and over until he gets it “right.” About halfway through the manuscript, while searching for a possible title, it occurred to me that the book could very easily be called, Help! I’m Trapped in the First Day of School. All I’d have to do was change the main character’s name to Jake Sherman, give him an older sister named Jessica, and his two sidekicks from Teacher’s Body, Josh and Andy.
I proposed the idea to my editor, who saw no reason why I shouldn’t do it, although there was still no mention of a series. As far as we were both concerned, it would just be another book title that began with Help! I’m trapped in…
When Help! I’m Trapped in the First Day of School came out a few months later, it just did well enough for my editor to wonder what, if anything, I could imagine Jake Sherman switching bodies with next. Back in those days I had a yellow lab named Mac who liked to spend the day snoozing under my desk while I wrote. So I suggested Help! I’m Trapped in My Dog’s Body. My editor said she liked the idea, but felt the title needed to be tied to a school theme like the first two books.
It just so happened that I’d recently taken Mac to an indoor obedience school, with disastrous results (imagine the worst thing your dog could do in the middle of class, then think, big dog, like a Labrador retriever). So I suggested Help! I’m Trapped in Obedience School.
Thanks in no small part to a fabulous cover, that book alone sold hundreds of thousands of copies in the book clubs, and then a similar amount in the Scholastic Book Fairs. Suddenly, the word “series” began to be bandied about. The subsequent contracts were usually for two or three Help! titles at a time, among them Gym Teacher’s Body, Principal’s Body, and Lunch Lady’s. Only then, having run out of suitable school-related topics, was I allowed to extend the series with Sister’s Body, First Day of Camp, Professional Wrestler, Movie Star, etc.
After 17 books, it ended. By then the plots had become pretty complicated. In one book, Jake, Josh, Andy, and another character all switched bodies with each other and then had a hard time figuring out how to get their own bodies back. There were also books with incomplete switches, where someone’s head wound up on someone else’s body.
The one regret I have regarding the series has to do with how New-York centric some editors can be. While writing the Help! books I was often on the road speaking at schools, and at one point, almost everywhere I went outside of the New York metro area, kids were wearing NASCAR tee shirts. But back in New York, the sport had not caught on and only a few of the biggest races were televised annually. When I suggested Help! I’m Trapped in a NASCAR Driver’s Body, the editors in charge turned it down. I wish I’d fought harder for that title. It would’ve sold a ton.
May 24, 2014
What I Learned The Year I Wrote For A Soap Opera
For many of us, the best and most rewarding stories are character driven, those in which the plot is advanced by what is gradually revealed about the character, what he or she learns, and how he or she changes. Add some suspense and a few good plot twists, and we’re usually as happy as clams (if we could only figure out what makes clams happy).
Some extremely helpful advice for developing character can be found in this essay published in the New York Times: http://goo.gl/qEwznd
But I have something more to add -- two simple and valuable suggestions that I learned about writing such stories while toiling in a rather unlikely field – soap operas. I realize that at first glance this probably won’t reflect well on me as an author, but during one temporarily stunted point I spent two years writing soap operas for television.
This brief detour in a career that was otherwise spent almost entirely writing books for teens and pre-teens began around 1988. At that time the sales of the sort of YA books I’d been was writing -- often referred to in the 1980s as problem novels -- had slowed precipitously. Editors felt that nearly every problem a teen could encounter had been written about, some many times over.
At the same time, the hottest thing in the YA book world was a new series called Sweet Valley High. A second series for slightly younger readers, The Babysitters Club, was beginning to look like it would be even bigger. Editors were interested in ideas for series, but I didn’t actually understand how a series worked. Except for Ian Fleming’s James Bond, I’d never read one.
For much of the previous two decades I had only written one kind of book. It always began with characters who had a problem and who learned and changed and grew as a result of dealing with it. When it was time to start the next book, I began with a whole new group of characters and a completely different problem. But a series had continuing characters (until later when Fear Street and Goosebumps came along), and could easily grow to be 30 or 40 books long (Sweet Valley High and its spawn eventually reached 152 volumes; according to Wikipedia, the Baby-sitters and its spinoffs gave birth to somewhere around 200). How could the same characters keep learning, changing and growing through that many books?
