Mastering Introductions of Story Characters

If you’ve got a James Bond story, feel free to use James Bond as he is. The same goes for Ferris Bueller, who doesn’t change, doesn’t face serious stakes, and doesn’t make us fret about his well-being. With the right action, humor, or mystery, flat characters (usually satisfying wish fulfillment or intellectual curiosity) are just fine.

However, generally people are carried along in a story because they care about the characters. (This is especially true for a TV series.) We want to worry about characters, particularly viewpoint characters. I’d argue that we even take more delight in villains we can care about.

The easiest way to do this is to make characters likable. We identify with protagonists who have special talents, are wronged, or are funny (according to Damon Knight). We want them to win. Even more, we get emotionally involved when they lose.

It’s best if readers/audiences actually see what they are supposed to appreciate. From the first story, Holmes shows how he uses keen observation to identify facts and figure out what other people miss. Harry Potter left as an unwelcome orphan who sleeps in a closet under the stairs. Chaplin’s Little Tramp debuts with dressed strangely, with a funny mustache, twirling a cane and shuffling along with an awkward gait.

While likable characters create empathy, they don’t need to be likable for us to care about them. If their cause is great and one we believe in, we may root for them even if we would never want to meet them. I have a hard time liking Patton, but I want the Nazis defeated. Or they can be relatively good. Michael Corleone may be inhuman at times, but he’s better than the other mobsters in The Godfather.

Mastery of Story Characters 1 - Know how to create empathy for characters.

Practice: In most cases, humor comes from clowns. They are nonthreatening, and, often, readers and audiences see them in an inferior position. Usually, they have an obsession. The first appearance of the Little Tramp has him driven to get attention. Journalists are filming a soap box derby, and he keeps photo-bombing them. (That’s pretty much the whole story, but it created a career.) He’s a little guy who keeps trying, despite being driven away by larger men and facing the hazard of zooming derby cars. So create a character who is believable and faces risks repeatedly for a disproportionately small reward.

Talent is easy: A beauty. An athlete. A great artist. 

Try these to make your character stand out. Put the character in motion (and show the great achievement isn’t easy, if you want an internal trait). Add a quirk, like Rocky Balboa being a lefty. See if you can describe the character using a metaphor (which says more than mentioning physical features).

As for being wronged, begin with one of your own experiences of betrayal or abuse or being left out. Write that out. Then put it in terms that fit you story and the protagonist.

Above, I mentioned how the Little Tramp was introduced. He stood out. He looked on. He took a lot of camera time. There was no question about his being part of the race in any way.

The first line spoken can be powerful, too. James Bond literally introduces himself the first time the camera shows him, but it need not be so explicit. Much more revealing were Patton’s first words. "Be seated. Now, I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country." (Even before he speaks, the visuals tell you who he was and why you should pay attention to him.)

The first they they do or we see done to them matters. In Once Upon a Time in the West, Charles Bronson's character, Harmonica, plays a tune, drops his bag, and shoots three gunslingers before they get off a single shot. In Sunset Boulevard, our first view of Joe Gillis is him floating dead in a pool.
Of course, Hitchcock’s Vertigo uses setting, action, reaction, and horror to present the protagonist's titular weakness. Talk about a master.

The main thing to accomplish is to get the readers or audience to really notice a character (and this goes for more than the protagonists).

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid is an essay on introducing a character (Sundance). None of the lessons should be lost, but one choice William Goldman included had to do was all about introducing Paul Newman’s unknown co-star. Just putting him first and letting the camera linger on him (less obvious than the talk and action) was critical.

And other characters? Ocean’s Eleven introduced the bulk of the heist’s participants in just a few minutes. They are physically distinctive, tied to actions and mannerisms, and capable in different ways.

Mastery of Story Characters 2 - Introduce characters with pizzaz.

Practice: Looking through stories you’ve written, see if you can create great first lines for them. Or actions they take when they first appear that tell a lot about them or the story. Or begin with an unfair situation that sets things up. (Branded didn’t make it as a TV show, but it does this well.)

This skill is critical. People go on a  journey with the protagonist, which is dedicated time. They can’t be allowed to confuse other characters. So the job becomes more than avoiding cliches. Having lots of options. Reworking and revising after the whole piece is finished. And getting the slightest pieces right. These matter.

Sergio Leone is so good at this the very beginning  of Once Upon a Time in the West is profligate in its introductions. He shows us three compelling characters and, with two, even creates silent movies about them that are revealing and intriguing. But none of these characters makes it to minute ten of the film.

When you get people to pay attention and not forget, the characters are memorable. This can be done in big ways, where you create a classic protagonist like Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. Or in small ways, where a character gets attention in act one, is forgotten in act two, and plays a critical role (assassin, savior) in act three. Whole TV series have come from one bravado performance in a film or as a guest in an episode. And, with all the star talent of Glengarry Glen Ross, Alec Baldwin steals the show with his (highly) profane and memorable speech about closing sales.

The classic way to get something (or someone) stuck in someone’s mind is repetition, and this works in stories, not just ads. Often authors achieve this through tics, tags, and attributes, including catch phrases. A more sophisticated and engaging form of repetition is an action or statement (often a brag) that escalates. This can really work well in humor.

Mastery of Story Characters 3 - Make your characters memorable.

Practice: Take two characters and make them as different at possible. Chances are, unless they become stock characters (like the whore with the heart of gold), they’ll become more distinctive. A more subtle exercise is to differentiate people who are all of the same class, age, and ethnicity. For these, flaws and idiosyncrasies that reveal the inner person are worth trying. If you have a story like this, try giving each character one of the Seven Deadly Sins.

Think of a brag one your your characters might make that could not go unnoticed. Once you have that, come up with elaborations that go to absurdity. Then see if you can do something like that for an action that could be repeated. (In The Honeymooners, Art Carney, as Norton, could make making a list into an elaborate production.)

Once characters are on stage, people need to know more about them and fit them into the story. That’s what the next post will be about.

(Even More) Mastering Story Concept Development

I can appreciate stillness. I can appreciate quiet. In a world of distractions and disruptions, the unchanging and peaceful is refreshing. Stories may draw from the deep wells of meditation and calm, but they depend upon the dynamic for expression. Difficult choices. Conflict. Action.

Very often, stories are prompted by that which is intriguing, but inanimate. Imagining an oversized pearl may be interesting just because we are startled by the unusually large and the usually small. But it’s not enough. In "The Pearl," John Steinbeck chose to put such a pearl into the hands of a poor man beset by greedy people to create his classic tale.

An unchanging person may also inspire a story. Dickens heard about and extremely stingy and avaricious man (John Elwes) who never reformed, but it was his genius that created Scrooge, a man who learned to be generous.

Too many writers are mesmerized by what essentially are story prompts. I have nothing against having a focus for meditation or a subject for a still life painting, but stories are different. Exploring change (the bigger the better) is a good starting point for moving from prompt to story. Setting two well-matched characters against each other or having a character face an impossible dilemma or creating a society in turmoil with unpredictable power shifts can grow the seed of an idea into an epic.

Analyses, a slice of life fiction, and poems that create moods have value. But readers of stories bring expectations. They want to journey, not just a setting. They are looking for characters to change things or be changed. So, as fascinating as an idea might be, stories require action.

Master of Story Concept Development 6 - Formulate true dilemmas for characters and put characters in competition and power struggles. Don’t make the playing field level.

Practice:  If you don’t already have an idea, start with a prompt. You can find one online. (I’ll take the bell that my family used to call the children in from play.) Take the prompt and find two horrible choices to explore.

It’s dinner time. A parent holds the bell, but doesn’t ring it right away. His daughter is facing off with a girl who bullies her. Standing up to her. But is she out of control? Or in danger? A ring of the bell can end the situation, but may destroy the one chance to end the bullying with a life lesson learned. Or it may allow violence and real injury.

Find a point of competition for the prompt.

Two siblings, now grown, are cleaning out the house after mom has moved into assisted living. They both treasure the days of hearing that bell. One wants to have it to ring her own children home. The other has no children and sees the bell as her only touch point to that phase of life. Those reasons seem vital to them, and make them deserve the bell. Each believes she were promised the bell by their dad. Checking with mom could create distress, even a family rift. Flip a coin? Just grab the bell and make off with it? Destroy the bell so the sibling can’t have it? Create a challenge, and may the best daughter win?

Invent a larger power struggle.

When Mrs. Ackers rang the bell all the kids on the block went home for the evening. It became the symbol of respect and power in the community. A whole generation responded to her, the bell ringer, as the mom of moms. She was consulted for decades regarding everything: meals, dating, parties, and even the settling of disagreements. A generation grew up, and Mrs Ackers became the grandma of grandmas. The bell did not lose its power. The kids of the kids on the block responded to it. Now it has gone silent. Mrs. Ackers has passed and the bell has been left for the local minister, who didn’t grow up in the neighborhood, to dispose of. Every neighbor wants that bell. The hierarchy of the block and, in many ways, its future, depend on who gets the bell.

Any of these conflicts could (and should) be pushed further. Learning to play with prompts to discover action can open up fresh stories and move past the obvious. (It can also be a lot of fun.)

