People come from far and wide to read Boys Don’t Read. We track this data continuously, looking for the reasons people visit our site. We know all about your sick minds. Your IP Address. Where you live. But luckily for you–after reading some of the reasons you have come to read our humble blog–there’s no way we’ll ever try to contact you. See? Weirdness does have its perks.

“Revolutionary Fist Bump”

I have no idea what this means, but it has to be awesome. Like, you’ve revolutionized the fist bump, or are looking to do just that? Or did you have a fist bump that somehow changed your life and, now, you’re looking for a community who understands your transformative experience. Tell us. Please.

“Dungeon Master Cat”

I won’t lie: this kind of scares me.

“Why Boys Don’t Read?”

Well, it depends on the question. We do many things that we think are funny, but sometimes it doesn’t connect. We consider this to be the fault of the other. But, to answer your question, I guess I’ll have to say: Because.

“Peeta Shirts for Girls.”

Glad to see there are some vegans reading the blog.

“Hoops the book”

I can’t joke: a formative experience in my life. Read it.

“Up Up Down Down Left Right Left BA Mario”

You are among friends. And as a friend, please allow me to correct a mistake: Up-Up, Down-Down, Left-Right, Left-Right, B-A, Start. Game on, friend.

“Sexy Boys”

You heard…

“Giant Boys”

Wait…

“Reader boys”

I sense a trend…

“One Direction Boys”

*these are not the droids you are looking for*

“Brooding Heros”

It has been said before, yet Steve really is the only one who broods.

“Where Boys go to shout stuff in the butt.”

I have no idea, but I can only assume you meant “shoot stuff in the butt”. Either way, I hope you enjoyed the blog.

For a year–maybe two–I only read young adult literature. It was a good time, honestly. YA was new to me, a never-ending surprise every time I went to the library or bookstore. The voice was fresh and urgent. My excitement was furthered by the stories I read. I was voracious, reading 3-4 books a week.

This discovery cannot be minimized. YA literally made me into a fiction reader and, as it happened, writer. Granted, I had a novel–who doesn’t? But I wasn’t actively working on it. It was more a novel in theory, a beat-down car of a theory. The sort of thing I’d tinker with on the weekends.

In YA, I found a missing piece. A kind of freedom to take a chance, to do what I might otherwise not do because it didn’t seem literary or serious or whatever other bullshit word you’d like to trot out. Of course, now I know that the best YA literature can be both literary and serious. At the time, it seemed revolutionary.

I still think it is. But something strange has happened. Maybe it’s the fact that I recently started an MFA program, but I’ve made this weird turn towards reading… adult fiction.

Gasp. Shock. Horror.

Not really.

While I think adult fiction writers could definitely learn some things from young adult novelists, I’ve been in a place where I have been seeking out literary fiction–wondering what I could learn, how I could bring it back to my own work. How it could make me better. Things like word choice and sentence structure. The way certain authors are highly stylized–I’m totally stealing this from Jeff, by the way–while also being completely clean in their prose. It’s not that this doesn’t happen in YA, but for some reason I need to read something different.

And I think that’s the point: sometimes it’s okay to sit at the adult table. Sometimes it’s okay to take a sip of your parents Champagne when they’re not looking (METAPHOR). Because how else are you going to know what it’s like to experience that first taste? How else will you take different chances later? This, I think, is the the thing that drew me to YA in the first place: the opportunity to throw convention out the window. To look at writing like I want to look at the rest of my life. Basically, to say: “Screw it. Let’s give it a shot.”

This weekend, I was lucky enough to hear Matt de la Peña speak at the Western Washington SCBWI Conference. So what did he say?

“Get out of the way of your characters!” he admonished.

“Exercise patience when using your narrative voice,” he contemplated.

“Don’t use dialog tags,” he chided.

Right. Cut the dialogue tags. Easy advice to follow, and the reason why should be evident if you just read my terrible, terrible recap of Matt de la Peña’s talk. But then he came out with something special. Something so profound I stopped adding sarcastic dialogue tags to my session notes:

“Everything inside quotations is the character talking. Everything outside of them is the author.”

This was big. And a segue to the rest of his talk: Why do we, as writers, feel the need to put ourselves between our characters and our readers — often with a top hat and white gloves, doing a look-at-me soft shoe with excessive syllables and words that end in -ly? Is it necessary to tell readers how someone said something, or what the intonation was when they said it?

In most cases, it shouldn’t be.

The tag said, awkward when spoken, quickly becomes transparent when reading. In THE ELEMENTS OF STYLE, Strunk and White said: “Do not be tempted by a twenty-dollar word when there is a ten-center handy, ready and able.” And if you’re looking to save some cash, said is cheap as hell. There are heaps of said at Goodwill and St. Vinnie’s where high schoolers were convinced to abandon them by well-meaning language arts teachers. So scoop ‘em up, and dump them in your manuscript by the truckload.

