Tag Archive for James Preller on writing

On Beatrix Potter: Soporific!

August 24, 2026 / / No comments

–

I’ve been slowly rereading my collection of Beatrix Potter, utterly charmed and impressed. I’m taking my time to extend the pleasure. They don’t make books like these anymore. It might be interesting to try to puzzle out why that’s true, but we’ll leave that for another day and for, yes, Bigger Brains than mine.

–

–

There’s so much to learn from Potter, so much to admire, though it makes me wistful to experience anew the loss of her talent — a nostalgic sense of how things used to be but are no longer.

Anyway, these are great books that seem as if they were beamed down from some other, more magical planet. 

Here’s the opening spread from The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies:

–

–

There’s so much to say about Potter’s excellent work, but on this one page, three sentences, I’d like to focus on two things.

First, this is a fine example of how to introduce new, difficult words to young readers. Not to avoid that language, but to support the reader in the process. True fact: This is actually how I first learned “soporific,” when I read this book long ago as a new father. But notice what she does here: I have never felt sleepy . . .

(And notice, too, how I borrowed here italicization of “I,” a nice bit of emphasis.)

Potter gives us the meaning in the best way possible. She doesn’t stop (or stoop) to explain, doesn’t talk down to the reader. She provides the context clue that helps an attentive reader easily understand. Wonderful.

In addition, as a fan of William Steig — who also commonly used language that was above-level — I believe that these new, big, challenging words can actually draw readers into the story. Rather than slowing them down or breaking the magic, these big words can add a sense of mystery and allure. There’s something otherworldly about them. Intriguing. 

The love of language itself. 

Secondly, notice the writer’s voice. I once had an editor tell me that voice was the single  most important thing when looking at new manuscripts. She said that as an editor, she could help fix a lot of problems: tighten the plot, deepen the characterization, even help when the writing goes astray. But voice was the thing she couldn’t teach, couldn’t correct. Without a strong voice — the sound of the writing, the tone and personality of the writer — there was little she could do. Because it was only everything.

Read that page through again. The connection between writer and reader is immediate. Someone is speaking directly to us. There’s warmth there, and interest, and our attention is grabbed. Not by a car crash or some other dramatic event; we are captivated by the almost confidential, casual tone of this storyteller. By the words themselves. It feels like we are listening to an older family member recounting over dinner a marvelous experience. It’s as if the writer was somehow miraculously making eye contact with the reader. Gather round, children, to hear my tale. We tuck in at the kitchen table and listen up, knowing this will be good.

And so alone in a room, surrounded by distractions, we turn the page.

There are endless examples of this throughout Potter’s books. The tone, the unique conspiratorial vibe.

Let me tell you a story . . . 

I’ll leave you with a page from The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck:

–

–
“She set off on a fine spring afternoon along the cart-road that leads over the hill. She was wearing a shawl and a poke bonnet.”
–
Delightful.
–
But what is to come when silly Jemima, without a practical bone in her body, arrives over the hill?
–
I can’t adequately explain why I love that so much. Especially that clear, simple sentence, the aside, “She was wearing a shawl and a poke bonnet.” Once again we learn that a sentence doesn’t have to work that hard. It doesn’t have to have “look at me” flourishes that demonstrate craft and skill and a “mastery” over language by an egotistical author. No, the sentence just needs to help tell the story. Deliver the information and get out of the way. She was wearing a shawl and a poke bonnet.
–
Often the job of a sentence is not to be admired, but to disappear. To simply leave us at the beginning of the next sentence. 
–
By the way: Don’t know what a poke bonnet looks like? See the illustration on the facing page. That’s another way we help readers along. 
–
The older I get, the more I appreciate and admire restraint. 
–
–
–
–
Share Share Tweet Follow Share Print Email
Category: Readings, the writing process / Tags: , , , , , ,

Let’s Hear It for Very, Very Short Chapters!

June 22, 2026 / / No comments

–

A friend recently picked up This Is Happiness by Niall Williams. 

That’s a book I often praise. I love its deep Irishness and humor.

She laughed at the opening chapter, which I had forgotten:

It had stopped raining.

That was it.

–

–

There are many, many more words that come later, but there are just those four in that first chapter. I guess in Ireland, and certainly for this book, that one sentence was momentous enough to merit its own chapter.

I remember in college reading William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying. It contained an extremely short chapter that kind of blew my mind: 

My mother is a fish.

That was all, just five words — a playful idea that appealed to me enormously. I’m not sure why, because you could easily dismiss the short chapter as gimmicky. But to me, then and now, I thought of it as clever and refreshing.