Often, a goal, especially a worthy goal (one that demands sacrifice), suggests obstacles, and its loss alone creates a tragic ending. For a love story, not getting the object of affection is so wrong, it’s essentially forbidden in the genre. But why is the goal vital? Often, in an ambitious love story, more than a fantasy man or woman is at stake. Something within the protagonist is revealed to be important. A need to throw off pride and be vulnerable to another person. A need to go risk expulsion by going against society norms (like wealth) or culture (like religion) to become the person he or she is destined to be. Or a need to admit a deception and face the truth (which is the basis of romantic comedies). Raising stakes so that more strength, more courage, is required adds to a story.

But sometimes the initial goal sets up for something bigger. With bigger stakes. Luke Skywalker just wants to get off Tatooine and become a pilot at first. He’s not really after the Death Star until further into the story. And that catapults the stakes into new territory. More interesting territory. And it puts everyone he loves in jeopardy.

Master of Story Concept Development 7 - Raise the stakes and make the consequences more dire.

Practice: The starting point is actually writing down what the protagonist has at risk. A great place to start is to look at Maslow’s hierarchy. Where do current stakes fit? In one class, I have students classify which levels reflect story risks. Then I have them explore which other needs (closer to survival) might be put in jeopardy. (In general, the lower the level, the more visceral the need, the more readers worry. Though any risk can be deepened. And risks associated with identity can trump life and death with the right presentation.)

Once stakes are delineated, exaggeration comes in handy. Make them worse to a ridiculous extent. Get operatic. Make the consequences uncomfortable, for your characters and to you. Then see if you can go even further. I like to score stakes on a scale of one to WTF? Some great stuff may be on the other side of the absurd.

Or not.

Comedy often depends on silly goals with minor stakes. We stand in a superior position and marvel at the lengths characters will go to because they are obsessed or have distorted views. (Couldn’t Wile E. Coyote find another meal? Or spend his Acme money at a nice restaurant? Would it have mattered if Pee-wee never got his bicycle back in Pee-wee’s Big Adventure?)

There is also merit in the small and the simple when they are handled with care. A dying woman I knew asked her husband to get her watermelon in the middle of winter. This was in the 1980s, and it was an almost impossible task. But it meant everything to her husband that he fulfill her last wish. Was it a proof of love? Was it her, reaching out, giving him a way to manage his heartbreak? Both, I think. The watermelon was a simple goal. It was not life-saving serum, so the actual consequences of failure, from a physical standpoint, were minimal. Emotion -- and that life moment -- were everything. (He got the watermelon. She thanked him for it. She didn’t eat it.)

(More) Mastering Story Concept Development

I carry a lot around in my head. Anecdotes, images, facts, quotes, tiny clips of people walking and gesticulating, odors, traumas, weird juxtapositions, and much more. Because of this, my research habits are different from most. I never searched for a quote for any of the many speeches I wrote. I’ve rarely stopped writing get grab number or consult a map or find an old photograph. Sometimes I consult a thesaurus, but not often. And, for my second novel, I read a pile of books before I wrote the first sentence.

So it may be surprising to find out that every draft I call finished has been deeply researched. This isn’t just because I don’t want to get anything wrong (especially with nonfiction, where I tend to look for multiple reliable sources). It’s because, once I have something working on paper, research is a delight, creating new possibilities and freshening the revision process.

I research later because the story that pours out of me is more authentic if I’m not squeezing in details that haven’t had time to age and find connections in my brain. I have more questions after a first draft. It’s more fun for me. And I don’t mind having to start all over because I got something “wrong.”

Most people research first, but I think I get the same benefits by holding back. Accuracy and connections. The delight of finding something surprising or intriguing. Reasons to dig deeper, exposing unexpected insights.

Most writers are curious, so research is a delight for them. So much so, that the main complaint from them is that research becomes too distracting. I’ve always felt a little sorry for those who, like Michener, needed to have a staff of researchers to keep the bestsellers coming.  

Master of Story Concept Development 4 - Approach research in ways that clarify and deepen ideas, the characters, and the story world.

Practice: From your story concept, generate a list of full-sentence questions (at least 10). Collect the answers. Try to find at least two answers that don’t fit (because of disagreements among scholars or ways they challenge the prevailing culture or perspective). Then take something suggested by the concept that you “know” and find something new and surprising. (This is especially valuable if you write contemporary mimetic fiction like romances because it means pushing past assumptions.)

I remember pitcher Jim Abbott not because he was the best of his generation (his career record was 87-108), but because he played in the Majors for ten years despite having only one hand. David and Goliath would not work if David had been a big, trained soldier, the best the Israelites had to offer. Usually, the protagonist needs to be the underdog (relative to the story problem). And the further down they are, the better. Many stories fail because the main character has too much power. Specifically, power that can be accessed to solve the problem. I remember a play a friend wrote were a poor person needed money. But he was also the favorite of a rich uncle… so the answer was never far away.

Unlikely heroes create a lot of their stories because their weakness must be overcome. The biggest challenges they face are clear and create questions and expectations. This can expose concepts that lack complexity. If the question for Abbott is “how did he manage to bat?” the answer was he didn’t have to. (He played in the American League, where pitchers rarely bat.) More challenging was, how could he field a hit ball? The answer was he had a glove tucked under his right arm, and he was quick to retrieve it. The most delightful question was how he handled bunts, which left balls close, but not very, to him. The answer, in how he surged forward and shot the ball over to first base was a reason to watch fools try to beat him that way.

David, of course, had a secret weapon, God on his side, and deadly aim. Poor Goliath, like the Death Star in Star Wars, had one vulnerable spot.

Protagonists are invaluable to developing story concepts and even suggesting specific scenes. The other characters in a story (beginning with the antagonist) can flesh the story out further. Their failures may show what won’t work (both in terms of action and in human terms, e.g., values and temperament). If beauty is part of the story, including allies with more and less beauty can illuminate that part. Consider wealth, education, empathy, charm, and whatever might create a range of options relative to the story question and use supporting characters and the antagonist to show what might happen or to deepen the complexity.

Master of Story Concept Development 5 - Select a cast of characters that cover the waterfront of concept possibilities in ways that have potential for conflict, surprise, and insight.

Practice: Start with the protagonist and create potential ones with attributes that reflect the main challenge. Explore enough of them to get surprised. Then consider a character who is opposite in at least one way. This may be the antagonist. Then consider what this developing concept implies and consider a range of characters best for what must happen in the story and what might happen in the story. Make them as different as possible. Consider which one might be toughest to see die… or betray the protagonist.

Okay. This is getting longer than expected. I’ll finish the list of Concept Development Essentials next week.

Mastering Story Concept Development

I love it when ideas smash together. Across my writing, the stories that mean the most to me came from those collisions.

Sometimes things came together with middle-of-the-night moments that led me to grab a pencil and scribble. (I learned to get these miracles on paper in full sentences without turning on a light.) Or I might have been humming a tune while washing dishes when the eureka moment happened. (Over half the time, the lyrics to the tune were related in some way. My subconscious is funny that way.)

Most often, the combination has not come from luck or the action of the muse. Harlan Ellison was the first to tell me to make lists of 20 (animals, cars, minerals, etc.) to escape the obvious. I hang onto these as categories amuse me (cognitive errors, arboreal primates, silent movie stars), and, when the muse does not show up and an idea is still nagging at me, I’ll look at these lists. And connections get made.

Does this result is a rich concept? No. It gives me a nice start to building a concept. Maybe.

Other starts come from dreams (which are vivid and raise questions). Or wondering about why another writer did so little with a concept. Or a lyric that gets stuck in my head and takes on a perverse, unintended meaning. Many times I've had a title pop into my head, written it down, and figured out the concept later on.

Basic concepts take ideas a step further. It may be that a character attaches to an idea. Or an idea feels stupid until the perspective changes. Of my anger at a news story blossoms into solutions.

Danny Simon said writers walk around with modeling clay in their hands. We mash, twist, and massage the lump until we look down and see we have an elephant. An elephant! That’s useful.

So the first step, whether it comes from dreams or collisions, or an emotional experience that won’t go away, is getting that elephant.

You can’t rely on the muse for this. You have to have a toolbox full of ways to generate concepts. For some people, it’s a high concept exercise of putting a known success in a fresh place. Die Hard in a plane (Air Force One). High Noon in space (Outland). Romeo and Juliet in the West Side (West Side Story).

Other people may get concepts by taking an idea further. When Philip K. Dick wrote “We Can Remember It for You Wholesale,” it led to what became Total Recall. But the concept of erasing memories was richer than that, and I strongly suspect that a much better film, The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, emerged from a deeper contemplation of how, when memories are erased, so is learning and growth.

Sometimes, an idea is pushed into a different time, which is how Jane Austen’s Emma became Clueless and how The Tempest became Forbidden Planet.

So…
Master of Story Concept Development 1 - Have at least one go-to tool for turning an idea you like into a basic concept. Play with it. Practice it. Use it to create prototypes. (I like to write flash fiction stories based on these, but treatments and other short works count, too.)

Practice: Use your tool for creating basic story concepts for stories you’ll never write. In fact, create ten for every one you even attempt in a shorter form. The point is to be able to get your imagination to take on almost any topic that catches your attention and turn it into something. Get to the point where you could do this as an improv act. Or slam poetry. If you can’t produce a full page after coming up with a basic concept within twenty minutes, you haven’t mastered this. (It does not need to be a good page or one you’d pursue, but it has to be worthy of the concept.)

Once you have a basic concept, and it looks like it could be something bigger (feature script, novel), create a strong logline.