Especially when they never appeared to age a day?
I felt I needed to find the answer, but I also needed to make a living. One logical course would have been to sit down and analyze a book series, but I’d recently met someone with connections in the world of soap operas. In truth, I’d never actually watched a soap opera, but I knew that they were series with continuing characters and that some of the shows had been going five days a week since before the invention of television (Guiding Light, where I would eventually work for a year, began in the 1930s as a radio serial and moved to television in 1952). In addition, soap opera writing paid well. Quite well, in fact.
Through my friend I learned that CBS had a soap opera writing program, and, through a friend of that friend, I managed to get into it. The training program may have been geared toward writers with less experience than me (the people at CBS weren’t certain they’d ever had a published writer in the program before), but that didn’t mean there wasn’t lots for me to learn. Or at least new ways to look at the craft of telling stories.
While the characters in soap operas rarely seemed to change, or learn anything -- except when they recovered from amnesia, or redeemed their wicked ways – they were very much character driven, and that is where I stumbled upon two ways of approaching character that would stay with me for the rest of my life.
Both lessons will sound simple, but I hope that won’t diminish their importance. The first is, whenever writing a character, always keep one question foremost in mind: what is this character’s motivation? What does this character want? Characters drive stories, and motivation drives character. So that basic motivation should never be too far from the character’s thoughts. What does this character want and what is he or she doing in this scene to get it? It’s almost a litmus test for a scene. If your character isn’t doing something to get closer to what he or she wants, then you should be asking yourself if the scene is really necessary.
The second lesson was equally simple, but also valuable. If character A encounters character B after an interval of time apart, always be sure to go back to the last time they were together and see how they were feeling about each other. Going back over some earlier (unpublished) writing, I was amazed at how often I’d have two characters meet without the slightest reference to how they were feeling about each other at their last point of departure. But such continuity is essential for telling a good story. When it comes to character interaction it’s important to always pick up where you left off.
I spent two years in soap operas, then returned to writing books and almost immediately began my most successful series, the 17- book Help! I’m trapped in… collection. It never would have happened without soap operas.
I don’t recall now how long the CBS soap opera training program lasted. All I know was that quite soon thereafter, I was hired to write for Guiding Light. And that’s when I learned yet another lesson. All my life I’d thumbed my nose at soap operas as hack work written by untalented writers. And the truth is, some of the writers I met weren’t the most talented, but others were some of the smartest writers I’ve ever met anywhere. Why they chose to write soap operas I’ll never know, although money clearly had a lot to do with it.
Some extremely helpful advice for developing character can be found in this essay published in the New York Times: http://goo.gl/qEwznd
But I have something more to add -- two simple and valuable suggestions that I learned about writing such stories while toiling in a rather unlikely field – soap operas. I realize that at first glance this probably won’t reflect well on me as an author, but during one temporarily stunted point I spent two years writing soap operas for television.
This brief detour in a career that was otherwise spent almost entirely writing books for teens and pre-teens began around 1988. At that time the sales of the sort of YA books I’d been was writing -- often referred to in the 1980s as problem novels -- had slowed precipitously. Editors felt that nearly every problem a teen could encounter had been written about, some many times over.
At the same time, the hottest thing in the YA book world was a new series called Sweet Valley High. A second series for slightly younger readers, The Babysitters Club, was beginning to look like it would be even bigger. Editors were interested in ideas for series, but I didn’t actually understand how a series worked. Except for Ian Fleming’s James Bond, I’d never read one.
For much of the previous two decades I had only written one kind of book. It always began with characters who had a problem and who learned and changed and grew as a result of dealing with it. When it was time to start the next book, I began with a whole new group of characters and a completely different problem. But a series had continuing characters (until later when Fear Street and Goosebumps came along), and could easily grow to be 30 or 40 books long (Sweet Valley High and its spawn eventually reached 152 volumes; according to Wikipedia, the Baby-sitters and its spinoffs gave birth to somewhere around 200). How could the same characters keep learning, changing and growing through that many books?
