One of the most important constants I have found in my time as a Polyphony HS editor has been that if the author does not know what they want to write, the final product will turn out poorly. This may seem obvious, but many a piece has come through the submission manager without meeting this criterion. Knowing what you want to write includes knowing what you want to convey to the reader, what your own strengths and weaknesses are, and what type of piece you wish to create. I will quickly focus on the last of these factors.

In my opinion, nearly all pieces of fiction fit along a one dimensional scale. At one end of the scale is “character/setting.” This means a focus on developing complex and realistic characters that can be related to or giving the reader a great feel for a specific geographic region. The highest purpose of this type of piece is simply to use the power of language as a chisel to create a skillful sculpture of words. What the reader may take from that sculpture is secondary. Don Delillo’s “Underworld” is a great example of this type of piece (for those readers of last week’s blog, by the way, “Underworld” is a very strong title). Delillo certainly develops themes, etc., but he is really focused on the language itself and the world he forms.

At the other end of the scale is “philosophy/ideas.” This means a focus on the overarching themes. The piece is trying to be convincing and didactic. The individual pieces are really not as important as the overall concept (which is somewhat ironic, given the following example). Most political writings fall into this category. Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugged” (Amazing title) is a perfect example. The writing is not “pretty” and the characters have one dimension. But you will not read any ten pages of the work without knowing what Rand is trying to say.

There are two caveats to the above points. First, almost all works lie somewhere in the middle of the scale. You should not try to force your piece to one side. Just know where it fits along the scale. Second, it is not necessary to know exactly what your goal is before you begin to write anything. Sometimes just a vague idea will do to get started. By the final draft, however, if you still don’t know the point of what you yourself wrote, it might be time to go back to the drawing board. I speak from experience, both as a reader of work that should have been better directed and as a common traveler myself from the conclusion of a piece back to the drawing board.

A wise English teacher once gave me some good advice about creative writing. He told me that the most important parts of a work are the title, the first line, and the last line. That is what the (casual) reader is going to remember. (If he is right, I am already 2/3 of the way through the most important part of this blog entry.) In this post, I want to focus on the first aspect of that triumvirate: the title.

During my time as an editor at Polyphony, I have encountered many a good work that was encumbered by an unworthy title. In the case of a shorter piece, or one whose meaning is otherwise ambiguous, a lackluster title can even be the difference between a successful overall piece and one that falls short. But what makes a good title? I believe that the power of a title really comes down to two things: its pertinence and its creativity.

A good title should reveal something important about the piece. It is not appropriate to add an abstractly good title to a piece simply because you always wanted to name your story “the son and the moon.” If the exciting/witty title has no discernible connection to the piece, it should not be used no matter how clever. Similarly, it is not advisable to reference a minute aspect of the piece in the title. Just because you think it makes the work should more interesting. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire is a perfect example of a failure to adhere to this rule. “The Goblet of Fire” does sound more intriguing than the correct title of the book (in my opinion, based on how Rowling named all the other books), “The Tri-Wizard Tournament.” Naming the book “The Goblet of Fire” is like naming the first book in the series, “Harry Potter and the Sorting Hat.” The title should apply to the piece in some way, preferably illuminating or highlighting the main idea. (Who is to say how many more books Rowling would have sold had she named them all properly?!)

A good title will not just reference a key portion of the work; it will expand upon it in a surprising or insightful manner. “Treasure Island” is pertinent but does not add much to a reader’s understanding or enjoyment of the piece. We know from reading the book that it has to do with a journey to Treasure Island. The title does not provide a deeper insight or a clever phrasing of what is contained within. Titles that break the second rule can work, but they cannot be great. Shakespeare was a big fan of rule one; not so much of rule two.  “Hamlet” is about, well, Hamlet.  “King Lear” is about King Lear.

From the above, it might appear as though the search for a great title is a hopeless quest. If Rowling and Shakespeare cannot pick a good name, you have to ask yourself, “are there any titles that ARE good?” I am here to tell you that although it is certainly a heady task, great titles have been achieved before. “Infinite Jest”, by David Foster Wallace, is a great title. It works on multiple levels. Most superficially, it refers to one of the main plot points of the novel, the search for the video titled “Infinite Jest.” One level above this, it connects the book itself with the contents of the tape. Furthermore, in an even higher realm outside of the work, it references the incredibly long length of the book and the less-than-conclusive ending at the end of those 1200 pages. “Gravity’s Rainbow,” by Thomas Pynchon, is another great title. It references the importance of missiles in the book itself as well as providing a unique and intelligent metaphorical phrase.