Here’s the form: 

To achieve an important Goal, the Protagonist must Act and overcome Obstacles, or Calamity will occur and she/he will not get what she/he Wants and/or Needs

Make the logline good. Really good. So that the hair stands up on your head. Don’t settle for anything vague or cliche. If you couldn’t get a “wow,” you’re not done.

Note: There have been times when I have run with an idea and created pages, chapters, even complete drafts before writing a competent logline. For some work, that’s just how it turns out. But don’t avoid this step. Even if you have a draft you love. Strong loglines will help in marketing. But, for me, they also is essential to providing focus. In fact, I use them for scene-by-scene analysis (though subplots may not benefit from a story’s logline).

Master of Story Concept Development 2 - Be an expert in creating wonderful loglines.

Practice: A great starting point is writing “wow” loglines for movies and novels you really love. Write a hundred or as many as it takes for their creation to become automatic. Write them for whatever you have done. Analyze the loglines of writing friends. Be able to write a better one for a movie that disappointed you.

Story Concepts are of little use if they don’t suggest possibilities. I call these OMG (Oh My God) moments. Part of Concept Development is having at least five of these. (Someone once told me that a good movie always had three memorable scenes, but push it to five. Not everything works out.)

The most obvious place to find your OMG moments is by knowing your genre standards. For instance, romances usually have a meet cute, a special place, a scene where you see why the characters are made for each other, a first kiss, a declaration of love, a dark moment, a grand gesture, and a happily ever after. (Horror stories, mysteries, thrillers, and other genres have similar standards.) You can twist these and subvert these… and you should surprise and provide more than people expect. But you can’t easily leave them out.

So, looking at your basic concept or your logline, does a first kiss that has never been seen before suggest itself? OMG!

Beyond genre, chances are that the logline will create expectations, scenes people hope to experience. Sharks imply chomping (probably of teens). Poverty implies a scene where hunger must be satisfied. A spy must at least come close to having her identity revealed. A surgeon must face an impossible case or lose a patient.

You must anticipate these expectations. That may mean asking people what they’d be looking for, any you might be surprised.

You must make such scenes OMG. I want to see a first kiss, but not one that merely checks the box. The first kiss must have a fresh situation or stakes that matter. Shock me.

You should have OMG scenes that go beyond tropes. Usually, these are attached to character (which I’ll deal with next week).

Master of Story Concept Development 3 - Develop a skill for creating more OMG scenes than you’ll need.

Practice: Before you watch a movie or read a book, write down the scenes that you expect to experience. If they are not included or they disappoint, consider how you would create them yourself. Also, if a scene disappointed you, how would you make it OMG? (You can also do this just from movie posters or book covers.)

As an advance practice, see if you can make scenes that impressed you better, raising the OMG score.

Note: While OMG scenes may come from prep, many (perhaps most) will sneak up on you as you write your draft. If you let them.

Hmm. Much more to cover here. Next week, I’ll take on research, characters (as related to concept), dilemmas and conflicts, and stakes.

Mastering Story Ideas

The best way to have a good idea is to have lots of ideas.
                                                                    ― Linus Pauling

Working writers do their jobs almost every day. They don’t wait for inspiration. They show up and put words on paper. They do hit dry spells when the concept for the next book in a series isn’t good enough or the words come slowly. They may also get derailed by life or lose confidence in their gift. I’ve certainly know writers who have run out of gigs or have gotten caught in mind-numbing collaborations or have hit joyless stretches where none of the work seems to add up to much.  

I don’t remember ever meeting a working writer who said he or she ran out of ideas. Put words on paper daily for a few months, and the knack for seeing ideas in real life tends to become a habit.

Meet someone new, see the quirk, and wonder if they point toward a character you’d like to know. Read an article and recognize the bit that makes it memorable. Hear a scientific fact or get surprised by something you never knew about a family member or a historical figure or a celebrity, and it will get stuck in your head sparking questions. Watch a TV show that fails because it never answers the story question you had or goes deeply enough into its subject and wonder how you might do better.

There are tips on collecting ideas.

• Write them down as soon as possible.
• Write them down in full sentences.
• Make sure they are easily accessible, not just scribbled down and added to a box.
• Sort them so they fit how you write. For instance, do they seem to belong to a specific genre? Would they be interesting to a particular audience? Do you have an ongoing story that feels like it needs a character like that one?
  

Some ideas may be prompts. They may capture you and reveal themselves through research. Knowing more may make them whole. Or they may turn out to rhyme with the idea that’s hiding in your brain. It’s okay to just collect the prompts, but it’s better to let them take you where they are leading you right away, if you can.

Some ideas have value, but may not be for you. But which ones? I’ve regretted putting an idea aside because I didn’t feel qualified or knew someone “obviously” better to write it. The way I know now is by playing with the idea. Usually writing a page does the job. An essay or a scene or a character interview takes less than an hour. Looking at it a month later usually makes its dismissal acceptable, with no regrets. But sometimes, it holds on firmly, justifying its way into my writing.

Some ideas may need to sit. This is common. The more an idea keeps reminding you of itself, the more it is likely to give you reasons (though they may not be articulated). Some of the best ideas, once captured, ripen with time. They tell you when you have enough experience to dedicate work hours to them.

See if you can figure out why the idea caught your attention. This often doesn’t work. It never works when the idea isn’t ripe. But, as you grow as a writer and know about the themes you care about and characters you like to explore, an idea (once it’s expressed in a full sentence) may tell you why you care about it. And that can shorten the process of incorporating it into a story.

Have you ever tried to interest a writer in an idea for a story? Or seen someone do it? Or had someone, when you tell them you write, try to give you an idea (or offer to split the profits)? Here’s what happens.

The idea is rejected. Almost always. Sometimes rudely. Sometimes politely. Bad ideas, cliches, malformed bits without context, and “terrific” dreams are swatted away for obvious reasons. Wonderful ideas that are fully expressed will probably be turned down, too. If you’ve ever had a writer suggest you write it yourself, it’s probably worth considering.

So, there are a lot of reason for saying “no.” The unspoken reason is that a working writer has a surplus of ideas. Some are bad. Some are so-so and could be good. Some are good and could be better. All want to claim time and effort. There isn’t much reason for a writer to take up your idea unless he or she wants to collaborate with you because your skills, ideas, perspectives, and experiences are complementary. The two of you working together promises to be better than the sum of the team’s parts.

Mastery of ideas comes from becoming a working writer. It is maintained by continuing to write regularly. You can become more efficient by collecting and classifying and sorting and storing ideas less wastefully, but, just as happiness is a side product to how you live, having a lot of ideas is a side product to your commitment to writing.

Developing concepts for stories takes more. It might come from luck, but those pursuing mastery don’t depend on chance. Unlike ideas concepts t don’t come from dedication. They come from deliberate practices (or luck), so next week will be about mastering those practices.  

 

Mastering the Vital Elements of Writing - Why it matters

Writers get stuck. Writers are beset by doubts. Writers feel like imposters. Or…

Writers always have ways around the obstacles they hit. Writers have confidence. Writers own their skills, talents, and accomplishments.

One of the greatest gifts writers can give themselves is mastering the essential aspects of writing. The best writers have the tools to create great dialogue or ways to test a story concept or examples at hand that demonstrate ways to solve story problems. To be sure, bad habits (dithering, looping, procrastinating, and more) can undercut the most capable and proficient writers. They need to be guarded against (as do distractions, addictions, and inattention to health). But becoming a master writer is a powerful way to avoid getting stuck or lost in doubts or losing your earned identity as a real writer.

Consider mastery in golf as an example. Like writing, it’s more about the course and you than about any opponents. There’s a poetry to the sport that players own. Choosing the right club. Testing the wind. Reading the lie. Managing pressure and disappointment and doubt.

But there also is a discipline of regular tasks. Driving off the tee. Chipping. Putting. A good golfer defaults to the muscle memory of thousands of strokes to hit the ball just right over and over again. He or she masters dozens of simple jobs by observing, listening, analyzing, testing, and practicing.

Writing is a lot more complex, with more jobs that need to be mastered. Often, what looked like one task turns out to be several. The choices writers make depend on the course — the genre, the audience, where they are in the story, and which way the wind is blowing. Writers also have to face pressure and disappointment and doubts.

Golfers and writers can have good days thanks to luck, but regular success, and much of the confidence and joy that makes engagement worthwhile, is built on a foundation of mastery. Moving easily into writing dialogue or editing for language or developing ideas that resonate — being able to take on jobs like these knowing you can do them can change your frame of mind as a writer.

No one masters everything. Which is probably a good thing. If a golfer hit a hole-in-one every time, it would get boring. (And the golf course would be redesigned.) Similarly mastery in writing is never complete or a deep as it could be. Which is good because otherwise it would get boring. But, more importantly, room for growth does not mean mastery is not achievable. Philip K. Dick never really mastered language, but his insights, odd logic, and clever plotting made him a leading SF writer. Charles Dickens easily slipped into sentimentality and cheap characterizations, but his amazing honesty and pacing turned his works into classics. No writer is perfect. But the ones you return to again and again have become experts with enough of the vital tools of writing to be considered masters.

You can, too.

It means being patient with yourself. It means studying the work of others (dissecting, questioning, exploring, expressing what you learned in full sentences, testing the concepts). It means deliberately writing work that will never be published, just to practice a technique until if comes naturally. It means noticing your own responses to writing and being curious about them. It means attending to the responses of peers and beta readers with humility, judgment, and discernment.