Especially when they never appeared to age a day?
I felt I needed to find the answer, but I also needed to make a living. One logical course would have been to sit down and analyze a book series, but I’d recently met someone with connections in the world of soap operas. In truth, I’d never actually watched a soap opera, but I knew that they were series with continuing characters and that some of the shows had been going five days a week since before the invention of television (Guiding Light, where I would eventually work for a year, began in the 1930s as a radio serial and moved to television in 1952). In addition, soap opera writing paid well. Quite well, in fact.
Through my friend I learned that CBS had a soap opera writing program, and, through a friend of that friend, I managed to get into it. The training program may have been geared toward writers with less experience than me (the people at CBS weren’t certain they’d ever had a published writer in the program before), but that didn’t mean there wasn’t lots for me to learn. Or at least new ways to look at the craft of telling stories.
While the characters in soap operas rarely seemed to change, or learn anything -- except when they recovered from amnesia, or redeemed their wicked ways – they were very much character driven, and that is where I stumbled upon two ways of approaching character that would stay with me for the rest of my life.
Both lessons will sound simple, but I hope that won’t diminish their importance. The first is, whenever writing a character, always keep one question foremost in mind: what is this character’s motivation? What does this character want? Characters drive stories, and motivation drives character. So that basic motivation should never be too far from the character’s thoughts. What does this character want and what is he or she doing in this scene to get it? It’s almost a litmus test for a scene. If your character isn’t doing something to get closer to what he or she wants, then you should be asking yourself if the scene is really necessary.
The second lesson was equally simple, but also valuable. If character A encounters character B after an interval of time apart, always be sure to go back to the last time they were together and see how they were feeling about each other. Going back over some earlier (unpublished) writing, I was amazed at how often I’d have two characters meet without the slightest reference to how they were feeling about each other at their last point of departure. But such continuity is essential for telling a good story. When it comes to character interaction it’s important to always pick up where you left off.
I spent two years in soap operas, then returned to writing books and almost immediately began my most successful series, the 17- book Help! I’m trapped in… collection. It never would have happened without soap operas.
I don’t recall now how long the CBS soap opera training program lasted. All I know was that quite soon thereafter, I was hired to write for Guiding Light. And that’s when I learned yet another lesson. All my life I’d thumbed my nose at soap operas as hack work written by untalented writers. And the truth is, some of the writers I met weren’t the most talented, but others were some of the smartest writers I’ve ever met anywhere. Why they chose to write soap operas I’ll never know, although money clearly had a lot to do with it.
April 26, 2014
Water Seeks Its Own Level: On finding the right agent
A number of years ago Twentieth Century Fox went into production on a script based on my novel, How I Created My Perfect Prom Date. This, as I’m sure you can imagine, was pretty exciting stuff, and, I imagined hopefully, possibly even an opportunity to improve my visibility among the Hollywood decision makers of the day. My agent at that time was a nice enough fellow, but he worked at a small agency, which, though well-regarded, was not known in the movie world as a heavy hitter.
After speaking to a number of book editors and other contacts, I got the names of two prominent agents at top tier agencies, the sort whose agents movie stars often thanked when receiving Oscars. I contacted both, explaining that I had written a number of other novels, and asking if they would be interested in seeing them. One said yes, the other never replied. Filled with aspiration I packed a box with the novels I thought had the most movie potential and shipped them off to the agent who’d said yes.
After hearing nothing for a month I sent the agent an e-mail asking if he’d had an opportunity to read my books. He didn’t answer. A few weeks later I tried again, and again, received no answer. Once a few more weeks had passed, I tried calling and got his secretary who promised she’d give him the message.
Days passed, but he never called back.
Meanwhile the movie, now called Drive Me Crazy, had been fast-tracked, and it wasn’t long before the premiere (my kids got to meet Britney Spears when she still wore underwear) – followed by tepid reviews … and a disastrous box office.
