Darin Strauss, author of More Than It Hurts You, recently blogged for Powells.com about the future of literature and — in this post — the rules of writing.

July 11, 2008:
Notes on Narrative

I know what makes a good narrative, Martin Amis once said: pattern and balance, form, completion, commensurateness. I don't have Amis's aphoristic gift; what follows is a much longer meditation on fiction writing, on how best to arrive at that commensurateness.

I know what you think of rules. And I know what happens when a writer follows rules disqualifyingly, or grindingly without hesitation. I think it's helpful, however, to have things made clear in this way. And so, though this will be a VERY long post for a blog, I thought I might as well end my week here by sharing all that I know about writing — every last bit of it. I thought a craft discussion might be helpful for aspiring writers; I know I could have used such a resource when I was starting out. (A lot of what follows comes from the teachings of Douglas Glover and Lee K. Abbott, two of the best professors I ever had, wonderful writers, too.)

All the same, you may find much of what follows to be nothing more than common sense. But think of it as a pleasant, country-weekend drive right into the center of a fellow writer's professional advice.

(And if rules exist in large part to be flouted — and they do — you should do so only if you can make a compelling argument about why and when it's best to ignore them. Try to think of writing in strategic terms; each decision needs to make tactical sense. You can't win an argument about why it's best to break these rules, in any specific case, without knowing the rules in the first place.)

Read the rest of Strauss's post — plus daily guest bloggers and Book News, Read It Before They Screen It, and more — all on our blog!

Once upon a time a bookstore cat from Portland visited her cousins, 20 miles east of the city, in Boring.

She left behind the booksellers, the readers, and her friends — for the first time in ages, even left behind Bear — when for years she'd never imagined a life without them.

So, how was it possible that just a week and 20 miles gone, she'd started one? And how was she only seeing this clearly now?

The Lab stopped nervously stomping. Fup was no threat.

"Kit?" Fup asked, as if her cousin's name were a question. As if it contained every question she needed to ask.

The dog didn't wait for Kit's answer. He bolted — lowered his shoulder, plowed through the door, and raced into the yard.

"What have I done?" Fup said then.

Kit misunderstood. "Nothing," he swore. "The dog was just about to leave. Really."

"I have to go back there."

Again Kit didn't follow. "Where, back?" he asked, but Fup had already turned to go.

Fup took one step and another, to the threshold of the yard, where light flooded the entry. There on the edge of grass, she nearly tripped over herself stopping. Kit and Fup saw it together: The Doberman blocked their way.