It also means knowing what jobs need to be mastered and having starting points for each. You can just jump in and learn from the writing of others, and, with processes that work for you, amplify your strengths or improve where you are weak. That’s fine. But, for those who may need a little guidance, I’ll begin a series on mastery here in this blog. It will be incomplete and, at times, not right for you. Inevitably, I’ll have times when I do a poor job because I have my own weaknesses and I have strengths I don’t understand.

I hope some of what I post is valuable anyway.

My current list of topics:

• Story concepts
• Scenes
• Characters
• Descriptions and settings
• Dialogue
• Language
• Plot
• Storytelling
• Audience
  

I’ll strive to include basic concepts, clearly stated. I’ll mention benefits (to help with motivation). There will be examples and exercises.

Reading the blog posts won’t make you a master. Neither will doing an exercise each week. It’s also likely that you’ll have clearer ideas and a better approach on some subjects. (That’s good.) Mostly, what is involved in achieving mastery is interest, honest self-assessment, and dedication. I can provide a map. I can’t carry you along the journey. Even if I could, it wouldn’t be much fun for either of us.

The Dignity of Stories - Ten rules to avoid trivialization

I love stories that dig deeply into issues of individual experience and social importance. So many stories that I reread - To Kill a Mockingbird, Huckleberry Finn, The Grapes of Wrath, Oliver Twist, and more - grapple with what makes us human and what makes up communities. They both respect and personalize large issues.

On the other hand, I’m frustrated by stories that glue relevance to mundane stories to make them seem bigger, toss in diverse characters without making them distinct, or use traumas as unexplored plot points or unexamined explanations for why antagonists behave badly. The things that matter to who we are and the challenges that most gravely threaten our culture should not be trivialized.

That’s the moral issue, which some may disagree with. Especially those who are creating entertainments with no pretensions of seriousness. But, even if you write to provide amusement and escape (which is worthy), this is worth a closer look for two reasons:

First, including important issues can cause harm unintentionally. I’ll take a chance here by using blackface as an  example. (And I apologize if I offend anyone. If I unintentionally cause harm.) The minstrel show was the most popular style of entertainment in the late 1800s in the US, and this genre persisted into the 20th century. It was cruel, mocking, and harmful. Often, the adoption of blackface was intentional (DW Griffith) cruel and inexcusable. But I wonder how much it might have been the result of a lack of reflection (Fred Astaire). When could/should people have know better?

It isn’t always clear. When Buster Keaton brought his version of blackface into his short film, Neighbors, I suspect he was thoughtful and intended it as a critique. His character had a left side black and right side white, and he showed police attack him when he showed the black side and leave him alone when he showed the right side. Did he prick consciences or exploit race? From the distance of 100 years, it’s hard to make a judgement. Star Trek famously used a similar device in Let That Be Your Last Battlefield to explicitly attack racism. Was that episode, in itself, racist? Or justified?

Second, including something big creates opportunities for better storytelling. Matters of importance reveal character. Good characters reveal new dimensions in big issues that too often are presented with cliches instead of insights. Not giving race, sexism, bullying, abuse, trauma, bigotry, and a host of other issues that separate us from others and ourselves their full due, diminishes stories by eliminating fresh understandings and authentic, specific imagery.

Note 1: Even honest, careful attempts at dealing with deep issues can be unsuccessful. This can be because of a lack of skill or insight, or it can be because sensitive issues can been seen by different audiences in different ways. Birth of a Nation, once consider essential cinema, is horrendous. Gone with the Wind is still beloved, but it makes me (and others) squirm. Othello sits on the knife edge, but I think we’re passed the time where we’ll see the protagonist played by a white person.  

Note 2: Humor complicates this. It can elevate the trivial to something more profound because the protagonists usually are obsessed and become their own worst enemies. It can also slip past our defenses to smuggle in insights (Slaughterhouse Five).

So, both in terms of responsibility and in terms of being a better storyteller, it is good to avoid trivialization. But how? Here’s an incomplete list of suggestions:

    1.    Challenge your assumptions. This obviously goes for forays into cultures, ethnicities, and sexual orientations that are not your own. But it also applies to the familiar that is too familiar. It’s notable that both Norman Mailer and John Updike won the Bad Sex in Fiction Award.
    2.    Punch up. It’s usually a bad idea to mock or villainize those who have less privilege than you do. Even peers may be too vulnerable. Those with a lot of privilege fall into the category of those who can defend themselves and are less likely to be unjustly hurt. As Finley Dunne said, “comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.” But be wary of cliche villains. Make them individual. And know they are the heroes of their own stories.
    3.    Never discount suffering and sacrifice. For example, childhood abuse pops up as a reason for stoic heroes and cruel villains, but such experiences (shared by many readers/audience members) are complicated and don’t result in one-note character traits. They are pervasive and dealt with by various strategies and adaptations. They don’t need to take over the story, but they can’t just provide simple explanations.
    4.    Courage should be honored. We are all wounded. It defeats some. If your character has been deeply traumatized and hangs on to still be functional and positive (or even rises to become more empathetic and caring), that should show up and be celebrated.
    5.    Dig deep. You do not need to become the world expert on every issue, hardship, and heartache. But it’s good to set as a goal to research long enough to discover something unexpected and important.
    6.    Collect anecdotes. Find individual reflections, those statements from people who know that are embedded in real-world contexts. If you really know three by heart, you have guides to test your choices.
    7.    Understand and appreciate the barriers and obstacles. People struggle to be included or to make themselves whole face challenges. Some of these are cultural. Some are difficult because of the characteristics (shyness, intelligence, temperament) of the individual. All need to be recognized and explored in terms of specifics, not generalities.
    8.    Moments matter. Reflect on your own responses to important life challenges. What overwhelmed you as a teen might not challenge you today. Bringing your opinions and principles back to a time decades ago could be wrenching. Most importantly, think in terms of sequence. The order and pace of events and understandings that marked you probably matter. As an exercise to engage with this idea, it might be good to write a page about a time you were embarrassed or betrayed.
    9.    Admit limitations. If you have a deep understanding of something that should not be trivialized, you can present it through the eyes of an experienced character. If you don’t, consider presenting social and psychological issues through the eyes of someone who is naive. And make the limitations of the character obvious. This helps to alert the reader and prevent over-claiming expertise.
    10.    Truth test. When in doubt, check it out. I’m not a big fan of sensitivity reads. I worry that individuals tasked with representing their demographics prioritize being offended over entering stories. Does anything provocative survive such a test? But I do believe in showing work to people who have different, relevant experiences and seriously considering their comments. In my opinion, this may be best if the people you show the work to are those you know and trust. People who want you to succeed instead of wanting you to stop.

Daring to include what is sensitive, vulnerable to criticism, and larger than yourself is essential to good work (and good writing), so I hope this post does not discourage or dissuade anyone from taking on anything your muse suggests. What I hope is that I’ve provided some ways to check or repair stories that don’t give issues the dignity they deserve.

Finding Themes You Can Be Passionate About

What do you really want to write? What do you want to dedicate a year of your life to exploring, understanding, and sharing? Even though you may have a focus on entertaining (or think you could write anything), commitment shows through for readers and passion will keep you going through all the rewrites and disappointments.

So what do you want to write? What story would you stand in line for and shell out twenty or thirty dollars to experience (in a film or a book)?

If it is truly your story, heavily based on personal experience and seasoned through years of reflection, meditation, and (possibly) therapy, you probably know what you should be writing. Dickens may never have gotten over his stint in a work house, and that comes across in his realistic novels, like Oliver Twist, that so often include facing poverty. I’d argue the truth of The Lord of the Rings emerged from Tolkein’s participation in the Battle of the Somme in WWI.

But your personal story may not be so specific or tied to a singular trauma. And, even if you have awareness of what has shaped you, finding the stories and their themes might be a challenge. So try this:

0 Start by clearing your head of what’s popular or commercial. Don’t write with a paycheck in mind. Also, beware of writing someone else’s trauma — no matter how affecting — if there is no real personal connection. It is alarmingly easy to write someone else’s story to avoid writing your own.

1 List at least 20 stories you find yourself referencing or returning to. Don’t create a “best” list. This is for you, not posterity. Maybe think about a desert island list, where these would be the only stories available to you for the rest of your life.

2 Strike out those stories that are not helpful because you are not in love with the tales as much as what comes with them. The songs in a musical, the spectacle in SF or fantasy, the laughs in a comedy, the gore in a horror movie, the love scenes in a romance. All of these may bring you back over and over again, but the job now is to find the themes that touch you deeply.

Note: I am not implying that you can’t have a great theme in a musical (West Side Story), a fantasy (most of Henson’s Storyteller shows), a comedy (Some Like It Hot) or a horror story (Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death). Every genre has the potential to be meaningful and touch us deeply. But style and charm can hide a multitude of sins. I love musicals, but I can count those I’ve seen with strong endings on one hand. (Weak endings are a strong indicator something is missing.)

3 Put question marks next to those that may be too far from your own experience or may lure you in with language or wit. The former may distract or take too much mining to find the shared human experience (for me, stories of the Holocaust and slavery) or attract because of novelty. The latter may dazzle (for me, the monologues of Sorkin, Mamet, and Tennessee Williams). Save these for a closer look after you have a better idea of what your stories are. Then poke at them for answers.