I plan to take my own advice.

Matt de la Peña’s talk made me take another look at my current draft through the lens of everything outside of the quotation marks belongs to the author. My first draft of this particular project was 200,000 words. Yes. Mistakes were made. Most of it was the fault of interior monologue. Looking at word count alone, I cut an entire shitty, unpublishable novel worth of interior monologue out of a still unpublishable novel of mostly action and still too much interior monologue. But I’m getting there.

Not to say I buy the idea of interior monologue elimination wholesale, nor do I think that’s what Matt de la Peña meant. Still, it made me think more carefully about whether what falls outside of my quotation marks is necessary. And if it is necessary, what does that say about my characterization, plot, or dialogue?

Which brings us back to dialogue tags. Ultimately, I think about them the way I think about adverbs: the Darth Vaders of pose. They have good in them somewhere, but it’s often hard to see because they’re wearing a giant fucking black mask and chopping your hand off.

The single exception (not mentioned by Matt de la Peña, due to an apparent oversight) is the author who has mastered the Swiftie.

“I just lost 100 pounds,” Dana said lightly.

“Something is wrong with the engine,” Ron sputtered.

And my favorite . . .

“I can’t believe we’re sleeping outside,” Tom said intently.

Because if you learn nothing else from this post, remember this:

“Unlike excessive dialogue tags, the Swiftie is nationally recognized as the gold standard of dialog attribution, and will earn you a book deal more quickly than any advice you’ll pick up from Matt de la Peña at an SCBWI Conference, or from anyone, anywhere,” Jeff said. Haltingly.

One night, right before I started drinking heavily and just after I realized my 400-page manuscript wasn’t working, my agent bought me a beer and said, “Maybe this is your process.”

I like my agent, but this reminded me of the time the obstetrician told my 8-month-pregnant wife that—maybe—she shouldn’t have gained so much weight.

I contemplated this devastating news as I stared into my beer.

And then I believe I said something philosophical. Something like: “What. The. [CENSORED]”

I had always assumed my process would be Faustian to other writers. Me, sitting all jovial and shit as I typed sentence after sentence—most of them like they were plucked from heaven. I’d sip from my glass of red wine. Type FIN at the end of page 300. And then I’d spend some time on the veranda, contemplating a Life of Letters.

But writing a 400-page draft? Much of which I wouldn’t use? All because I needed to get to know my characters? My process?

Thank you, but no.

(I wrote another version of that 400-page manuscript. It still didn’t work, but it had little to do with the process, and almost everything to do with having a plot that was generally conducive to head scratching and vows of leaving publishing forever. But I’m over it now. Really.)

And now, as I sit in the unique glow that is pressing send—relinquishing a revision of the new manuscript to Reputable Agent—I want to tell you that I have accepted my process. I want to tell you how that manuscript was an anomaly—a one-time thing that, due to some divine bargaining, will never trouble me again.

And six months ago, I may have told you exactly that.

Because the first draft of this manuscript?

Warp speed.

I felt like one of those writers I always hear about—the entirely annoying ones who know exactly where a story is going, how it will end—as the words poured out of me. The whole time, I thought: “THIS is my process. AWESOME is my process. Faulkner who?”

I dreamed of sending it in—having The Agent read it and e-mail me back, saying something to the effect of, “How did you do this! I have never read a more finely-tuned piece of literature!”

I’d reply, “And a first draft, no less!”

And then we’d laugh. Jovially.

When I finished the draft, I printed it out—even the copy machine sounded like a Handel chorus—and wasted no time. I turned the first page and began to read.

The first paragraph kicked ass—it still does.

The second paragraph was okay.

By the time I was through the first chapter, I was weeping and e-mailing friends about ghost writers.

My process.

I hope you’re not looking for some kind of acceptance. Some grand realization that my process is exactly that—mine and a process. You obviously haven’t been reading this blog for very long, because Hell No. If some writing god could wave a magic wand and grant me an easier way of putting down words, one that involved sparkling first drafts and seven-figure contracts, I’d take it in a second.

But while I wait for some writing god (I’d like to think Hemingway in a tutu with little wings) to come grant me a wish, it seems as though I’m stuck with this foul, slightly fucked-up, writing process.

Is there a lesson here? Only that writing is hard and it makes you sweat blood. But maybe you already knew that.

My favorite writers don’t give a shit. Not about you, or what you think–nope. All that matters is the work. And anything that gets in the way–editors, friends, even wives–is cut away.

So when I started writing, I was going to be the same way. I wouldn’t give a shit either. I would have tattoos and drink bourbon and make people duck for cover. And it goes without saying that my writing would follow suit. I would write authentic, dangerous words. I would be the sort of person Charles Bukowski would look at and say, “That guy needs to calm down.”

