WORLD - ALL

Here, I am talking about "substance" in the sense of what the story is about: the ideas, rather than as opposed to the execution of those ideas.

1. The weird opener & the unintegrated opener.

   "Sarah walked down the aisle, still unclear why she had agreed to marry a giraffe. The groom, waiting patiently at the altar, resplendent in black tie, spats and spots, swung his long neck around to watch her approach, all the time placidly chewing his cud." Pretty wild, huh? The whole intention of that opener is to make you, the reader, wonder how such a thing could have come to pass. Well, I wrote it, and I haven’t the faintest idea. Don’t let this happen to you.

   I have sat in on (but not taught, thank God) workshops devoted entirely to the opener, and there is even some reason to focus on the opener that intently. Those few words do have to draw the readers in, get them interested in the story, and all that. However, many writers pay so much attention to the opener they forget all about the rest of the story, with the result that the opener has little or nothing to do with the story. The reader keeps going, eager to find out about that giraffe, and does not discover for 10 pages that (God forbid) it was all a dream, or that the writer has some other equally lame excuse for an explanation.

   I have come across an equally unfortunate problem — the writer who launches in with a wild, randomly selected killer of an opening, having no idea whatsoever where the story is going. (See: Bad Planning.) In fact, this error could have gone under the head Planning Errors.) Yes, the opener should be interesting, intriguing, should draw the reader in. But it should also have something to do with the story, be integral to it. The story itself should be interesting enough that some element of it should make for a good opener. As with all the notes in this essay, this is equally true for a novel or other longer work.

2. Retread of the same old same old.

   There are lots of stories that have been done before, and need not be done again. In science fiction, these include the-nuclear-war-wipes-out-everything-and-it-just-happens -the-last-two-people-left-are-named-Adam-and-Eve story. In mysteries, you have the detective who turns out to be the killer. In The New Yorker, you have stories about people on Long Island who have no problems, whining to each other about their problems. With the exception of the final example, these stories are unpublishable because they have been done to death. (For some reason, The New Yorker just can’t get enough of whiny Long Islanders.) Even the surprise twists on these old chestnuts have been done. It has been said, with a great degree of justice, that there is no such thing as a new idea. I have more than once written a whole novel based on something I thought was dazzlingly new and original, only to discover I could fill whole bookshelves with books on similar themes. I at least like to think that my take on those ideas was different enough, fresh enough, that I could get away with it. There is no clear line between a fresh take on an old idea and a hack rewrite of a theme that has been beaten to death. But you should at least try to avoid writing stories about writers writing stories about writers writing stories about writers having midlife crises. At some point, even The New Yorker will say enough, already. God willing.

   Articel source: http://www.sfwa.org/writing/mistakes_allen.htm