4 A Explore the remaining (10 or fewer?) separately by free-writing about each for at least ten minutes. (You probably don’t want to do all of them in one sitting. Once you have let yourself respond without editing, mark the strong verbs, virtues, and vices you’ve written down.

4 B You may just want to explore characters from the stories. Those who provoke the strongest emotions.

5 For each story, in one or two sentences, write what happens in 1-3 memorable scenes for each.

6 For each story, in one or two sentences, write why the story matters to you. You may want to express this by stating the theme of the story, but only if that’s something that would be helpful to you. This is not an academic paper.

7 Look at what you’ve written in 4, 5, and 6, and see if anything is common. Do you see the same terms, challenges, concerns, and fascinations coming up repeatedly? Chances are, you’ve found what draws you to these stories and makes them important to you. (If there is no pattern, that’s fine. Humans are complex. Just force rank terms or ideas that resonate with you.)

8 Use what you’ve learned to see if you discover anything about the stories you’ve written. Chances are, you’ll see some that were great choices for you that you can make better. You’ll also see some that, though workmanlike, probably weren’t your best choices. (It’s good to have both.)

9 Dedicate yourself to making the ones that you’re passionate about as good as they can be. These belong in your portfolio.

Follow up work:

10 Forget what you’ve learned when you are writing first drafts. Don’t try to impose your themes (which may change with time) on unformed stories. Instead, you might use them on completed drafts to determine whether a) a revision is merited and b) the full value of the theme has been explored.

11 Look at the flashy stuff you struck out in step 2. Maybe you should be mastering these genres to add something extra to your meaningful works.

12 Once you have enough of your own stories that reflect what you are meant to write, you can go back to the stories with the question marks and see if they connect with you in a way you didn’t recognize earlier.

The point of all of this is to make good choices. Writers who have mastered their craft can competently respond to prompts that are provided by life. Real life anecdotes, genres that promise opportunities, requests to collaborate, and family folklore suggest stories that can be written well, will please others, may pay bills, and/or promise a little fun. I can’t argue against these, especially the paying bills one. But it would be good to become aware of the kinds of stories you were meant to tell and that are sure to make the best use of the gifts you have.

500 Posts! Writing productivity, punch, and polish

This is the 500th How to Write Fast post. Explore, and you'll find hundreds of thousands of words here aimed at breaking bad writing habits, forming good ones, and delivering stories (even non-fiction ones on occasion) that will deliver great experiences. 

My fondest hope is that some readers have been able to write more and create better stories. I've been proud to see a few cases where authors have thanked me in their books.

I've been at this over eight years, and I'm not done. I still have more topics cued up in my head. For me, this has been useful because I understand what I've learned more clearly once I articulate it. And a good number of the subjects, especially those that led to series, became courses. 

I have over 200 thousand visits from almost every country despite keeping the blog small and simple (little promotion and no search terms or pictures for the most part). There's no book or podcast, and I haven't made any attempts to go after people who harvest hundreds of posts at at time from unlikely or unknown regions. (I suspect there are bootleg collections being sold, but I haven't checked.)

This work has made my own writing more joyful. When I hit a writing problem, I have a new topic I can develop. When I stumble upon something successful, I get an extra thrill knowing I can offer a tip or share my journey toward finding something new.

If you need even more blog posts, and you've read everything here, you can find some over at Savvy Authors.

Bodies in Motion - Put your story’s characters to work performing tasks

One summer, I earned tuition money by hammering gables and trusses together. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. I just banged away until the nail was flush. But that’s not how the veterans worked. Three hits — wham, wham, wham — and the nail goes in. I tried that, hit my thumb a few times. Hit nothing but wood for a good part of a day. And then I had it mastered. Because I worked quickly, I paid with a sore arm the few days. After that, I learned to switch off between hands. Left for ten nails. Right for ten nails. Much to the delight of the veterans.

Movement told a story. A silent film would have shown my progress and probably how I learned. How I fit in and then found my own way. And my movements contrasted with others. First, with the veterans, and later with the “college boys” who never went past “tap, tap, tap.”

As part of revision, I’ve often thought of scripted scenes as silent movies. What could I tell without dialogue? I’ve done it in an intuitive way, but lately, I’ve tried to be more methodical. And just as I’ve tried to discover who my characters are by interviewing them, I’ve now imagined them doing tasks. Not every task is revealing or appropriate to a character, but I’ve always learned something by going through the list.

Note: This is a diverse list, but you may have better actions to explore, given your knowledge and your story worlds. Also, it’s often worthwhile to consider whether the character doing the task is enthusiastic or reluctant, energized or sleepy, ignored or witnessed, calm or agitated, confident or concerned, and healthy or fighting pain.

    1.    Using a tool. This doesn’t need to be a hammer. It could be a scalpel or a soldering iron or a coffee grinder.
    2.    Weaving through a crowd. Make it dense. Make it the opposite sex. Make the destination urgent.
    3.    Opening a gift. Or is it a bomb?
    4.    Assembling flat-packed furniture. Who needs instructions?
    5.    Lining up a putt in golf. Or serving match point. Or playing catch.
    6.    Arm wrestling. Or boxing. Or trying to catch a toddler who doesn’t want a bath.
    7.    Bandaging a wound. Or cutting hair. Or tickling someone.
    8.    Cradling a child. Or calming an angry dog.
    9.    Waiting in line.
    10.    Spotting someone who matters from afar.

Imagining how your character walks down a sidewalk alone, with a friend, or next to a clown can be revealing. Doing different dances. Or, though it may get close to dialogue, singing or giving a eulogy (just keep the sound off). Have your character shake hands. Watch his or her face in reaction to joyful or tragic news. Also watch the hands, the posture, how the feet shift.

Don’t gravitate toward watching characters when they are sitting down. The whole body matters. Do observe them in longer processes like making a meal or digging a garden. Find moments when they are intrigued or bored, and see how that shows up from head to toe. Complicate things by having two or more characters who need to cooperate to complete a task. Explore failure as well as success. Take characters out of their comfort zone with action they aren’t prepared for.

I like to have characters play a game of frisbee. Do they waft the disc into the air or fire it? Toss level or flick from vertical to horizontal? Aim right at the opponent or make them run?

Do they dive for the frisbee or just let it hit the ground? When do they move their feet? At the last minute? Or before the disc has left the opponents hand?

These exercises (and ones you can develop) can tell a lot about a character, and it’s important to write down what you learn. When movements come up in your story, even if they aren’t ones you’ve explored, you’ll find you’ll be able to see, distinctly, how your characters will move. As a bonus, you’re likely to have more movements that aren’t cliche. Something fresh is more likely to emerge because you spent time in the world of motion.

Dare to Make Your Prose More Poetic -- Elevated language in storytelling

We live in plain-speaking times. We are suspicious of eloquence. Few people memorize, recite, or even read poetry nowadays. Big words bother us.

I think there is a justifiable rejection of pretense and a desire for authenticity. At the same time, deep within us, we yearn for elevated language. We want words worth quoting. Imagery, rhythm, and language beyond the mundane still move us.

Writers should dare to use the tools of poetry. Which means finding ways around the defenses put up by contemporary readers and audiences. But consider this:

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time... like tears in rain... Time to die.

That’s the often quoted monologue from Bladerunner’s climax. It’s not exactly what you expect from a noirish science-fiction action film. But it’s essential. Everyday language would not have captured the change in the villain and made that tense scene believable.

The character, the situation, and the specific moment in the story can conspire to create an opening for poetry. And one more thing, which is evident in work as diverse as Serling’s Twilight Zone, Paddy Chayefsky’s Network, and The Shawshank Redemption — the story has a narrator. I suspect narrators cue people to expect something special and more meaningful, within the right context. I’ve spent a lot of years as a speech writer, and I know that there is more latitude for a speaker who holds the stage than for someone in a casual conversation. There is still magic to oratory. Now, the context matters. I have written speeches that have brought audiences to tears for occasions like commencements. But I would never even attempt using that sort of language for congressional testimony.

By the way, it’s worth noting that a narrators don’t just gain permission for themselves. They allow occasional poetry to emerge within the dialogue. Of course, the language needs to be correct for the character or it will all fall apart. But even a character who lacks sophistication can be poetic:

You don't understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am.

On the Waterfront’s Terry Malloy, a boxer, was a character who spoke simply, but eloquently. The moment was, again, critical—his confrontation with his brother. Note: though this film had no narrator, it did have the music of Leonard Bernstein and Marlon Brando playing the lead role.

Music and style can open the door for elevated language. So can a story that has mythic dimensions. For example:

America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good and it could be again.

Field of Dreams is a fairy tale. Even though it isn’t a fantasy like The Lord of the Rings, it invites us to immerse ourselves in the world of metaphors, raised above our daily lives. That gives permission to slip in monologues that are memorable throughout the story.

Network takes a different direction. The movie is a revival meeting. It is filled with sermons that touch upon the dangers of our times and our need to be vigilant and engaged. It often goes right up to the line of becoming a screed, but it saves itself with humor.

Elevated language usually is placed into stories at relatively quiet moments. Jaws is chock full of action, but the Indianapolis monologue takes place in a quiet, relaxed moment. It also comes from a character who has authority, who has power.

