Useful Gifts for Writers: Bookplates

This is the most useful book on writing I have ever found, and it’s the only one I will actually buy to give to people. I ended up writing the introduction to the 10th anniversary edition, because I know the publisher and, well, I’ll let that introduction tell its own story. The “Patrick” referred to in it is Patrick Swenson, the publisher who owns Fairwood Press.

For the past few years, I have been covertly getting people to go up to Patrick at conventions and ask when the electronic edition of this book would appear. Why? It might be that I have a prankish mind that was devoted to making him believe there was a vast groundswell awaiting this book. But actually, that’s the truth, because I’ve been pushing this book for years, less for prankish reasons than because I think it’s so useful for new writers.

The 10% Solution is not a cure to all your writing woes. It’s not a tool that helps with everything. But it is a great little book that will make you a better writer if you use it at the right stage in the process. The time to employ it is in that last pass before you send the story out into the world. I think of it as a lint-brush, something that tidies things up and makes sure every sentence that you’re sending out into the world to represent you is doing so beautifully, showing off that you can construct clear and error-free sentences that do exactly what you want them to be doing.

I don’t remember the circumstances when I first ran across The 10% Solution, but I do know that since then I have given out multiple copies and recommended it to literally hundreds of people. Why? Because it works and effectively shows you how to polish a piece of work in a way that shows you are at the professional level. For not just fiction but nonfiction.

Yes, it’s a pain in the butt. Yes, the first time you apply it to a manuscript it will be a huge pain in the rear end that may well lead you to curse aloud, calling down vile imprecations on my head. Yup and yup. I’ve been there too. But it’s worth it. After you’ve done it a few times, your unconscious mind gets tired of that labor and begins making changes before you write, tightening up and clarifying your prose in a way that will make it better.

Don’t believe me? Don’t try to apply it to a book then, but test it out with a short story or essay. Do give it a full chance, not skipping any steps, doing the actual “now I am searching on ly, now I am searching on of” steps. And keep a copy of the original, then look at them side by side. If your original prose is so golden that this didn’t substantially improve it, well then, perhaps this is not the book for you. But for the rest of us, it’s an awesome one.

Thank you, Patrick, for finally listening to all those people I kept sending up to you. I swear you won’t regret it. I know I won’t.

Start the clock! Release the kraken! Let the hockey players sharpen their blades, let the audience stir restlessly and go one last time for popcorn and sodas and beer, glorious golden beer that tints the ice with its microbrewed haze.

Because there is a haze tonight, that’s for sure, folks. Tonight Seattle’s surrendered to the supernatural forces that have been creeping up like uninvited shoggoths in recent years. The world’s gone weird and wacky, and why not krakens, why not tentacles spilling out from the Space Needle, infesting the sky? It’s Seattle, after all; it’s raining so it’s not like they block out the sun.

Who’d have dreamed that magic and hockey would mix this way, a mash-up made of bloody sticks and smashed spell bottles? Seattle’s wizards have come out of hiding for this game, emerged from their lairs in Greenlake and Mercer Island, driven their Teslas over to park in interdimensional folds where they won’t get scratched like normal cars.

Only an hour’s worth of game, and then the magic runs out, deflates like a sodden pumpkin, milked for all that tentacle and terror juice. Will it be enough to keep Seattle entertained for another evening, keep it from imploding like Scherezade in reverse into ennui and coffee beans? Cities don’t resort to supernatural hockey games until they’re really in extremis and no one is really sure what this one will – or even can — achieve, given a world of murder hornets and sapient bananas and well, you remember the last few months as well as I do, particularly what happened to the butterflies.

The clock’s ticking. The skaters are moving back and forth over the ice, and things are stirring in the depths underneath it, things that will fuck a Zamboni up and shred ice like tissue paper. That’s how close the danger is to us all. That’s how dire things are.

Let’s stop now, before another spray of ice goes up, before another player gets a bloody nose and melts the ice with that, so things can crawl through from another dimension. It’s not too late. Where’s the entrance? Where’s the exit? Why does this ice hold me so fast?