A week later my box of books arrived in the mail without a note. It was difficult to discern whether it had even been opened.
This was not the first time I’d reached high for an agent. In New York I’d had connections at the biggest agencies, and, at various times had been briefly represented by some of the top literary agents for specific – usually adult -- projects.
But, as I said, these were short sojourns, usually ending when the project didn't sell. On the other hand, my longest and most successful agent relationships -- each lasting a more than a decade -- were with agents who, like myself, were consistent and reliable performers. They might not have been at the top of their fields, but then, to be honest, neither was I.
These days, being in the fifth decade of my writing career, I’m quite glad to have a young agent who’s very comfortable and familiar with what’s going on in the business. When we got together six years ago, he was less established than he is now, and hungry. Together we’ve made good progress. My advances are larger and he’s expanded his stable of authors to include some who are quite well known.
Having been in this business a long time, and having had some super-hot, as well as some comfortably warm, agents, I’ve come to believe that having a “big” agent isn’t always the best way to go, especially if that agent has a lot of "bigger" clients than you. As the old saying goes, “water seeks its own level,” and you may find that in the long run the agent who’s best for you is the one who takes the time to answer your e-mails, return your calls, and, most importantly, thinks of you as a valuable client.
After speaking to a number of book editors and other contacts, I got the names of two prominent agents at top tier agencies, the sort whose agents movie stars often thanked when receiving Oscars. I contacted both, explaining that I had written a number of other novels, and asking if they would be interested in seeing them. One said yes, the other never replied. Filled with aspiration I packed a box with the novels I thought had the most movie potential and shipped them off to the agent who’d said yes.
After hearing nothing for a month I sent the agent an e-mail asking if he’d had an opportunity to read my books. He didn’t answer. A few weeks later I tried again, and again, received no answer. Once a few more weeks had passed, I tried calling and got his secretary who promised she’d give him the message.
Days passed, but he never called back.
Meanwhile the movie, now called Drive Me Crazy, had been fast-tracked, and it wasn’t long before the premiere (my kids got to meet Britney Spears when she still wore underwear) – followed by tepid reviews … and a disastrous box office.
A week later my box of books arrived in the mail without a note. It was difficult to discern whether it had even been opened.
This was not the first time I’d reached high for an agent. In New York I’d had connections at the biggest agencies, and, at various times had been briefly represented by some of the top literary agents for specific – usually adult -- projects.
But, as I said, these were short sojourns, usually ending when the project didn't sell. On the other hand, my longest and most successful agent relationships -- each lasting a more than a decade -- were with agents who, like myself, were consistent and reliable performers. They might not have been at the top of their fields, but then, to be honest, neither was I.
These days, being in the fifth decade of my writing career, I’m quite glad to have a young agent who’s very comfortable and familiar with what’s going on in the business. When we got together six years ago, he was less established than he is now, and hungry. Together we’ve made good progress. My advances are larger and he’s expanded his stable of authors to include some who are quite well known.
Having been in this business a long time, and having had some super-hot, as well as some comfortably warm, agents, I’ve come to believe that having a “big” agent isn’t always the best way to go, especially if that agent has a lot of "bigger" clients than you. As the old saying goes, “water seeks its own level,” and you may find that in the long run the agent who’s best for you is the one who takes the time to answer your e-mails, return your calls, and, most importantly, thinks of you as a valuable client.
March 27, 2014
A Well-Crafted Piece
At a gathering recently someone asked me what I did for a living. I said I wrote books for young people. What followed was a conversation every writer of picture, middle-grade, and YA books has probably had many times. He asked if I had ever thought about writing for adults? I said I had and I have. He asked if I’d ever thought about writing for TV. Again, I had not only thought of it, but had done it. Then he asked if I’d ever thought about the big time? For a moment I thought he meant trying to write a best seller, but it turned out he meant writing for film.