Deadwood seems to me to be an anomaly. I can’t easily explain how Milch gets away with language that is Shakespearean in a gritty Western TV series. It might be argued that his including legendary characters, such as Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok, primes for a mythical story, but it feels like it breaks all the rules. And still works.

I think the Coen Brothers have been the most successful in working around the barriers audiences have to poetry. They use narration (Raising Arizona) and myth (O Brother, Where Art Thou?). They deftly insert humor. And they find moments where elevated language is called for. They have a true appreciation of the power of words and seem to be forever exploring the possibilities of poetry in contemporary work.

Overall, I think our society is poorer because of our skepticism. Slick language does present dangers. Sales people, propagandists, and politicians have missed directed and taking advantage of people through the use of elevated language. The same is true for anthems and images and slogans that get past our defenses and close off critical thinking. But, used correctly, elevated language can help us find the best in ourselves and others. And even create stories that are truly inspiring.

A Checklist to Ensure Your Story’s Scenes are Clear and Complete

Some writers aren’t as clear as they should be about what a story or a sequence or a scene is about, so readers get lost in the murk. Other writers have problems with order, logic, or extra prose that hides their stories or creates too many distractions. My biggest problem is not including enough description, pointers, and reminders. So I’m using a new approach to help solve that problem.

Recently, I got an expert analysis of one of my fiction podcasts scripts. It had an emphasis on clarity with specific critiques that inspired me (with reference to recent post on orienting readers) to create the checklist below. I’ve been putting it to work, and I think it’s a useful addendum to the recent posts, so here it is. Note: While I created it for audio-only scripts, some of it seems to provide guidance for other works of fiction. It will get some tweaks, but I hope it provides valuable pointers.

Podcast Clarity Checklist

    1.    Mark scenes (——) and French scenes* (…..); list dramatic personae.
    2.    Describe the essence of the scene or sequence (e.g.,”In which Harold kills Maximillian”).
    3.    Where it makes sense, write the goal of each character.
    4.    Make sure each new location is presented (space, light, texture).
    5.    Identify the time, according to what the readers (or audience) needs to be oriented.
    6.    Check for cues to transition from one scene to the next.
    7.    Make sure all the characters in the scene are presented at the beginning.
    8.    Mark character descriptions and tentatively add at least one word of description for each.
    9.    Review dialogue, one character at a time, and tentatively add words to reflect intentions and situations.
    10.    Review dialogue to include character-specific phrasing.
    11.    Mark visuals and tentatively add at least one word of description for each.
    12.    Reflect on the story situation (important predicates, facts, risks and relative powers of characters) and remind or inform readers of each, tentatively adding at least one point.
    13.    Explore each scene to see if there are opportunities to present characters in motion.
    14.    Explore each scene to see if there are opportunities to make the locale active (engines running, rain falling, animals crying out, temperature dropping).
    15.    Mark location descriptions and tentatively add at least one word of description for each.
    16.    Review dialogue to include reactions to changes (new location, changes to location, changes to situation, changes in relationships to other characters).
    17.    Comb through this clarity draft to challenge added words, but lean toward keeping them.

Among the things I’m finding most useful are brainstorming additional words (where they don’t initially feel necessary), presenting more information though reactions and impact, and using a fresh approach to ensuring that the purpose of each scene or sequence isn’t missed by readers.

The order may be different for you or your specific work or may vary with your audience.

As said above, I’m still developing this list, but it is showing promise. That’s why I’m sharing it. I welcome any comments, including additions and your own experiences.  

*French scenes occur within scenes when a new character enters or leaves.

Cues Readers Need to Stay Oriented - Markers for location, character, situations, and time

 Half the fun of stories is getting immersed in them. But when we say we are “lost in a story,” it doesn’t mean we are disoriented. In fact, living in a well-crafted story makes the imagined world the only reality we know (for a time).

The catch is, unlike the real world, story worlds can fall to pieces in a moment. It’s up to writers to make them vivid, consistent, and memorable. This is done with descriptions, cues, and suggested space for our imaginations. Without them, we truly are lost… and thrown out of the story world.

Let’s look at these in terms of locations, characters, situations, and time.

Locations - Sometimes places are never built (scenes the seem to take place in a white, windowless room), and sometimes they are too busy (providing so many details they become confusing. Most good locations begin with selective description. This is obviously true for fantasies. Where anything is possible, descriptions provide a window into newly discovered places. But even a familiar place, a place we’ve seen a hundred times in movies, pictures, and TV commercials like the Eiffel Tower, deserve to be presented in a complete enough way. There are many ways to do this. Heinlein famously suggested a new world with the words, “the door dilated.” But, if the muse doesn’t strike, I suggest following Max Adams’s advice (in her wonderful course on Visual Writing), presenting (in this order) space, light, and texture.

Ideally, locations are as much a part of the story as the characters. They reflect mood. They create challenges. They hint at social structure and hierarchy. Grey Gardens would be diminished without the mansion’s decay and the raccoons in the walls.

I have a fondness for locations that change in important ways each time they come up. Shown in different seasons or undergoing renovation, missing an important object. I love it when they are dynamic, filled with mischievous cats (or raccoons) or ringing phones or lights that flicker. One of my favorite story locations in the one in His Girl Friday. It supports choreographed chaos that highlights the story’s theme.

Characters - The classic way to help keep characters straight is through tics and other identifiers. Dickens’s Uriah Heep (who is so ‘umble) wrings his hands. Potter, the villain in It’s a Wonderful Life, is pushed around in his wheelchair. All of the Marx Brothers (well, at least Groucho, Chico, Harpo) have signature clothes, ways of speaking (or not, in Harpo’s case) and musical specialties.

Metaphors work, too. Both Potter and Professor Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes’s nemesis, are described as spiders. Juliet is the sun. And, as Cole Porter (an American treasure) said,

You're the top! You're the Colosseum,
You're the top! You're the Louvre Museum,
You're a melody from a symphony by Strauss,
You're a Bendel bonnet, a Shakespeare sonnet,
You're Mickey Mouse.

For me, dialogue is the great and memorable tell for characters. While every story has functional lines, I read every line a character has in isolation to make sure it sounds like them and it’s something they’d say. Character, education, perspective, and voice should be there often enough so that each would describe, say the Eiffel Tower, in ways so distinctive, you could tell characters apart. I interview my characters so I know them so well, readers will recognize them right away.

As with locations, descriptions play a part. Choosing one physical feature to obsess over in different ways is better than cataloging. And I use a hint someone gave me when I lamented that I could not remember what my late aunt looked like. I could tell stories about her, but I could not picture her. He said, imagine her in motion. So I thought of her planting zinnias and her face appeared immediately. I try to give readers at least one image in motion to hang onto.

Situations - This may feel too obvious to a writer. How can readers forget that Izzie has a secret and all hell will break loose if it’s revealed? But it’s your job to remind them so they don’t forget. Characters reacting emotionally to a situation can help. I love to cook, but I’ll notice and sympathize with a character who grouses about being sent into the kitchen. When the spaghetti escapes the colander and ends up on the floor, I’ll be appalled. If the character comes back with a bandage because the knife slipped, I’ll remember. If, later on, the character is dragooned into creating a dinner for his boss, that will resonate.

I notice. I react. Characters react. Stakes are increased. And the situation becomes a compass for the story.

Time - I just read a story where the ages of characters, the time invested in their enterprise, and diminishing fortunes were all critical. It also had flashbacks, and I got totally disoriented about when things were happening. How long after? How long before?

I had a similar lapse myself. Pitching a script, I didn’t get the year (1860s, not 1960s) across, and the producer was disoriented. So much so, that he got distracted and missed a lot of the story.

People need markers for time. Year. Season. Morning. Evening. Once upon a time. Duration matters. Six days in prison or six weeks? When someone showed me a story about a man who’s main lament about incarceration was missing the cherry blossoms, character, empathy, and the passage of time were achieved in a single line.

Whether you are orienting readers to locations, characters, situations, or time you can suggest, using indirect elements, like the cherry blossoms, to make a marker memorable. You can have them reflect the mood or the tone. You can use contrasts, whether it’s a bull in a china shop or wealth and poverty or differences in ages or odd couples (Oscar & Felix, Mutt & Jeff, Laurel & Hardy).

A warning: Once you have readers oriented, they hang onto bits you’ve offered with both hands. They embed themselves deeply into the narrative as each is reinforced. Which means, if you slip up and put into something that doesn’t fit the story world they’ve accepted, it will toss them out as surely as if they had missed information. Anything that could be inconsistent needs to be fixed. Your protagonist cannot show up with green eyes after we know they are cornflower blue.

If you can do more than orient, that’s the way to go. Link markers with something meaningful. Use them to remind readers. Show what has changed. Plant information that’s critical.

And when it’s all done, see how it fits together to reinforce theme, set the tone, provide unity, and, most of all, maintain clarity.

Creating Impolite Characters — Let’s shake things up

After several recommendations, I finally watched the TV program Lucifer. One thing surprised me. In spite of our living in uncivil times, I found the title character's unrestrained frankness amusing. Why?

Lucifer (who is the devil, after all) is rarely rude. By that, I mean most of his disruptive comments are not malicious or disrespectful. He simply has his own agenda, and doesn't “get” our rules. I love that he is often surprised when people take offense.

I think of this and contrast with many characters I come across in manuscripts. They are too genteel. They want to be liked. They follow all the rules, even unwritten rules. This can flatten out conflict.