That idea stuck into my head for years and years. Maybe someday I’ll write my own very, very short chapter. And I did fulfill that Grand Ambition in my well-reviewed, absolutely ignored novel, Better Off Undead. Which is too bad, because I think it’s one of the most entertaining books I’ve written. Anyway!

The previous chapter, “Fight,” described a confrontation between Adrian (who is a zombie) and a group of tough middle-schoolers. It ends this way:

And then, right there in front of Leonardo di Pizza, fueled by the strength of the undead, I feasted on their flesh.

The next chapter is titled, “Not Really.” The entire contents of that chapter: 

Kidding.

That’s it, one word.

The following chapter is titled “Actually,” which goes on to describe what really happened. Hopefully a reader finds it all playful and amusing, in the same way Faulker’s short chapter pleased me, or Williams’ opening salvo elicited a laugh from my friend.

But what about you, Dear Reader? Can you think of other examples of extremely short chapters in literature?

I’ll give you one more favorite. This is from Stephen King’s It: 

Nothing much happened for the next two weeks.

Ha!

–

–

Share Share Tweet Follow Share Print Email
Category: Better Off Undead, the writing process / Tags: , , , , , ,

One Memory of My Father

April 1, 2026 / / 2 comments

–

In an era of great book covers, this one strikes me as pretty bad. But just wait till you get inside!

I’m reading Susan Orlean’s extraordinary memoir, Joyride. She is, quite obviously, one of our greatest living writers. The book is largely about her writing life, which one gathers is not at all distinct from her life in general. I find it vastly inspiring. She makes me want to be a better writer. A truer writer. Highly recommended to anyone who cares about writing or admires Orlean’s work. Which of course you do, because how can you not?

But I keep putting this book down after a page or two. Over and over again. Long ago I determined that was a very positive sign. The poem that has me staring out the window. The book that elicits memories, new ideas, inspirations, eureka moments. I think of these as source books. Deep wells from which the imagination drinks its full. I suspect it will take me forever to finish it. I also suspect that I’m going to need to own this one, scribbling in the margins. Returning the book to the library just won’t suffice.

Oh, right, my dad. Orlean was writing about her mother and a memory of my father leaped into my head. He passed in 2006, long ago, and I suppose days go by when I don’t think of him. I also suppose that such streaks rarely happen. He’s always there, as anyone with a deceased parent understands. 

My father was an insurance man. A practical man. A man of his time. Smart about things, like money and the stock market and when to rotate the tires. He loved mucking about on his boat. In fact, as I think of it now, “puttering around” was his prime activity. Pruning a tree limb, slathering it with tar. Setting down an imperfect line of Belgian blocks along the driveway. Playing bridge and doing jigsaw puzzles and pouring a scotch. He had a minor but persistent artistic streak, a flag that he never truly unfurled. It came out in different projects, a late-period adult education painting class, that sort of thing. He never took me to a museum or read novels or did anything that I recall to cultivate an artistic sensibility in his children, which includes me, his youngest. 

So I think when I became a writer it sort of baffled and intrigued him. He might have even admired it a little, I’m not sure. He wasn’t supportive or not supportive. It was just sort of like, okay, whatever. So long as you can put food on the table. I think he felt that way about all his children. Go live your life; I’m here if you need anything.

The memory is this: He would sometimes come across an article in the newspaper. Something that tangentially tied into what he thought I did for a living. Maybe he just came across a news item that made him think of me. I imagine him at the kitchen table, an unfiltered Camel burning in the ashtray. He’d grab the scissors, clip it out, fold it neatly into an envelope, and send it my way. If there was a note attached by a paper clip, it would be brief, “I found this interesting.” That sort of thing.

We don’t live in that world anymore. When folks stuffed newspaper clippings in envelopes. It used to happen, I’m sure some readers remember, but not anymore. That time has largely vanished from the earth, living only in memory. How the mailman would arrive and lo, here was a letter from my father, unbidden and unexpected, containing some odd miscellany he felt I’d enjoy. 

This was a man, a veteran of World War II, who didn’t express a lot of emotion. Or, like, any? I’m searching my memory and nothing shows up. Oh, well, no bother. But those clippings in the mail, delivered days later, were his attempts at connection. Saying, I am thinking of you. Saying, I now understand, I love you. 

–

–

Thank you, Susan Orlean, for somehow mysteriously summoning up that memory for me. You wrote another great book. 

