Why I Quit Writing Fiction: A Rant

Before I go any further, let me get the obligatory disclaimers out of the way and over with: By any measure of notability, I have no business writing this article; I am, after all, not a best-selling author, nor have achieved any form of public success within the realm of writing fiction. I have never published a single novel, nor earned professional rates for any fictional work I have crafted. I write this piece not coming from a position of any sort of authority or controlling interest in matters of fiction-writing, but as an amateur, hobbyist, passing-interest penman. The following is merely an expression of a feeling, a reaction, and may contain flaws in argument, misplaced metaphors, seeming contradictions, and a veritable plethora of other marked mis-steps in the discipline of verbal expression. This is an exercise in venting, in ranting, and is to be taken lightly, with grains of salt, and in the spirit of entertainment or commiseration.

My second warning: Twilight fans, your beloved story serves as the grand punchline to this expulsion.

One last warning: Although I myself will refrain from swearing in this wordy whine, I will be linking to articles by writers that will not be practicing such restraint, along with references to adult romance literature, and perhaps some humorous Harry Potter-related innuendo sightings.

Here is some background. I figured I would give you the option: Read if you really want the whole context behind where this is coming from, but otherwise, on with the rant.

If you know me well enough, you know that it has been a “dream” of mine to someday publish a novel. Aside from experimental formats for other storylines, I have for years known the basics of the science-fiction story I wanted to eventually novelize. This aspiration was never something I staked too much significance on; somewhat obviously, I have not passionately pursued its possibility, nor truly lamented its to-date lack of fruition. It has always been a pleasant little hope, though, and one that I had thought was actually somewhat attainable for me.

However, this is not so. I have a long way to go and a lot to learn before I could be considered a halfway competent fiction writer, much less a novelist, but even if I took the time to master the nuanced strictures of the form, I believe I still could not in good conscience bother with the traditional publishing process. Why is it that I would feel so strongly, on principle, against fulfilling what had been a deep desire of mine? The basis of this paradigm shift lies in one small, otherwise insignificant element of fiction writing.

The issue is dialogue attributions.

Now, to those “in the know,” you may be rolling your eyes and believe you know where this complaint is going, that I am some misguided novice (beginner as though I am) that will be decrying the simple hypocrisy of the standard attributions held against the mantra of avoiding awkward redundancies. To those who feel such, I promise you, this will delve a little deeper into the idea, beyond the usual wheezing from tired too-creative would-be re-inventors of the novel form.

To those of you who are not familiar with dialogue attributions, attributions are basically those couple words after a line of dialogue that denote the speaker. “If I write a line of speech between quotation marks, then what follows is the attribution,” he said. In this case, “he said” is the attribution. This is a simple enough concept.

For years, I was rather creative with my attributions; or, at least, so I thought. My characters sometimes said their statements, but they would also scream, hiss, whisper, yell, bellow, roar, confess, cry out, pant, grunt, grumble, and sputter their various vociferations and vocalizations.

Since one of the basic tenets of creative writing is to avoid awkward redundancies, to avoid overusing the same word in a paragraph or even story altogether, I naturally assumed that avoiding “said” was a triumph whenever I was able to manage.

How wrong I was!

I first discovered this truth, my wrongness, when one of my stories was critiqued and my poor dialogue attributions were pointed out. I balked at the suggestion that I should always use “said.”

Yet, actually, it is a literary standard that “said” be used, almost exclusively, as the definitive attribution. Some simple Google searching will confirm this fact: This article suggests using “he said” almost exclusively; in this piece, using anything other than “said” is said to be a “sneaky” tactic; this work, in mock condescension, assures doubters that “said” is all right; this submission asserts (says?) that avoiding “said” is a problem encountered by new writers; in this somewhat salty entry, the use of “fancy” attributions is regarded as solely the mark of romance novels; here is a discussion thread regarding the debate; in this well-crafted defense of the traditional standard, use of “said” is likened to use of a period or comma; this blogger colorfully invites comments on alternate attributives; in this humble offering, “said” is confirmed as the standard attribution as a basic rule; and, finally, in this top-ten list of writing tips, item #3 is “Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue.”