There too, I had both thought about it and done it, although I’ve never had anything more than the script for a made-for-television movie produced. In fact, in more than forty years of writing there probably isn’t much I haven’t done. Newspapers, magazines, advertising, public relations, poetry, song lyrics, short stories, novels, book series, TV and movie scripts, even fortunes for risqué fortune cookies (those were actually my first best sellers).
In the process I have worked alone, in collaborations, and with teams of writers. And, as I’m sure many others have, I’ve pictured myself in “the big time,” writing bestsellers and blockbuster movies, giving lengthy interviews on radio and TV, appearing on the covers of magazines, and sitting at tables in book stores while long lines of fans waited for my autograph.
Now that I’ve reached my 60s most of those fantasies have passed. These days, the idea of writing a movie script, of going Hollywood, and all that implies, doesn’t hold much appeal (except for the medical benefits offered by the Writer’s Guild of America). A bestseller would still be wonderful, of course, but in the meantime I find I’m content to work quietly and by myself in my “workshop,” feeling the way I imagine a craftsman must feel. Mostly, what I dream about now is producing a really good piece of work.
Something akin to a handcrafted desk or dresser…
Please allow me to explain the non-sequitur. For most of my life I didn’t pay a great deal of attention to furniture. It was there to put things on, or in, and I used it like everyone else. Even antiques and museum pieces held little fascination for me. After all, it was just … furniture.
Then one day my wife and I took our children to colonial Williamsburg, Va. In one of the old shops I watched a cabinetmaker work on a replica of an antique desk, complete with inlay and beveling and all the other carefully added flourishes that perhaps only a handful of craftsmen have time for anymore.
After a while the kids got impatient and my wife took them to see the wigmaker and the blacksmith, but I stayed and observed the care and precision with which this craftsman went about his work, the ultimate reward not being the opportunity to give an extended radio interview, nor appear on a magazine cover, but the simple pride and satisfaction that comes with having produced a really solid, sturdy, well-crafted piece.
Even then I didn’t give up my fantasies right away. I had to sign books for long lines of fans, only to see some of those autographed books appear for sale on eBay the very next day. I had to give some long radio interviews and appear on television a few times to realize that so many people do these things now that it hardly makes a difference. I had to walk down the red carpet at the premier of a movie made from one of my books to find out that unless you are J.K. Rowling the paparazzi has no interest in the novel’s author.
I’m glad I had those experiences, because – and I know this will sound clichéd – they helped me to focus on what I now believe are the important things in life: family, friends, and working patiently to produce something solid, sturdy, and lasting.
Fallout
There too, I had both thought about it and done it, although I’ve never had anything more than the script for a made-for-television movie produced. In fact, in more than forty years of writing there probably isn’t much I haven’t done. Newspapers, magazines, advertising, public relations, poetry, song lyrics, short stories, novels, book series, TV and movie scripts, even fortunes for risqué fortune cookies (those were actually my first best sellers).
In the process I have worked alone, in collaborations, and with teams of writers. And, as I’m sure many others have, I’ve pictured myself in “the big time,” writing bestsellers and blockbuster movies, giving lengthy interviews on radio and TV, appearing on the covers of magazines, and sitting at tables in book stores while long lines of fans waited for my autograph.
Now that I’ve reached my 60s most of those fantasies have passed. These days, the idea of writing a movie script, of going Hollywood, and all that implies, doesn’t hold much appeal (except for the medical benefits offered by the Writer’s Guild of America). A bestseller would still be wonderful, of course, but in the meantime I find I’m content to work quietly and by myself in my “workshop,” feeling the way I imagine a craftsman must feel. Mostly, what I dream about now is producing a really good piece of work.
Something akin to a handcrafted desk or dresser…
Please allow me to explain the non-sequitur. For most of my life I didn’t pay a great deal of attention to furniture. It was there to put things on, or in, and I used it like everyone else. Even antiques and museum pieces held little fascination for me. After all, it was just … furniture.
Then one day my wife and I took our children to colonial Williamsburg, Va. In one of the old shops I watched a cabinetmaker work on a replica of an antique desk, complete with inlay and beveling and all the other carefully added flourishes that perhaps only a handful of craftsmen have time for anymore.