To be clear, I am not calling for more rude characters. In fact, I see too many. Perhaps this is because people are angry or our culture he’s too eager to forgive and even celebrate rudeness. I’m also not advocating eliminating subtext from dialogue. That would be boring and, for scripts, where great actors work to bring out the nuances, disastrous.

I think there is a way to strike the balance on frank vs. rude to make stories more engaging. Genuinely impolite characters can, without becoming irritating, heighten conflict. They can add humor-and often do. They can provoke responses from other characters that are revealing. They can reveal new information and intentions. They can raise questions. I’ve formulated a few rules for creating impolite characters. Or let’s just call them guidelines.

    •    An impolite character should have other dimensions that make him or her likable.
    •    When offense is given, it should be unintentional.
    •    There should be a clear reason why the impolite character is naïve.
    •    In general, an impolite character should ”punch up.”
    •    Most impolite remarks should push the story toward justice.
    •    Impolite people should ask questions that uncover secrets or embarrass villains and powerful characters.
    •    If the impolite person sees that he or she has really hurt someone, they should clearly attempt to make it right through apology or restitution.

With these in mind, impoliteness can be used to say the quiet part out loud.  “Out of the mouths of babes” is a classic way to show speaking truth to power in the story. So impoliteness can be used to puncture the defenses of people who use propriety and etiquette to defend themselves or to maintain power. (Purportedly, Southern gentleman used exaggerated politeness to contrast themselves with the ”rough” Yankees, and thereby keep challenges the injustices of slavery or discrimination at bay. Today, employers have people convinced they should keep their salaries secret, which allows them to underpay those who work for them, often preserving inequalities.)

The value of having impolite characters is not complete unless other characters react. Those who expect to be kowtowed to may object to reaches of etiquette, fumble for answers to disarming questions, reveal themselves by reacting to quickly, or respond with disproportionate anger— even violence. All this is great for storytelling.

I’ll end with a thought on humor. One reason why impolite characters are fun is wish fulfillment. They say things we’d like to say, but wouldn’t dare to.

Putting Story Outcomes in Doubt - Thoughts on evening the odds to keep readers hooked

In fiction, adversity reveals character. Nothing is more tedious then a story where the protagonist isn’t challenged and isn’t forced to change.

Yet, lots of beginning writers pull their punches. They like their main characters too much to hurt them. This is why I often congratulate writers when they get tough and create real losses. No pain, no gain in the realm of fiction.

So, I was surprised when I read a piece where circumstances tortured a character. He was beaten in every encounter, and his life became more hopeless with every scene. He was completely a victim. And that, it turns out, is as tedious as having a protagonist who always wins.

Perhaps there are readers who don’t react as I do. I know that I am much more of a fan of a ball game where the lead keeps changing and the outcome is in doubt right up to the end. My father, on the other hand, loved it when his team crushed its adversary.

I'm guessing—based on what succeeds commercially—that a story with a fair fight is what most readers and audiences prefer. We want to worry for our protagonists and we want to see them grow.

This doesn't mean that it's a mistake to have most scenes end with the protagonist in worse shape. But power shifts—even if a character goes from advantage to better advantage or disadvantage to worse disadvantage—can be engaging and revealing. Generally, I tried to have three to five power shifts per scene. And, until the very end, I like the protagonist to find that both failure and success worsens his or her problem.

This does not rule out David and Goliath fights. The odds don’t need to be even, but it’s helpful if the little guy has a chance. If you give your protagonist a slingshot to fight the monster, at least he or she is armed. And it's OK to have the rock miss its target. It makes for a stronger story if the outcome is in doubt. Giving readers and audiences reasons for hope (even if it ends up being dashed), can keep people interested in the battle. If they worry about the protagonist, they’ll hang around to see what happens next.

As for the revealing part… a heroes can fail and keep their dignity. Their attempts can show intelligence and creativity. If they fail because they won’t cross lines of virtue, they have shown their true selves in ways that engender empathy and affection. And if they don’t give up even as they suffer, we recognize something special— courage.

If there is a happy ending and a villain, there is likely to be creative humiliation of the character who has been a thorn in the protagonist side throughout the story. This can nail down the lesson and delight the audience our readers. But there is a danger.

It’s usually a bad idea to have the protagonist revel in the adversary’s defeat. Cruelty is not attractive. To have a character you side with turn out to be a bully makes for an uncomfortable ending. In fact, a kind gesture toward the villain at the end often proves the merit of the main character. It justifies all of the investment in time and emotion, which is satisfying.

This is not to say that it’s impossible to write an excellent story that isn’t a fair fight (though it would be tough to pull off commercially). As I was thinking about this, I thought of how Ferris Bueller goes from victory to victory in Ferris Bueller's Day off. Is it just wish fulfillment? Was the movie aimed at people like my dad who love overwhelming successes? I don’t think so. The character I worry about is Ferris’s friend, Cameron. Even as Ferris wins, I’m on edge about the doom Cameron seems to face. For all the fun Ferris has, I stay engaged because Cameron is suffering, because his well-being is at risk.

Reading Aloud - Making your stories better by listening to them

Your ears are tuned to language. They pick up errors every time you open your mouth, which is why deafness (which reduces self-correction) often leads to difficulty articulating. They are sensitive to the nuances of dialogue, which is why, high school students who may not be great at copying how teachers sound can still imitate their phrasing and idioms well enough to draw laughs. They are affected by rhythms, rhymes and beats, which is why a forced line in a lyric or poem can be so irksome. They are experienced in following stories and raising questions about stories, which is why bedtime stories can last a lot longer than it takes to read what’s on the page.

For me, hearing typos makes them stand out. This is embarrassingly true when (as has happened to me) a friend chooses to read your work out loud at a get-together. But you don’t need a friend to test your work. Your computer (whether Apple or PC) has a text-to-speech function that does a good enough job. I’ve found better than 80 percent of the typos that have escaped my eye (and automated editors) are found by having my computer read the work to me.

Text-to-speech can also reveal awkward phrasing and make important omissions more apparent, but reading aloud is more effective to me. Whenever I read a finished scene, chapter, or short story, the excess bits and missing bits stand out. I think this has to do with listening to stories as a child and in audio. The unnecessary sequences make me restless. The omissions raise questions.

It may be more than just ears that are involved. There’s a recontextualization happening that helps what’s actually there (instead of what’s intended) stand out. I have friends who always put their manuscripts into a different font as a way to see them with fresh eyes. But for me, fresh ears carry the day.

Reading dialogue out loud picks up tongue-twisters (the work of the tongue, not the ears), but, if you read through each character’s dialogue independently, it’s usually evident that some lines sound more like the author than the character. (A speech is essentially a monologue. It needs to have one, consistent voice, and that’s why it’s easy to pick out the speechwriter’s own words in a defective speech.)

The poetry of language is a delight, and, if you let it, they opportunities will declare themselves with a reading. Repetition, alliteration, changes in sentence length, paragraph breaks, and more will fight to replace stodgy prose. Flow, varied cadence, and even just the right words are waiting to be revealed like Michelangelo’s form looking to escape from the marble block.

Humor, other than revealing needed punctation, may be hurt by repeated reading. Even a good joke can sound lame over time. So protect what drew a laugh by tolerating its diminishing power.

Reading aloud is also a great way to discover and develop your own unique voice as a writer. When you talk, it comes out naturally. When you write, a dozen English teachers reshape it. But when you make the effort to return to speech, the English teachers, over time, are driven away to leave what’s special.

The biggest test of text that puts ears to work is listening to an actor read the work. Every wonderful thing will stand out. Every bit that needs improvement becomes nails scratching at a blackboard.

One more thing. The ear can be trained. I think listening to poems being read (and learning about how techniques of poetry work their magic) makes the ears better writing partners. Hearing different actors read the same classic lines can help, too. Whatever your ears reveal in someone else’s work is halfway in your possession. To own it fully, use what you’ve learned. And enjoy the results when the full work is finished, and it’s time for you to read it aloud.

Adaptation 2 - Thoughts on book to movie, movie to play, and this to that

Last time, I wrote about all the stories and songs coming into the Public Domain and free for you to adapt. Earlier, I compared the strengths and weakness of different forms (prose, film, fiction podcast, poetry/lyrics, and stage). There’s a lot to chew on there, but I suspect most people can connect the dots. So, rather than write how-tos for each adaptation, I’ll just offer some notes (opinions, experiences, reflections) and examples, as needed. I’ll go from what I see as the biggest opportunities (based on landing the gig and impact of the work) to ones that may be more specialized.

Notes: 1 - Animation (musical films and Broadway musicals) and comics (tentpole films) have had an outsized cultural influence in the last twenty-five years. Blockbusters provide a route for very few (those with credentials or power) to reach audiences and readers. On the other hand, who’s to say animation and comics coming into the public domain won’t hit the same notes without battles with Disney and Marvel.? 2-  I’m not an expert on all of these areas. I doubt anyone is. So take my observations with a grain of salt (or leave a comment).

Fiction Podcast (or Radio Theater) to TV
-Opportunity Medium-High
-Art High

This is the path many legendary TV shows (Gunsmoke, I Love Lucy) took. And it seems to be repeating itself (Welcome to Nightvale, Limetown). Making a fiction podcast is less expensive than making a movie or a stage play. And you don’t need bestseller sized audiences to attract producers and agents. These professionals seem to be inviting the creators in. The trick is finding a way to attract even a moderate audience amid all the competition. Still, there is already wonderful work around in fiction podcast, even though (in the US) there was a decades-long hiatus. Some are even eschewing the old-time approaches to produce work that is truly new. And it’s just getting started.