Although I am graduating and will therefore be unable to experience the Polyphony submissions of the coming years, I will continue to read the publication. I am confident that the level of teen writing will only increase from the excellence I have already encountered. I am sorry that I will not be able to witness first hand this improvement in skill and, hopefully, after this post, titling.

Seth Perlman, outgoing Editor-in-Chief

When the social networking site Twitter launched in March of 2006, teenagers received it with a resounding mixture of confusion and dismissal. “What’s the point?” and “I don’t understand it” became the most common response to Twitter-focused conversations in the cafeteria. But beyond the walls of high schools around the world, professionals—musicians, politicians, and actors—signed up to self-promote.

A longtime fan of standard blogging, I found Twitter and fell instantly in love. Many of my peers scoffed at my new toy, and when asked why I “wasted my time” with Twitter, I had no response more eloquent than “because I like it.”

—

Beginning writers take great pride in their individual spaces on the web, whether it is their Facebook page or their Gmail inbox, and I’m not exception. I meticulously plan each of my blog posts, always sure to use proper grammar and appropriate word choice. During my sophomore year, however, between final exams and the Polyphony HS submission deadline, I couldn’t find time to post. I had no new words to give my small virtual following. School had zapped my creativity, like it so often does during the busy months. I didn’t write for weeks.

Even after school let out for the summer, though, I didn’t rediscover my stories or characters. It seemed they had left me, and the emptiness rested, heavy in my chest. Even the arrival of summer camp, the one event I felt positive could change even the worst situation, didn’t help. Disillusionment hung over me until a girl from my cabin asked for my help with one of her stories. The mild surprise I felt at discovering her shared desire to put pen to paper sparked something—a sort of warmth. I approached her story with my hypercritical eye, and that’s all it took. Her words filled the part of my brain that, for months, I had considered dead. I began a list of suggestions for her. I imagined possible subplots for her characters, too, though I didn’t write them down. I felt so in touch with the writer I had been just a few months earlier that I picked up my cell phone and tweeted.

The first tweet was about the look on my cabin-mate’s face when she saw the long list of suggestions in my hand and the red pen marks all over her story. At first, I felt guilty, but as I continued tweeting about it, I found myself becoming more engrossed in the thoughts that may have gone through her head at that moment. I had begun a short story based on her reaction when I realized the power behind those 140-character status updates. Writing begins with casual observations, and Twitter allows people a place to publish them. Each tweet had reinforced my obsession with human emotion, which led to the creation of that short story.

To a non-writer, careful observation may not seem so important, but I pray that other young writers don’t think that way. In elementary school, I always asked visiting authors where they got their story ideas, and the answer was always the same. “Everywhere,” they would say. Then, I considered such an answer a cop-out, assuming they didn’t want to share their secret, but now I understand. My story, which focused on the intricate relationship between stepsiblings, emerged from my cabin-mate’s disappointment. Ideas are everywhere, and taking careful note of the life around me helped me discover that.

—

Back on my feet now, it would be easy to knock Twitter, but I don’t. My friends still say I’m indulging myself, publishing my thoughts on the Internet for an audience of strangers. My friends have asked who reads my tweets, and honestly, I don’t know. I have 71 followers, and I haven’t met most of them. But their anonymity isn’t important—their presence is. Not knowing them allows me to publish my tweets without fear of judgment, and although that was just as essential to my development as a writer as that first tweet in early July, but I won’t dwell on it.

That’s a lesson for another day.

Shelby Brody

@shelbyiswriting

The ability to create a unique and captivating voice is essential. Voice is composed of multiple things: vocabulary, tone, sentence structure, connotation, etc. It’s how your words sound on paper. For example, say you are reading a story written in first person. As you read, you should hear the words in your head as if the narrator were talking aloud. Sometimes, it’s a voice you’ve never heard before, something the author created.

Voice can also be third-person narration. This would be a reflection of the author’s style more than a reflection of the author’s character. Though the two are different, the skill necessary to create either is similar. Every author strives to generate a unique voice. It brings the writing alive.

Creating a voice is tricky. If you hear the narrator’s voice in your mind, it’s easier for the readers to hear it in theirs. You can learn by reading other authors’ works, as well. Some classic examples are J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye and Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

Practice, like with everything else, always helps, so I’m going to give you an assignment of sorts to help you practice developing a voice:

Choose one of the following sentences as a starting point for developing a voice. The piece needn’t be long, just make it a sketch (300 words or so). Look for clues in the sentence’s intonation, word choice and sentence structure to continue the development of the voice.

1.) You simply must understand that I am no imposter.

2.) There ain’t nothin’ more beautiful than a noble deed.