But damn it if I didn’t grow up in the Midwest. And damn it if geography didn’t seep into the way I write. Because the devil finds me whenever I get to typing. Starts whispering: What will people think? Wouldn’t it be better if they didn’t say that? Now, you might not believe in the devil, but you have to believe in his work–or, at least, in this. Because if you don’t–if you start worrying–you’ve already begun to fail.

I call it Midwestern Nice and it will ruin your writing. It will make you second guess and tinker. It will speak softly in your ear, telling you it’s okay not to take a chance–You want to be published, right?–and at the end, you probably will have a good book. You may even have a great book.

But will it be true?

I’m becoming more and more concerned with this question. What does it mean to be true? And, if I’m not, can what I’m writing really be genuine? Can it really be good?

Because truth is difficult. It is a mirror in a room of fluorescent lighting. And you can always ignore that room, you can go to the place where you always look good and nothing is ever out of place. But where is the risk in that? And don’t kid yourself: writing is nothing if not a risk. It takes courage to put stuff down on paper, to put it out there with the idea that it can help change and transform.

And while my favorite writers may have looked like they didn’t give a shit, it’s probably more accurate to say that they weren’t afraid. To quote Bukowski one more time, “That is the good fight.”

What Would Bukowski Do?

roll the dice

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.

you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter, its
the only good fight
there is.

- Charles Bukowski

If you’re a writer, and if you’re anything like me, you spend a lot of time in coffee shops. There are few places a writer—especially one with a family—can find a good place to settle in for long chunks of time without being hassled to make purchases or give up his table or otherwise conform to the needs of others. Hell, if we wanted to conform to the needs of others, we’d work at home.

Some coffee shops are quite large. Others are quite small. Some are part of a huge national chain, and others are simple mom-and-pop operations with an eclectic collection of mugs and chairs. Some offer free wifi, and others let writers and other creatives thrive without the threat of Facebook. But there is one thing that all coffee shops must have in common, and that is coffee, which has many great powers. And if I’ve learned one thing as a writer, after spending countless hours in coffee shops and dropping countless nickels and dimes in change pitchers and drinking countless cups of coffee—regular and decaf—and eating countless scones and blueberry muffins and yogurt parfaits and slices of quiche and wraps from a cooler, that one thing is this: eventually, you’re going to have to poop at a coffee shop.

How do we handle this? Here are some tips:

Try not to go at peak hours. After a couple of days at your favorite haunt, you’ll notice waves of customers, typically only three times a day. People tend to line up on the way to work, during lunch, and then after work. If you can time your poop to about 10:30 am or about 3 pm, that’s your best bet to keep coffee shop crowds to a minimum.

If the bathroom has a fan, turn it on and leave it on. No one wants to know you’ve been in there doing your nasty business, so let’s get that odor out of the room as quickly as possible. If the coffee shop has had the foresight to supply a can of deodorizer spray, use it, and if there’s a plug-in deodorizer, many brands have a little dial; turn it up.

Clean it. This is for your own good, so by all means ignore this tip. But I like to keep a collection of cleaning supplies in my laptop bag. I get in there with the rubber gloves and scrub that seat till it’s clean enough to eat off of. If I’m not sure, I try eating a sandwich off it. If it works, then it’s clean enough, and your butt will thank you when it doesn’t develop patches of impetigo.

Clean it again. Have you made a real mess in there, you disgusting wretch? Don’t just wash up and walk out. Clean that thing again. The next person probably doesn’t have the necessary supplies.

Wash up. I’ll never forget the man who used to use the same public bathroom I frequented. This was many years ago in New York, mind you. It went like this, and it happened more than once. He’d visit the urinal, do his thing, and then adjourn. I know lots of guys—and ladies, I expect—don’t always wash after a pee, but the thing with this guy is he would stop for a paper towel to dry his hands, even though he hadn’t visited the sink. So what is on his hands making them wet? Peepee, that’s what, and that’s gross.

Go straight to the counter. This is your last chance to cover your poopy tracks. If you go back to your table empty-handed now, table neighbors will know you’ve been gone for a little while, but haven’t gotten a refill or a snack. They’ll put two and two together and know you’ve been pooping. If you can handle that kind of attention, be my guest. But if you’d rather keep your cover, grab another cookie on the way back. You might even mumble something like, “Wow, long line at the counter right now.”

The most important piece of advice I can give you is this: everybody does it. Sure, most people have the sense to do it before they leave the house because their parents raised them right. But still. It happens. So get in there and poop with gusto. But not too loud, because no one wants to hear that.

There are so many things you do not know.

Power you can’t comprehend.

That’s Jedi Knowledge, dude.

For real.

Laziness was never this much fun.

To learn more, go here.