Now… adapting Public Domain radio shows may need to wait a little bit. Radio drama did not really get its start until 1923, and this year’s Public Domain Day is for the year 1924  Wait a few years before some of the really great old radio dramas appear.

Prose to Fiction Podcast (or Radio Theater)
-Opportunity High
-Art High

Highly doable. And it can be great. Proof: Mercury Theater’s (Orson Welles’s) adaptation of War of the Worlds.

Prose to Stage
-Opportunity Medium-Low
-Art Very High

Prose being turned into plays has a long (and successful) history:

Of the top 10 grossing non-musicals, see The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, War Horse, To Kill a Mockingbird, and arguably Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. Recent Tony Winners from prose  are The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, War Horse, and  Harry Potter and the Cursed Child.

Of the top 10 grossing musicals, see Wicked, The Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast
(indirectly), Chicago (indirectly), and Les Miserables. Recent Tony Winners from prose are Hamilton, Fun Home, and A Gentleman's Guide to Love & Murder.

I think there are great opportunities in the books and short stories that are already available in terms of using them to create works for the theater. The trouble is breaking in. In general, this requires being part of a theater community.

I live in the New York area, so the barrier is low, and you can even end up with industry people in your audience. Chicago, Toronto, and London are good theater cities, too. There are other cities like Edinburgh (which specializes in “fringe” work) and non-English language cities (Athens, Tokyo). And there seem to be “live” online venues emerging, thanks to the pandemic.

If you can become part of a community, my advice would be to look for Public Domain prose works where dialogue is a major strength and the story is simple enough for a one-act play. One-acts in small theaters provide laboratories for learning, finding collaborators, and building credentials. (Then be ready to jump when someone asks for a full-length work.)

Prose (Novel, Novella, Short Story) to Film-Opportunity Medium
-Art Medium

I’ve been told that there was a time when Hollywood would see the galleys of a promising book before the author did. Something similar may still be true for comics, but I doubt reading-averse Hollywood cares now until readers validate the work.

So… the advantage is the many of the Public Domain works are already validated. Admittedly, those readers are mostly dead, but the titles and names of authors might have lived on. It has to be a work that has cinematic potential, in story and action. (I’d look at novellas first.) Think in terms of updating the story for our times. Oh, and move quickly. Someone else may be looking at the same works.

Stage to Film
-Opportunity Medium-Low
-Art Medium

Talkies created a great migration of writers from Broadway to Hollywood because of the need for dialogue. A lot of beloved works came from these writers, sometimes as their plays (The Front Page) became films with few changes.

Considering opportunities in the Public Domain, begin by abandoning musicals. Few had stories that were much more than excuses for the songs. (The stories in Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers films provide a good approximation of what writers could get away with.) My understanding is the Broadway Musical changed with Oklahoma! Since then, audiences expect more in terms of story.

But there may be treasure in the non-musicals. It takes more imagination to see the opportunities for cinema in a stage script, but they are there. If this catches your interest, learn from the best. Study how the action and visuals implied by Shakespeare made it into the best adaptations of his work. Then find your own Shakespeares of the 20s. 

Film to Stage
-Opportunity Low
-Art Medium

For today’s work, this mostly involves big budget, and it’s much more likely that going to the stage will include adding music (unless, as with the animations, it’s already there).

The main concern on Public Domain is dialogue wasn’t a part of film yet (The Jazz Singer came out in 1927), and most plays are dialogue rich. Even if the story could be easily adapted, using a silent as a selling point doesn’t confer much advantage.

Poetry (or Lyrics) to Stage
-Opportunity Medium
-Art High

Cats stands out as an unusual case of success. And I saw a brilliant stage adaptation of The Illiad. But even though there list of examples runs out fast, poetry and lyrics fit the stage nicely, since speech is dominant. Story is the sticking point. Were there any magical narrative poems written in the 20s? I don’t know, but it might be worthwhile to check.

I suspect there are great possibilities with lyrics. In the 20s, Tin Pan Alley was alive and well, with wit, personality, and innumerable innovative cultural mixes. So, find a song that tells a story and can be delivered to today’s listeners, and that’ll be a good start toward a story. The selling point becomes the catchy song. The tough part is growing a story from that tiny seed.

Film to Prose
-Opportunity Low
-Art Low

These are called novelizations. Today, they come to writers through agents. And they almost always result in clearly derivative, second-rate work. One exception I know of… Isaac Asimov once was asked what he thought about how Hollywood had turned his novel, Fantastic Voyage, into such a mediocre film. He immediately said, “I turned a mediocre film into a good book.”

TV to Prose
-Opportunity Low
-Art Low

What happens here, even today, is even worse than what happens when films are novelized. (I’m sure there are exceptions.) And there are no 20s TV shows waiting for adaptation.

Film to Music
-Opportunity Low
-Art High

The songs are made to push the movies, but some wonderful songs by some marvelous composers/lyricists have been created. The gigs go to people with track records.

With that in mind, it may be that watching Harold Lloyd or Mary Pickford do their work in silent films could inspire some songs worth hearing, especially if a contemporary angle could be explored. It would be fun to give it a try.

Film or TV to Fiction Podcast (or Radio Theater)-Opportunity Low
-Art High

Okay the Public Domain opportunities for TV won’t be around for decades. There are films to adapt, but they are silent. (Post-1940 films, mostly series like Henry Aldrich and Captain Midnight, were adapted from radio dramas.) With that said, some of the TV shows (Have Gun Will Travel) and films (Star Wars) adapted have been good. 

Poetry (or Lyrics) to TV-Opportunity Low
-Art Low



I'm not aware of this happening, other than television events based on epic poems. It might work.

TV to Poetry (or Lyrics)
-Opportunity Low
-Art Low

Okay, I’ll admit some good songs have come from TV shows (but not by people without contacts and credentials). But, again, there were no TV shows in the 20s.

Stage to Poetry (or Lyrics)
-Opportunity Low
-Art Low

Musicals come with their own songs, of course. I’m not sure that a stage play has inspired verse or original songs.



By design, this post ends with what seem to be not adaptation possibilities, but impossibilities. But I'm happy to be proven wrong. Creating a rap musical based on Chernow's biography (over 800 pages) of Alexander Hamilton drew skepticism and laughter. Be the genius that shows the way.

Adaptation 1 -- Stories from the 1920s that could be yours

I was a kid who read credits. I remember asking my Dad about the letters after people’s names. Happily, since he worked in radio and avidly read Broadcasting, he knew arcane facts, like ACE stands for American Cinema Editors.

But all by myself, I figured out what “based on” meant. It meant the show would have a good story. Most of the time. Eventually, I figured out the film or TV show came from another medium — a short story, a magazine article, a Broadway play, or a novel.

I leaned in when I saw those words in the credits, and, usually, the promise was fulfilled. Adaptations suggest the story has already proven itself and it’s being given a second chance. Consider these films:
Casablanca (from the play Everybody Comes to Rick’s)
Gone With the Wind (novel)
The Wizard of Oz (novel)
Lawrence of Arabia (biography Seven Pillars of Wisdom)
The Godfather (novel)
Dr. Strangelove (the novel Red Alert)
Apocalypse Now (the novella Heart of Darkness)

or, more recently…

There Will Be Blood (the novel Oil!)
Lord of the Rings (novel)
Brokeback Mountain (short story)

It’s worth remembering Star Trek films came from TV and James Bond films come from novels. Along with many, many comic books.

Traditionally, TV has grabbed ideas from films and even been created based on films. Fargo, Fame, Alice, Bates Motel. Game of Thrones (from the novels) and, again, untold adaptations of comic books, are worth mentioning.

I bring this up because a flood of material has come out of copyright recently . It used to be that every year provided material, but changes in the law created a huge store of titles in film, books, articles, songs, and more. In sheer numbers, the works released into the public domain in 2019 exceeded any past year in my life. 2020 created another haul, and the river won’t run dry for decades.  (Duke University has posted 2019 and 2020 Public Domain Day pages with lots of examples.)

I hope you find this exciting. Celebrate, but proceed with caution. Probably the most familiar adage (regarding film adaptation) is, “It wasn’t as good as the book.” Adaptation isn’t easy.

The safest bet is probably simply to remake an old movie close to what already succeeded (but with new technology and today’s actors), but that’s not really adaptation. And it is unlikely to benefit from a fresh perspective. The social reason for the public domain is to invite a new generation to reinterpret great works and bring them new life. Look at what artists have done over the years to provide new perspectives on Shakespeare. Aim high. Think West Side Story.

Faced with the riches of the past, it might be hard to choose which projects to explore. My advice is to find the ones that were meant for you:
    •    your truth - authentic observations you recognize
    •    your questions - exciting you to dig deeper
    •    your themes - what they reveal about the human condition that feels honest and important

Or, they might have pieces missing that you can provide by:
    •    interrogating them through today’s lens
    •    excavating the text and identifying the undercurrents
    •    identifying something you want to push against and challenge
    •    recognizing scenes that call for new techniques or technologies
    •    reacting to contrasts and tensions between our times and theirs

Once you make it personal, do you keep it in the same medium? Or take it somewhere else?
That will be the subject of next week’s post.