At this point in my writing life, fiction was already growing further away from my heart anyway, as I had discovered that writing non-fiction web copy was far more lucrative and even, eventually, enjoyable. But that write-a-novel fantasy persisted, so I still found the whole attributive discussion intriguing. I freely admit that, yes, at first I was very confused, and did not understand why using the same word over and over and over and over and over and over would be encouraged, even embraced, by the Standards of Fiction. I may have even felt a little hurt at my simpleton bubble of belief being popped, at having thought that I was doing such an oh-so-great job by being gosh-so-creative at varying my attributions.

I would come to understand. Even in just reading the links I posted in that previous paragraph, you can certainly see how such a belief (that is, “said” being the unquestionably definitive attribution) is sound and reasonable. After all, the overarching mantra of “show, don't tell” perhaps does trump over “avoid awkward redundancies.” Good writers should be able to express how the dialogue is delivered by other context. Also, the word “said” is usually naturally glossed over by the reader, thus being the unobtrusive choice for attributing dialogue, allowing a more immersive reading experience.

After such research, I came to think I could be at peace with such an odd, initially hypocritical-sounding practice. I even thought, heck, I can adjust to this new knowledge, just as I had to grow accustomed to other stylistic leanings in my web copy practices. Someday, I might even be able to write that novel, and have a traditional publisher take me seriously, all thanks to my proper use of the standard “said” dialogue attributive. Hey, a whole new wave of optimistic and positive acceptance was overcoming me, replacing my prior hesitation to resolve this apparent conflict in my principles.

... but then I discovered something.

You see, I work for a retreat center. This is a place where, among other services offered, groups can arrive and enjoy a relaxing respite from the hectic pace of everyday life, whether in rustic cabins or hotel-style accommodations. In the office, we maintain a lost and found area, and are contractually obligated to keep the items on hand for 30 days. Although we have had many happy returns of digital cameras, cell phones, chargers, favorite hoodie sweatshirts, and other items, once those 30 days are over the objects are typically donated to another organization.

Once upon a time, I noticed the first Twilight book among the lost and found detritus. Once the 30 days were over, I took it. Shameless, I know. I still have never really read it, despite repeated skims, requests, and the necessary once-over if I am to continue insulting it. Coincidentally enough, a year later someone left another Twilight saga paperback, this time New Moon. Again, I have yet to read it in the meaningful sense.

But upon ruminating over the whole proper-attributive overwrought nonsense, I was curious:

Does Stephanie Meyer, the most successful fiction author in recent history, utilize “said” as her universal dialogue attribution?

I had two of her books. All I had to do was pick one up, turn to a random page until I found one with multiple character exchanges, and discover if the most phenomenally successful writer of our current era bothers to heed the authoritarian strictures of the fiction form.

I opened to page 502 of New Moon.

“Oh, crap,” I croaked. “I'm dead, right?” I moaned. “Then why am I not waking up?” I challenged. “And Reneé and Jake...” I trailed off.

These are among the attributions I read. To quote a line from page 503, “How strange,” I mused.

Do I need to connect the dots for you? Do I need to explain how potentially ridiculous it is that I have been discouraged from writing fiction further because of my failure to blindly accept the old rules, yet the most wildly popular scribe of this generation pays no attention to them? Do I need to point out how incredulously absurd this is?

No, I do not. I trust that you are quite able to find your own conclusions, whether in implied agreement (I am not even sure what my own conclusion is) or not. I am sure that I am not the first person to notice this unusual concurrence, but my reaction remains.

I will not try and tie this disconnection into the publishing world's already-existing issues of content delivery technology acceptance, the ever-shifting mores of digital content consumption, the rising questions of how a glut in contributors will be reimbursed for over-inundating a decreased demand, etc. I will not bemoan my destiny as literary history's great lost opportunity, nor pretend that I had any better chance than anyone else of publishing that novel.

But I will say this: I am breaking up with you, Fiction. I may enjoy what you have to offer, but I will no longer abide contributing to your body. You are an insufferably conflicted beast that is beginning to smell rotten. Your once-warm welcome is now dead to me. Could I continue learning and re-learning your ways until finding success within your domain? Could I stop ranting and start working harder to ensure capturing future success with you? Does posting this rant reveal an immature position and unfounded opinion that also reveals a lack of persistence in quitting on a goal that was supposedly important to me just because of an inconsistency in mere rules? Perhaps.

Then again, screw you, Fiction. I quit.