How to Properly Anchor Your Book

Books without anchors leave readers adrift.

The simplest anchors may help us keep track of who's who in dialogue that runs on for a page. An occasional He or She said will usually suffice. Or a gesture inserted between two quoted sentences can break the monotony.

'Do you really think so?" Jane stared into space. "I just can't see it that way."

Other anchors inform or remind us where the action's going down or how a room is arranged. How far apart are two seated characters if one of them's holding a gun? If we know that, we'll understand why B doesn't simply charge A. Or: if the narrative's divided between Seattle and San Francisco, perhaps the Seattle portions are told in the first person, the S.F. portions in the third. Or we may devise a subtler way than announcing the place with each change of locale.

The timeline should be carefully anchored as well. And this can be the devil's own business. Bold headers can give us the day or the hour at the start of each new part or chapter:

DAY ONE

or

12:00 A.M.

or

SUMMER

FALL

etc.

Or the timeline can be reinforced in a subtler way:

Two weeks after the death of Red Sands...

When details are entirely absent or are in far too short supply, we find ourselves adrift in an airy tale of faceless characters moving in and out of blurry rooms or homes, engaging in dialogue that comes from God knows which. Because of its blurred, dream-like nature, the prose can't help but fail to engage us. For all we know, the characters aren't even wearing clothes.

So then, the solution seems easy enough: when we write, it should always be 'Anchors away!'

Not so fast, though. 

Too many or too heavy anchors can quickly sink your readers

Too heavy: the mannered, nonstop repetition of 'He said' or 'She said.' In its own way, this is as phony as the prideful replacement of each 'said' with a deep purple substitute: S/he articulated...S/he pronounced...S/he uttered...S/he speechified...Variety is wonderful--if it's organic and discrete.

Too many: The equally mannered, nonstop iteration of brands/colors/fabrics/costs of all clothing in alls scenes. The cost and provenance of furniture. Etc.

Let's drop anchor as needed by readers. And let's drop it unobtrusively, simply as we can.

The result will be:

Don't Let the Name Game Whup You

I pay a lot more attention to names than I did in 1981, when I published my third horror novel under the name Kelley Wilde. And as I rewrite Mastery for its 25th anny edition, I'm struck by how my handling of the Name Game sums my professional growth.

Let's begin with the title and cover. Dell did a fine job with the artwork, I thought, but the title had not been my choice. I'd picked Monster Time for several reasons: Years before the Disney animated film, the title had been fresh...It signaled Horror loud and clear, while also hinting that time was one of the monsters (and this was a time travel thriller)...Finally, Monster Time turns out to be the title of a newspaper column that plays a key part in the plot...Mastery, on the other hand, gave readers nothing to go on--and the word itself plays a very small part in the story.



My new cover designer, Jean Schweikhard, convinced me of the need for a simpler and more focused cover, one clearly linked to key plot points. And we settled on a more elegant and mysterious illo combining Halley's comet...the great San Francisco earthquake...and a subtle suggestion of fangs. My original title, I'm convinced, will do the rest of the work.

But, not to confuse readers, I had to deal with Disney, which had never heard of me or my title Monster Time. I opted for MonsterTime. The best compromise I could think of. And why not? There's room for both Disney and me here.

Give readers a break with the characters' names. I was shocked to see how sloppy and thoughtless of readers I was all those years ago. I may have scored high marks for style, but time and again I flunked in my handling of the Name Game.




Frequently, my ear led me astray. For instance, I'd change Lenny to Len now and then for no other reason than rhythm. Worse, now and then--for the same reason--I'd call a character by his last name instead of his first. Far worse, one character alone was called by his last name.

But readers, I'd come to see, need clear reasons for any such changes. Similarly, most readers will be confused when a character is called by his full name here, his last name there, and then his first name here and there. If the reason is thought out, it can be effective. For instance: my character thinks of the vampire, Austin Blacke, as Blacke...and fears him. But then, toward the end, he begins to humanize the vamp by thinking of him as Austin--reducing him to a more manageable scale.

More than one name. My hero in MonsterTime is a likable, but roguish, detective named Dodge. Early in the book we're told that his birth name was Raphael. Two hundred pages later, an old friend trying to rouse him from a funk, calls out to him "Hey, Raphael!" In the revision I took the necessary time to add: 'The sound of my birth name stopped my ranting cold.' Don't tax readers' memories, especially at a key dramatic moment.

When in doubt, take the time to avoid the following dreaded reaction:






I set out long ago with a good list of narrative values: speed, power, dramatic impact, suspense...and to these, at last, I add:

Hey, Where We At--Which Union Square?

Union Square, Manahattan



Union Square, San Francisco



Union Square, Seattle

Most writers are admirably clear about time, but too often unclear about place. Even in a story that has been set in Seattle, we need sometimes to reinforce the reader's sense of bearings. One mention of the city's name may not enough for a reader to place store names like Macy's or Bloomingdales in Seattle, not Manhattan. Furthermore, some landmarks may not be as well-known as we think: e.g., New York's Herald Square or Seattle's Pioneer Square.

Occasional reminders can be placed discreetly: The downtown Macy's is only blocks from 3rd and Pike, the crossing known as The Scourge of Seattle. Or: New York's flagship Macy's, located at Herald Square...

If this seems over-finicky, remember that anything causing a reader to stop and wonder where s/he is will slow down the momentum we've worked so hard to create.

The problem grows more pressing, if our hero--born in New York, now residing in Seattle and just back from San Francisco--finds himself thinking about Union Square.

Even in fantasy novels, I often need more grounding: how far away from 'the city' is the countryside now being shown?





We don't have to choose, as writers, between speed and clarity. Take the time to add the necessary telling detail. The clearer we are, the more quickly and happily readers will read.

The Dreadful Clash of Symbols

So, there you are, blissfully ensconced in the new thriller you're reading. And suddenly you feel...creeped out. Yes, yes, there it is again! Once again the author has gone out of his or her way to beat you on your noggin with The Escalator. This is the seventh time in the novel that the action has come to a screeching dead stop to describe The Escalator: its history, its manufacture, the number of trips up and down every day, the ever-escalating rise of the hero's daily trips...And, worse, on the book's very cover is a graphic picture of--you bet, The Escalator, Though it has nothing to do with the action--the reason you're reading, to start with--and is never explained...still, The Escalator is established as a symbol and it gains in stature with every new appearance.

Now, this is a very old business with writers trying to gain extra mileage from tales that are usually thin. The monolith in 2001? What the hell was that about? Ask and you'll be answered by a scribe with a pipe in his mouth: It is what it is...Your private truth is in your mind...Etc., etc., etc.

To which I respond: Balderdash. And I propose a simple rule: If anything smacks of a Symbol, it should be bounced from the story. Why? Because it's attempting to carry more weight than it can actually handle. No borrowed strength should be allowed: The Escalator must also work as an escalator. The symbols that work and do not creep us out are those we perceive on our own. Fools can beat us till we're blue with Escalators and Monoliths and Whatevers. But nothing can compare with the reading magic we feel when we perceive a connection barely even hinted at.

Sayyy...Suddenly I'm thinking of that escalator scene back in the first chapter...or the monolith I briefly saw...and I'm seeing a new layer here...I don't want my noggin pounded with a silver hammer. I want to discover, as if on my own, new meanings to the story.

When in doubt, be subtle and let the readers have their joys.