3.) The tender clouds opened, permitting the dazzling sunlight to pour on to my glorious face.

4.) The rain, as it always did, soaked through my clothes and soiled my shoes, mocking me and telling me life could get worse than I thought.

If you’d like to share, feel free to leave it in the comment box. Have fun!

My middle school education was mediocre at best. All students were treated exactly the same. There were no grades, just checks and minuses. The more advanced students did the same work as the least advanced students. I left middle school not knowing what I was good at (or had the potential to be good at), and that was the biggest problem. If I’d known I had potential as a writer, I would have started sooner.

For me, the thought process came before the writing skills. I had always prided myself on my imagination and creativity. This was what initially sparked my interest in writing. When I was twelve, I saw the movie, “Finding Neverland,” about J.M. Barrie, author of the novel, Peter Pan. The film is about the family who inspired Barrie to write the novel, and how he inspired them in return. One of the boys in the family, who Peter was named after, had a huge imagination. Barrie showed him how to put his imaginative thoughts on paper by buying the boy a journal to write down his every idea. After seeing the film, I asked my mom to buy me a fancy journal for my thoughts. Ever since, I’ve kept journals to record concepts for novels, or short stories, that I hoped to eventually write.

I still wasn’t a full-fledged writer at that point. Stories fascinated me – I read more books than I could count – but I wasn’t sold on the act of writing itself until freshmen year of high school.

We had just turned in our first essays of the year; my English teacher posted unclear sentences from each on the board. Our assignment: clarify them. I was immediately able to reorganize them in my head, and was first to raise my hand each time. After about the fifth one or so, my teacher stopped and addressed the class: “Wow. The one thing you guys should know about Rae is that she has tremendous strength as a writer.” This blew me away. In fact, it’s one of my most vivid high school memories; certainly one of my happiest. I had never really known I could write before then. After that, I really got going. I was writing all the time.

Now, instead of doodling in my math notebook, I write. When I’m upset, I write. When I’m happy, I write. Nothing pleases me more than getting an idea and flushing it out on paper. It all plays out so clearly in my mind, kind of like a movie, but so much more personal and internal.

My friends don’t get my obsession with writing, reading, and editing. When I get an idea for a story, I immediately grab my journal and write it down. After I read a great book, I have to tell an English teacher about it. Every creative piece I write, I have my parents and friends read. You can never stop developing as a writer, so I do the best I can to make progress.

The great thing about writing is that it’s accessible. All you need is a pen and paper. You’re in charge of everything you write. And how often are you completely in charge of something

As a writer, it’s very difficult to predict how readers will react to my work. I may think a certain piece is genius, while my parents, friends or teachers think it’s mediocre. Everyone perceives things differently. One reader may love it; another may not.

As an editor, it’s partially my job to predict how Polyphony readers will react to the pieces I’m editing. This definitely factors in when deciding to accept or reject submissions. Therefore, it is also your job to consider how readers might respond to your piece. It’s tricky, I know, but thinking about it will make your compositions much stronger.

Here are three key things to think about so you can get a feel for how readers at Polyphony might respond to your submission.

1.)   Proofreading – There’s no running away from it. When an author doesn’t proofread, we know. Not only does it reflect poorly on their writing, but it also sends a message the author may not want to send: I don’t really care. If you truly care about becoming a part of Polyphony, sharing your work, and being taken seriously as a writer, you proofread. To be honest, it makes our lives a lot easier, too.

2.)   Originality – This relates to just about everything: storyline, format, characters, title, etc.

1. Storyline: This is hard. Just about every story out there was somewhat inspired by another. You can take components of preexisting stories, but always make sure to add your own personal touches. This does not mean taking Twilight and making the vampire into a female, and the human into a male. Creativity is my favorite part of writing. Use it!
2. Format: Not every story needs to be in paragraph format. It’s not aesthetically pleasing. Switch it up! Maybe tell your story through dialogue, interviews, diary entries, letters, anything! The lovely thing about being the author is that it’s your choice. Just make sure your choices have reasons.
3. Characters: If I read about another high school girl who’s really pretty and good at everything, but nice and humble and neglected by the popular girls, I might puke. Have you noticed that this describes the lead character in just about every teenage novel, TV show and movie? Just ask yourself if your characters might actually exist in real life. Complex and unique characters make stories amazing.
4. Title: In many ways, the title represents what the author finds most important and/or interesting about their story. Your title can also impact the reader’s opinion of the piece. In general, it’s something that shouldn’t be overlooked. A mediocre title usually indicates a mediocre story.

