How Not to Write a Novel: 200 Classic Mistakes and How to Avoid Them–A Misstep-by-Misstep Guide by Howard Mittelmark
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
“Why would you read a book about how not to do something?” he asked quizzically, his eyebrows knitting together like two large black caterpillars intent on copulation.
“I don’t trust myself. I never have!” I sobbed sadly. “If I don’t have someone telling me what not to write, surely I will write it!”
“You sound just like my Uncle Norman the unpublished novelist!” he said ruefully.
“I’m drawn to cliches but try to avoid them like the plague,” I explained earnestly. “I’ve told myself a million times to never use hyperbole when creating characters but I never learn. But this book–How Not to Write a Novel–has been like manna from Heaven when it comes to what not to write.”
“Tell me more!” he exhorted.
I began counting on my fingers in order to visually illustrate my points. It was a technique I learned in college and have used throughout the long, lonely years since then, often counting out the days of relentless rain, when everything is as gray as the embers that once sparked inside me, beaten down into dust by the burden of living in a heartless and unfeeling world. I took a sip of my Pepsi Cola that I purchased in a six pack at WalMart, then continued. “The book shows you how to write unbelievable characters, how to change tense in whimsical, nay, unpredictable ways, how to insult your reader with strident or weird positions you hold that are expressed by the people populating your story, and how to write unconvincingly about things you love to talk about but have little to no knowledge of. It wraps up with examples of the worst query letters and pitches you could possibly compose, anything likely to turn away an editor or agent forever.”
“Wow!” he blurted.
“So I just do the opposite of everything and walla–yes, walla!–I’ve written a surefire bestseller!” I smiled broadly, my grin an irrepressible rictus.
“Wow!” he shouted again, spittle flying from his mouth like a jet taking off from an aircraft carrier. “This book sounds great. How would you rate it?”
“Hmm,” I puzzled. “On a scale of one to ten failed writers living on dirt and gum, I rate it a solid eight failed writers.”
His face suddenly caved in, like a cave where the top part collapses onto the floor. “Eight out of ten? So there is room for improvement?”
“There’s always room for improvement,” I said sagely. “Now I must get back to my epic tale, All the Shades of Grey The Light Cannot See Games.”