After a while the kids got impatient and my wife took them to see the wigmaker and the blacksmith, but I stayed and observed the care and precision with which this craftsman went about his work, the ultimate reward not being the opportunity to give an extended radio interview, nor appear on a magazine cover, but the simple pride and satisfaction that comes with having produced a really solid, sturdy, well-crafted piece.
Even then I didn’t give up my fantasies right away. I had to sign books for long lines of fans, only to see some of those autographed books appear for sale on eBay the very next day. I had to give some long radio interviews and appear on television a few times to realize that so many people do these things now that it hardly makes a difference. I had to walk down the red carpet at the premier of a movie made from one of my books to find out that unless you are J.K. Rowling the paparazzi has no interest in the novel’s author.
I’m glad I had those experiences, because – and I know this will sound clichéd – they helped me to focus on what I now believe are the important things in life: family, friends, and working patiently to produce something solid, sturdy, and lasting.
Fallout
December 22, 2008
Influences
Young people often ask who inspired you to become a writer, or influenced you early in your so-called career. You are always reluctant to tell them that Bob Dylan was a tremendous influence (not just on you, but on much of your generation, as well as on several generations to follow). Your reluctance stems from the feeling that the Bob Dylan young people think of today is not the same person you’re referring to.
Your memory of the 1960s is a bit hazy (as per the old nugget, “If you remember it, you weren’t there.”) But somewhere around 1967 you discovered Bob Dylan’s album, Blonde on Blonde, which had been released the previous year. Several of the tracks (“I Want You” and “Just Like A Woman”) had become radio hits, but you were mesmerized by “Visions of Johanna” and endlessly amused by “Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again.” You’d never heard lyrics like these before, so absurdly visual and at the same time ringing with what you imagined to be authenticity, uncanny wisdom, and truth.
Each day after school you would sit on the Naugahyde couch in your white-washed wood-paneled den and listen to the record on your parent’s mono record player. You bought a harmonica and tried to play along (later you would pick the great blues harpist Paul Butterfield as a better model). You sensed, on some instinctive level, that you were listening to something remarkable, even if you couldn’t always figure out what Dylan meant. Soon you were the proud owner of his other two “electric” albums, “Highway 61 Revisited,” and “Bringing It All Back Home,” as well as albums by Judy Collins and The Byrds, who, along with Jimi Hendrix’s fabulous “All Along The Watchtower,” performed the best Dylan covers (in your humble opinion).
For you, Dylan’s alleged motorcycle “accident” was a personal tragedy. The artist who released John Wesley Harding a year and a half later seemed to be someone else, and you mourned the loss. For many years you would say that the Bob Dylan you knew had died in that crash (which Dylanologists doubt actually happened). But recently you’ve begun to imagine that you understand why he did what he did. Dylan started as a writer and singer of folk and protest songs. In fairly short order he wrote some of the greatest protest songs ever. Perhaps he sensed that he couldn’t top himself. Perhaps he was bored with that form. Perhaps he was fearful of becoming stale and repetitious. So he moved on to the more personal and idiosyncratic songs of his “electric period.” It’s only lately that you’ve begun to appreciate how amazingly brave (brazen?) this move was – utterly alienating his enormous “folksy” fan base (they booed him off the stage at the all-important Newport Folk Festival) to move into an area of music where, for all he knew, he might fail miserably (at least I assume he did not have a crystal ball predicting the future).
How many successful stars today would be willing to take such a risk and put their entire career in jeopardy for the sake of their “art?”? So perhaps that also explains the transition that followed the “electric” period. Is it possible that in the space of those three albums, he explored as much as he could, or cared to, explore? And felt he had no choice but to move on again?
All you know is that even today his songs and music remain an inexorable part of your life. And you are thankful for what he gave the world (and delighted that “the world” deemed it important to award him a special Pulitzer citation.)
Get more on Todd Strasser at SimonandSchuster.com