Of course, there are more ways to be original than those listed above. For example, cut out clichés! We cringe when we see things like “needle in a haystack,” “two birds with one stone,” “life isn’t fair,” etc. Avoid them at all costs!

3.)   Showing vs. Telling – While commenting on submissions, I often write things like “need more showing.” “Showing” is hard; even advanced writers don’t always nail it. But what exactly is it? We’ll start with telling. Unlike showing, telling is never subtle. It can be equated to describing an attribute: “She has long, curly red hair.” Showing would be depicting that attribute: “Her lustrous crimson locks swayed in the breeze.” See the difference? In general, showing is more active. It isn’t direct description. It’s often metaphorical. Also, showing can be more ambiguous and interpreted in multiple ways, whereas telling often has one meaning. Dialogue can be a good way to show the readers something, but you have to be careful because it can be telling, too. In general, show; don’t tell!

These are the three problems that tend to come up most frequently in submissions. There are others of course, and even if you’ve mastered these three, that certainly doesn’t mean you have mastered the rest. Even the most talented writers are students. They take every opportunity they can to learn to write more effectively, and you should too! Lastly, whenever you write something, have other people read it before finalizing it. The people around you are one of your most effective resources. Use them!

Sunblock

Chicago is known for its biting winters. People save their parking spaces with lawn chairs. Ice lingers in the space between street and sidewalk, stained black with exhaust fumes. Snow falls in April, and I usually don’t mind, perhaps because I’ve lived here my whole life. There does come a time, however, when even I ache for a sunburn. Winter lasts forever in the Midwest. A change of pace wouldn’t kill anyone. Chicagoans would find just as much pleasure in complaining about a sudden shift in weather as they do complaining about the six-month winters, which only proves my theory. A day of 60-degree weather would please everyone, because come Valentine’s Day, most are ready for spring break trips to a tropical island somewhere.

I often receive horrified responses when I admit to enjoying winter. As a writer, I find the season invaluable. In my last post, I admitted to conversing with my characters. Usually, my characters appear to me in dreams or during passing periods, but between the months of November and April, while snow falls in sheets, my walks to school inspire me most. Because when I see a man racing against a blinking stoplight, two daughters in tow, stumbling across the ice, what am I as a writer to do but to invent a plot for him? So, he’s a teacher, unhappy in his job, barely pleased with his marriage. He wants to earn a graduate degree in music composition. He writes concertos while his Shakespeare class takes a pop-quiz. Perhaps it’s an exercise for the literature-obsessed, but without the need for a distraction during a freezing morning walk, I think I would always wait for my characters to find me. Does that make me lazy? Maybe, but my most enduring stories were born that way.

Not all writers feel inclined to do this, however. I like to say that there are two extremes—the character writers and the situation writers. Certainly, someone can fall between these two labels. I do, at least. But situation writers can have just as much luck with the dismal winter months as character writers do. What screams plot more than a car skidding over an icy street into a lamppost or a bank or a person? Nothing. And oftentimes, the best characters arise from graphic situations like the one I just described.

Yes, Chicago winters test the soul, but doesn’t the best art come from suffering? (Don’t worry. I’m half-kidding.)

Only four weeks until spring break.

Shelby Brody, Editor-In-Chief

Tonight, my aunt Janet was reading an article in my high school alumni magazine about my second novel, and she asked me, “How did you come up with the name Avery?” I looked at her, blinking like my younger cousin had just shot me in the eye with a laser pointer, and I said, “That’s his name.” She smiled, and then I said, “I mean, what else was I supposed to call him? That’s his name.”

I take my characters for granted. I treat them like old friends rather than like facets of my imagination. Maybe this comes from spending hours on end with them (in any given week, I talk with my characters more than I talk with my parents), but maybe not. Maybe it comes from the power of characterization, an element of fiction oftentimes abandoned (especially by young writers) in favor of an exhilarating plot.

I have what I like to refer to as a two-track mind. While one half of my brain works to answer questions asked of me by my teachers, the other half is considering various sentence structures that could be used for a certain cliffhanger line in my latest story. While the left side of my brain takes a Chemistry test, the other half is conversing with the male protagonist of my first novel, trying to determine whether he smokes cigarettes or not. While I’m supposedly taking notes in Geometry, I’m slowly turning everyone in my world into a character, and as I’ve learned from experience, writers and their characters have intimate, borderline Utopian relationships with one another.

