Why you can break the rules of writing

Every month, I write a column about things I’ve learned about the craft of writing from the books I’ve reviewed. This time, I’ve started with a different type of writing advice. Like most advice, it’s subjective. But I think it’s worth considering. Many writers (myself included) wonder why certain novels do well and receive rave reviews from readers, despite not following the standard writing advice from publishing professionals. They break the rules of writing.

How dare they, I think. Don’t they know that you’re never supposed to (fill in the blank)? And yet other readers love the book. If I’m honest, I keep reading the story, too, despite the sullen rants of my internal editor. Why?

Here are my thoughts.

The “rules” of writing

W. Somerset Maugham wrote,

There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are. (Quoted on Goodreads)

I mention this quote because would-be writers are bombarded with advice of what to do/what not to do. Some of it is excellent advice. Other things? Not so much. While we all need beta readers and critique partners to give feedback on our novels–and we must listen, even if we don’t want to hear it!–we also need to realize that much of the advice is subjective. The “rules” are flexible.

The other thing I’ve learned? Things that matter to people in publishing and other writers don’t necessarily matter as much to normal readers. Normal readers, as in people who read exclusively for enjoyment.

It is possible to break many writing rules and still write a good story. Does the average reader care if the writer overuses adverbs? Or opens with a description of the weather? Or info-dumps character backstory “too early” in the story?

Maybe.

Then again, maybe not.

As I read Razia, I was reminded of this. This sounds like a backhanded compliment, but it’s not intended to be. Razia is a powerful story. While writer-me sees how the “flaws” weaken the story’s power, the reader-me is okay with them. Why? Two reasons.

Khan is an eloquent communicator.

Her writing style is easy to read. I didn’t become tangled in convoluted syntax or tripped up by misspellings or typos. This should be a given in a published book. It isn’t.

If her book had been full of typos, misspellings, punctuation woes, and the like, I would not be calling it a powerful story. I’d be using it as a poster child for hiring a professional proofreader. Storytelling rules are flexible. Language mechanics aren’t. Use creativity in your story, not your spelling.

Khan’s writing grabbed my emotions.

This can cover a multitude of writing problems, in my opinion. If I am genuinely moved by the story, then I will want to keep reading. Simple in theory. Not so simple in practice. Years ago, I read the book Unless It Stirs the Human Heart by Roger Rosenblatt. In a dusty, cobwebbed corner of my mind, I remember his point that good writing should move the heart, not only the mind. I agree.

With that in mind, I’ll move on with more normal tips that I’ve learned:

World-building

(from Beijing Payback by Daniel Nieh)

When writing about a culture that your target demographic is unfamiliar with, be careful how you “tell” your audience about it.

Sometimes novels that take place in two different cultures can info-dump the differences in attitude, language, social norms, etc. But not here. Although he is of Chinese descent, Victor is a stranger to Beijing. (His father jokes that he writes his final letter in simple Chinese because his son got a B+ in Business Chinese 202. Obviously, Victor’s not fluent yet, at least in his father’s opinion!) Fortunately, Victor has Sun along to translate both language (when Business Chinese 202 won’t suffice) and the culture. Nieh’s explanations for us don’t feel awkward because they are disguised as Sun’s explanations to the ignorant Victor.

Minor characters

(from Rasputin’s Shadow by Raymond Khoury)

The number of bodies piling up is almost mind-numbing, and it would be easy for Reilly and us to think, “Oh, there’s another bad guy dead, another one bites the dust.” But several minor characters have their own point of view sections.

While several of these characters are very unsympathetic, Raymond Khoury takes us into their minds and shows their humanity. They have frustration or anger. They struggle with decisions. They’ve been swept up in events larger than themselves. They’re drug dealers or mafia, ruthless and depraved, but they still have their own goals and ambitions and desires, and not all of those are bad. What’s bad about wanting to protect one’s family or friends? Or wanting to be out from under other people’s control?

When they die (and several do), we know them. They aren’t just “Dead Person #5” but someone we know and (at least for me) there’s a tinge of regret: they’ll never get a chance to make better choices.

Make antagonistic characters sympathetic

(From Marked Men by Chris Simms and Rasputin’s Shadow by Raymond Khoury)

Okay, sympathy may be impossible in many cases. No one’s going to sympathize with a sadistic serial killer who tortures his victims in a variety of nefarious and inventive ways.

But other antagonists have sympathetic aspects. For example, take Leo Solokov in Rasputin’s Shadow. He has a horrible background. Death and destruction follow in his wake. Yet he loves his wife, Daphne, and will do anything to keep her safe. His protective characteristics make him moving, genuine, and provide a point of connection between the reader and an otherwise-unsympathetic character.

Also consider Jordan Hughes in Marked Men. He’s homeless and newly released from prison for a gruesome murder. I’ve never been in prison, been homeless, or been an addict. Yet it was difficult not to sympathize a bit with him. Even though he’s free from prison, he is still imprisoned by his addictions, past actions, and emotions.

DC Sean Blake mentions that a homeless person told him to talk to them like they’re human. Sean takes this to heart. As he investigates, he treats others with respect. Because I, the reader, am following Sean, I am primed to see Jordan Hughes as a human, not simply a generic homeless junkie.

Simms could tap into my compassion and pity. He doesn’t. (That would be too easy!)

Instead, he forces me to see how I am like Jordan Hughes. I have to consider how I am (or have been) trapped by my resentment and anger. I can’t pretend that I’m better than he is, like I could with pity or compassion. If I don’t condemn or disdain myself for my emotions, I can’t condemn Jordan Hughes, either. Instead, I sympathize with him.