Separability Secrets: Why Subpar Prose Sells & 3 Ways that Helps Your Novels

Stellar prose and bestseller status don't always go hand in hand. This is a major source of chagrin (and possible jealousy) among the thousands of authors we've interacted with over the years. Many of these writers wonder why the hours they've put into honing their syntax aren't translating to manuscript requests from agents or self-publishing success. To be clear: we're not judging the commercial hits, only reflecting on a question we've been asked time and time again: Why does "poor" writing sell?

To us, there's an obvious answer. Readers are less interested in quality at the sentence level than in other story elements. Specifically, these products (and that term is deliberate) deliver value by way of a satisfying reading experience. Finishing these novels makes their genre audiences say "wow" and turns them into rabid fans. Of course, you can restate this observation in many ways. So let's spin something more constructive and apply it to our craft.

The real lesson comes from the fact that readers separate story from writing (prose). For authors, recognizing that separability neatly divides the process of producing a novel into two tasks: developing a story first and putting it into words second. Stated emphatically: authors must have a coherent narrative locked down before they can effectively tell a story. This formula attempts to capture the simultaneity writing involves. Authors invariably work on story development and transmission together. For example, many authors' writing, particularly at the start of a project, is exploratory -- they are discovering the story hidden in their minds. This reality should not obscure what success requires: your polished manuscript effectively tells a fully developed story in words. We advocate using "parallel" writing, working on story and words simultaneously to get from the inchoate beginning to a winning product. The means, first and foremost, actively distinguishing story from telling and setting aside time to work only the former.

Adapting means moving a story from one narrative medium to another, i.e., changing the format. Examples abound. Cinderella and Romeo and Juliet began as folktales or plays and subsequently reappeared as movies, novels, and more. Classic novels, like Wuthering Heights and Frankenstein, manifest in major motion pictures. Other adaptations run further afield. The Witcher and Last of Us started as video games and became TV shows. To be sure, the adapter makes changes to accommodate the format. Reading a 100,000 word novel works as an audiobook but wouldn't sell many movie tickets. Nevertheless, in most versions the story stays the same. Take a look at Shakespeare's play and Zeffirelli's 1968 Romeo and Juliet. Do a Bardsy Minimum Complete Story (MCS) for both to see this truth. Likewise, Herbert's and Villeneuve's Dune tell a nearly identical tale.

A quick caveat: saying that a novel told in 100,000 words shares a story with a film told in 90 minutes to four hours (depending on the producer / director's level of self-indulgence) doesn't imply that novels aren't special. Novels differ from other formats and have special features that authors absolutely should use. First, much more than other media, words' effect depends on imagination. Audiences watch film and television; they're inherently spectative formats. Coherent novels, in contrast, engage the reader's imagination and experience the story, a heavily mental process. Second, novels require sustained investment and reward. Generally, you see a movie or TV show in real time and may discuss a bit afterward. Some key lines and emotions stick with you on occasion. That's it. Readers, in contrast, put relatively enormous time and effort into a novel, spending hours -- often spread over weeks -- with it. Due in part to this investment, they expect a richer experience along with a more profound reward, as well. (For Bardsy, the "theme" heading covers that reward.) Third, novels provide a telepathic access to characters' thoughts. In this vein, we discuss internality in our Publishable Characters guide. This access, deployed properly, elicits vicarious experience and empathy. In comparison, audiovisual media provoke sympathy and reaction. Watch something to see if and why you can determine what a character is thinking at a given moment. Novelists would do well to consider these three differences, and we'll discuss them further another time.

Applying this insight to your writing process is a necessity. There are three immediate takeaways.

The first and most important consequence from our perspective is that you can and should work on your story apart from your writing. Indeed, our foremost tool, the Minimum Complete Story (MCS), depends on pulling your story out of your words (and head) to facilitate and confirm its development. Recall, the MCS is your story told aloud in 90 seconds. Though it sounds easy, this task takes time and effort as it proceeds through four stages: completeness, conciseness, stability and drama. It's an indispensable exercise that you should try at least once.

Our other tools invoke separability, too. For example, the Constitute and Value Delivery Spreadsheet (CVDS) bridges your story and writing, with many benefits. For example, it helps divide your novel into satisfying chapters that leave the reader wanting more. You can ask or look for further details on this point.

If nothing else, this post calls on you to put much more energy into the story as opposed to writing. Conventional wisdom will tell you this, but rarely practices this preaching. Even more rarely does it provide meaningful ways to foster your story's coherence. Remember, selling books depends more on effective storytelling than on beautiful writing as our discussion demonstrates. Poor sales or lack of querying success generally comes from putting time into producing sentences as opposed to storytelling. Thus, every moment spent on your story pays off more than moments spent on writing. Yes, words are necessary, and beautiful writing is its own reward. Past some threshold, however, careful line editing and sentence beautification do nothing for your finances.

Keep in mind that an author has three jobs: storyteller, writer, and promoter. (We won't discuss promotion here.) Of the two, nearly everyone we've talked to and worked with wants to and does focus too much on writing. We regularly meet people who write so intently that telling a story is ignored. They are shocked when readers, in our retelling exercise, don't "get" it. Writing well enough to transmit a story to your audience effectively is sufficient. In other words, excess line editing, while immensely enjoyable, is a luxury; post that slogan somewhere obvious.

Separating story development from transmission has a singular implication for feedback, perhaps the most thought-provoking and ultimately useful. In a nutshell, separability means every bit, large and small, of feedback addresses either the story or its transmission. That's all! Feedback, put another way, can only fall into one of two categories: either the "story needs work" (a development issue) or its "transmission is ineffective" (a storytelling issue). Go through some feedback you've given or received to see this claim's truth. In turn, responding to feedback, improving your novel, requires working on the story or on its transmission.

Take characters, for example. Story concerns would include having fully-identified beings, while transmission covers acting organically in accordance with that identity. In this vein, a beta reader might ask, "Why did they do this?" If you (as an author) know the answer, the story is ok but the writing is lacking. If you don't know the answer, the character itself needs work. So, try to figure out which category the issue falls into whenever you get comments and before you revise.

In general, story issues involve realizing the five elements (character, world, conflict, theme, plot) and how they fit together. Feedback could say the world doesn't serve the plot or the theme is inconsistent, for instance. The MCS or VCDS provide answers to these questions if they address the issue, and may need to change if they don't. Transmission covers sequencing and emphasis, and assumes the story is well-developed. Here, well-developed means the MCS and CVDS have been perfected. For example, I need to know a detail from chapter seven to understand a choice in chapter three. Or, I didn't get the point of this scene as in "what's chapter twelve's point?" The hero discovered something about themselves, you answer. But the reader didn't get it, perhaps it was buried or underemphasized. Transmission covers the paradox that cutting a story into a novel's chapters entails, as well. Why? Because effective chapters satisfy your readers yet leave the reader wanting more, so they call for dividing up the story rather than making changes. Once again, these issues are easier to correct if you know the story well.

Bottom line: your novel is a story in words. Therefore, you need two things to sell books: a good story and effective telling. Thinking about writing in this way reframes your tool use, your effort allocation and how you respond to feedback.