In my first manuscript, my male protagonist is a twenty-year-old musician named Peter Scott, a dark-haired, outspoken romantic. He possesses every quality of a star-struck high school dropout, almost all of which are revealed throughout the course of the novel, but some of his more telling past experiences are kept quiet. Since first discovering Pete, I’ve spent hours getting to know him, and I oftentimes think that I know him better than I know myself. I certainly know him better than I know even my best friends. Only I am privy to the serious relationship he had with a girl named Melanie before he left his childhood home in Cleveland, Ohio, and I am certainly the only one that knows he lost his virginity to her in a field when he was sixteen, their bodies lit only by the dim headlights of his ancient Volkswagen.

Characters are undoubtedly complex, sometimes as complex as the people I encounter on a daily basis. Each day that I spend with Pete, I learn something new. Every time that I write another chapter from his perspective, I realize that I didn’t know him as well as I thought. It once took me an entire day to discover that Pete didn’t drink his vodka with ice, that he smoked Marlboro lights, and that his romanticism stems from his love of pop music.

Halfway through that day, I told my friend Adrian about my problem.

“I’m ninety percent sure that Pete has a substance abuse problem,” I said, sitting down next to him in the fifth floor hallway.

“Ninety?” he asked.

“Ninety.”

“Well, then why don’t you ask him?”

To write is to play make-believe.

“What?”

“Close your eyes,” he said, “and ask him.”

“Fine.”

And maybe it was my desire to write about someone with an addiction to nicotine. Maybe it was my need to explore problems that I’ve never experienced first-hand. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because Adrian and I were alone in that hallway, and I felt safe with him. So I closed my eyes, and I asked Pete.

And he said yes.

So it came to follow that Pete spent a large quantity of his nights with a bottle of vodka and a pack of cigarettes, and I felt that I truly knew him inside and out. That trick Adrian taught me helped me to better understand character. Once Pete had a definite set of personality traits, it became easy for me to deduce (or to learn by working for hours with him) what alcoholic beverage he preferred (Absolut vodka) or what his favorite color was (blue).

As a writer, I am also a manipulator. I take my characters and unwittingly place them knee-deep in the tide. I say, “Good luck finding your way back.” Once I’ve assigned them their basic characteristics, such as Pete’s impulsive romanticism, they’re on their own. It’s up to them to reach their goal. It remains my belief that once characters have been fleshed out to a certain degree, there is little that we can do as writers to convince them to approach their problems in another way. Once a character has been cast into the surf, there’s not much that we as writers can do but record their journey back. We may watch from the edges of our seats, our nails jammed into our mouths, but we are merely observers by that point. We’re simply along for the ride.

Shelby Brody, Editor-in-Chief

Yesterday, when looking through my bookshelf for inspiration, I stumbled across my Geometry notes. Mind you, I didn’t particularly enjoy Geometry, so my first instinct was to bury the notebook as far under my bed as possible. But then it slipped through my fingers, falling open on my carpet. There, staring me in the face, was the fiction of Geometry past. My characters filled the room before I could stop them, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting on my bed, flipping through the pages like an addict. Hidden underneath the notebook’s red plastic exterior weren’t two-column proofs. Instead, I found stories; plot maps; and perfect first lines.

Clearly, I’ve never been much of a math student.

I used to think that watching my teacher draw coplanar lines was a waste of my time, but as soon as I found that notebook, I realized how valuable the mundanity of high school can be to the adolescent writer. It’s the fuel to our literary fire; it kicks up inspiration into our eyes until the classroom around us disappears and we are left with nothing but our pencils and our ideas. Think about it. Where would teenage writers be without something—a teacher, a subject, a classmate—to complain about?

Exactly.

I turned my own complaints into a young adult novel. After the rejections started pouring in, I began to think of Polyphony HS as a safe haven for virgin writers, because Polyphony HS does something that no other agent, publisher, or literary magazine does—we talk to our authors.

When I was a sophomore, I submitted my own Geometry-inspired writing to Polyphony HS, only to receive a rejection six weeks later. But unlike the form letters I’ve received from publishing companies and agents, the Polyphony HS rejection didn’t sing praise or half-heartedly dismiss my piece. Instead, it gave me constructive criticism from three of my peers that forced me to reexamine my work with a more discerning eye. I’ve kept the suggestions I received for that one piece in mind as I continue to create, and the anonymous editors behind those comments have provided me with a more precise attention to detail.

Polyphony HS is a beautiful magazine (and I’m not even talking about our Tony Fitzpatrick cover art, although I could—trust me). For the adolescent writer, it’s an invaluable resource. It’s a place for each of us to grow, with support and with careful, but constructive criticism from our peers. It changed my writing, and I can only hope that in the year and a half I have left on staff, its message will continue to give courage to those writers too timid to share their Geometry notebooks with the world.

Shelby Brody, Editor-in-Chief