Share Share Tweet Follow Share Print Email
Category: Family, the writing process / Tags: , , , , , , , ,

WRITING PROCESS: “Writing Is Structure.” — Vince Gilligan

February 12, 2026 / / No comments

–

“The cherry on top

does not support

the ice cream sundae.”

— Vince Gilligan, creator of BREAKING BAD.

–

Last week I posted about my writing process for a book I was working on, the second in my “Survival Code” series (May, 2027). The deadline was on my mind, a clear line in the sand. A friend asked me how the writing was going and it stumped me. 

Was I even writing yet?

I knew I was working, circling the story, reading and thinking a lot, but I wasn’t actually writing. At least, not in the sense we commonly know it, that whole unpleasant business with words on a page. 

Yet I knew this was essential to the final product. Possibly the most important stage. 

If you are curious, you can click here to find it.

The very next day, I came across this 30-second clip featuring a snippet of Vince Gilligan’s thoughts on writing. He powerfully and simply verbalized something I was dithering about. 

I even transcribed it. But first, to be clear, Gilligan is at first talking about writing for the screen, which is why he begins by discussing dialogue, whereas a writer of novels might describe it differently:

–

“Oddly enough, people think of writing as dialogue, and to me writing is structure. Dialogue is the cherry on top. The cherry on top does not support the ice cream sundae. It’s a delicious little added thing, but the real storytelling, the real structuring, which is often something in TV we do, all the writers together in a room, working and not actually typing anything, but just talking. Just verbalizing. That to me is the hard part of writing: the structuring, the building of the scaffolding, the skeleton of the story, if you will.” — Vince Gilligan, creator of BREAKING BAD.

 

 

 

Share Share Tweet Follow Share Print Email
Category: The Survival Code, the writing process / Tags: , , , , ,

On Writing: Body Language & Character

February 26, 2025 / / No comments

–

I want to talk about writing today. Let’s begin by looking at this famous image of John F. Kennedy, which I came across & posted yesterday in connection with a quote:

–

–

As writers, we need to try to see people and convey that in words. I’m not great at this by any means. It requires effort, a struggle, as it doesn’t often come naturally in my writing. But as writers, we must try to notice things, mannerisms, telling details. Why? To help the reader see. And also: as a way into character. 

Look around: People are everywhere. Ask yourself, how would I describe that posture? The woman in the coffee shop. The kid on the slide. How do it quickly, efficiently, in a sentence or two?

Back to the Kennedy image. It could be, simply:

He stands with arms crossed, neck bent, head down.

Or a little more:

He stands with arms criss-crossed, neck bent, head down. He is reflective, feeling deeply. 

Yuck, okay, the voice feels wrong — I might be trying to avoid the “lost in thought” cliche — or, say:

Arlo stands with arms criss-crossed, neck bent, head down. This is the Arlo I love. When he is quiet and reflective. I long to know what is in his heart. 

Or that last bit in the 3rd person: 

Esme longs to know what is in his heart.

Or inject more story into it:

Arlo stands with arms criss-crossed, neck bent, head down. This is classic Arlo. A performance. He is such a fraud. I can’t wait to hear what utter bullshit he’ll say next.

Or, okay:

He tucks his hands beneath his crossed arms, stands quietly, head down, considering. 

–

***

–

And on and on and on, endlessly. There are a million options, a million ways to get at it. Or to paint it, if you will. 

Try to do that today. Watch people closely. Notice how they hold themselves. At first, try to strictly describe only what you see: the ankles crossed, the fingers touching a necklace, the mouth a thin line of disapproval, etc. 

The truly amazing thing is how entire characters, entire world views, can grow out of this simple practice. The posture is a seed that flowers into a fully-formed, “living” character.

For example, say, this: 

The way Anna fidgets with the bracelet on her thin, right wrist. The bracelet was her mother’s, a gift before the cancer took her away. It was a year ago but feels like yesterday. Anna reaches for it when she feels nervous, or insecure, or just bored and lonely. A habit of the heart. It seems to help. She remembers the love that is gone and, almost magically, the love that persists.

I just made that up. Beginning with an image of a physical act.

Now it’s your turn. 

Go deeper, if you wish. But mostly, as an exercise, try to describe what you see. A sentence or two. The crossed ankles. The twirling of the hair. The setting of the shoulders. The forward-leaning walk, arms swinging. It all begins & ends with the seeing. 

–

–

Don’t miss my newest middle-grade novel, Shaken. Now also available on Audible, read by Caitlyn Davis. 

 

Share Share Tweet Follow Share Print Email
Category: Shaken, the writing process / Tags: , , , , , , , ,
« Older Entries  
Website Hosted by Web Instinct