Originally Posted by jaxx6166
No, I don't think you do either. Especially in the digital age where there's no worry about lost costs for printing smaller word counts. As long as everything is wrapped up in a tight little bow and reads the way it should read, then you've done your job. Now, if you've written a 40k romance story with no romance then you've got an issue. I love walking through B/N and checkin out their old western section. Most of the stuff there is no more than 2" thick. Makes me smile, but I think there's a bunch that would be turned off by it. Especially if it's not children or YA. Hell, some of my YA fantasy is larger than my big boy books.
And THAT I don't understand.
I've always had trouble producing something more than 80k. I think I peak at around 65k. It's a perfect length for me. Anything more and I start to dread writing it. I've been more of an "in-the-moment" guy lately. And I'm still shocked when I load it into my 505 or Kindle and it checks in at around 250 ++ pages.
Wasn't it elmore leonard that said "Don't write the boring stuff." or something like that.
I think it was Elmore and he also said 'Don't start with the weather'
I'm actually wondering if we're not approaching a new pulp age, where shorter novels will be much more palatable to the burgeoning audiences who are coming from YA into adult fiction. I read a lot of Westerns when I was young, specifically Max Brand (the greatest pulp writer of all time) and the one thing they did well was just keep the action flowing. They didn't stop until the story stopped. That, to me, is the purest of Pulp fiction. Not just that you keep turning the pages, anybody can make you do that, even Dan Brown, but that the story won't let you go. The characters, like Speedy my all time favourite Max Brand character. I can still see that character now twenty-five years after I first read him. Sitting 'neath a tree, chomping on apples.
Here's a bit from Lebanon Red, while we're talking Westens
Lebanon's deep black eyes stared into the sleeping dark beyond the archway.
Heads or tails, night or day, evil or good...it was fifty-fifty when it came to what was waiting for him in the dark and what fate befell that creature.
Slow, he reached for the silver tipped hunting knife sheathed at the small of his back. The worn leather of the handle felt good, right in his grip. Not just good, this was more than that. His fate was etched into that handle. An inverted pentagram that matched the charred flesh upon his palm like a key fit a lock.