Is It a Novel, a Script, or a Poem? Thoughts on where your story belongs

It’s a cliche that readers will say of a movie, “the book was better.” That’s not surprising. A good book takes you inside the characters like a movie never could. It immerses you in a world for days (or weeks, if you read at may speed) instead of a couple of hours. And, provided you have a developed imagination, the images you see will be vibrant and memorable in a good book.

Of course, there are exceptions. I’ve read most of Philip K. Dick’s novels and many of his short stories, but I prefer the movies Bladerunner and Minority Report to the Dick’s texts. The Godfather movies (I&II) are classic. The book, not so much. Jaws the movie is much better than Benchley’s book. Did working on the script give him a second chance? Was it cowriter Gottlieb or director Spielberg? Or was the material more cinematic?

On Jaws, I’d go for the last. Getting into the characters’s heads directly (a strength of books) wasn’t helpful in a story where external conflicts and their development through the plot are so powerful. And visually rich.

I’m pondering these because I have just been part of Zoom sessions looking at the strengths and weakness of novels, films, poems, fiction podcasts (radio theater), stage plays, and television (or Web series). The discussions were wonderfully free range, with opinions, advice, and examples. As it happens, I’ve worked in all these areas, and that includes some adaptation. One short story of mine became a stage play and then was optioned for a film. So I’ll take what I heard, mix it with my own experiences, and present it here. You may want to add a grain of salt.

For me, while movies can be dialogue rich and require few visuals, they provide a great way to tell stories that feature images. A test I put all my film scripts through is imagining how they might be presented as silent movies. The power is most evident when forcing attention or perspective. Some of the most memorable movie moments for me were where I wanted to look away and couldn’t (e.g., moments in Aliens, On the Waterfront, and The Untouchables). In addition to taking people out of their comfort zones, movies can guide you through wonderful but uncanny dreams, like Big Fish.

Perhaps the signature moment of directorial power is the close up. With the right actor and the right moment, the intimacy can be overwhelming. But pacing and energy can be driven, too, through camera movement and editing (fast or languid). Spectacle (which is often outside of story values, but still entertaining) represent another case of leveraging the visual for entertaining films. Set pieces such as explosions and big monsters have their place. All of these, by the way, may or may not be in the hands of the writer. (There are some ways, for instance, to suggest a close-up without insulting the director by calling for it in the script.)

(Comics are not an area of expertise for me, but I suspect they are much like movies. Before I could read, I pored through the Sunday comics. I loved that Ferd’nand told stories with no words at all, but I got more out of Lil’ Abner and Prince Valiant, where I was forced to invent my own stories.)

This is not to say that dialogue (along with things usually beyond the writer, like music) isn’t of major importance to some of the best films made. But dialogue, at this point is more important in television (with roots in radio and small screens) so far.

Stage plays absolutely rely on dialogue. However, more than with films and tv, stage dialogue is often stylized. So stories that take advantage of the rhythms and sounds within dialogue to make language into a kind of emotional music may fit best on the stage.

Of course, poetry, except as it sits on the page (e.g., with e e cummings), is about word choice, rhythm, and sounds. In my experience, the richest poetry not only invites repeated readings (including reading out loud), but requires it for fuller understanding. Often, poetry does not tell a story, but epic poems, like the Iliad, have become cornerstones of culture and invite performance and memorization. Poetry is a difficult form, but its close cousin, song lyrics is worth exploring. For storytellers who might not recognize the opportunities, I recommend traditional folk songs and country music. Note how effectively Breaking Bad used Marty Robbins’s “El Paso” (also, “Felina”) to place a story within a story.

Next week, I’ll provide some rough rules of thumb for choosing how to tell your story. Also, some thoughts on adaptation.

Discovering Your Characters’s Secrets - Interviews that probe deeply

The more complex my characters, the more difficult it is to get the best answers from them. Even 50 rude questions only give me some of what I want. Their evasions can be revealing, but I’ve found with my current characters — who are all smarter than I am — there’s a glibness that hides the truth.

In my non-fiction life, I’ve interviewed a range of people, from Linus Pauling to Steve Allen to Nora Roberts. I’ve had to bring my A game to them. Why not characters, too?

So this week, I’m sharing some questions that provided more of the inner lives for me. Some questions worked for some characters. Some worked for others. I hope you find some useful ones. And if these don’t fit yours? I have some approaches to forming your own questions that might work.

The first approach is providing a prompt rather than a question. “Tell me about…” has given me more wonderful responses than any other approaches, so here’s a sampling of them.

Tell me about the worst advice you ever got.
Tell me about the best advice you ever got.
Tell me about a gift that was important to you, why, and what happened to it.
Tell me about a difficult choice you’re proud of making.
Tell me how you expect you’ll be remembered and why.
Tell me about an interesting pet you’ve had (or why you’ve chosen not to have pets).
Tell me about your most life-changing experience with nature.

Note that the only answer here that would be likely to get a quick answer is the first. The others probably will develop in the process of responding. They invite exploration and most of them don’t prompt for good/bad values.

The second approach is active and focused on preparation. This reveals awareness, planning, and sometimes fight or flight responses that are surprising. It is good to set these up with limits. For instance:

You have two hours. What do you pack for a camping vacation?
or
You have a thousand dollars. How do you spend it for a wedding?

Limits for the following may vary:

How would you prepare for two weeks with no phone or Internet?
How would you prepare for a days-long dust storm?
How would you prepare for a final conversation with a loved one?
How would you prepare for police questioning after you’ve witnessed a murder?
How would you prepare when a bully from your childhood calls and says he’s coming to your house?

The third approach is “either/or.” Sometimes these are dilemmas.

Would you rather spend the rest of your life homeless or homebound?
Would your rather wake up with empathy intact but logic lost or the reverse?
Would you look at the genetic test data answering whether the child you’ve been raising is really yours?
Do you rescue the only copy of a lost Dickens novel or the ninety-year-old serial child abuser?

But these can also explore dreams.
Would you rather win a Grammy or a Nobel Prize and why?
Would you rather have a happy child or the ability to fly and why?
Would you rather have a  billion dollars or create a song that people will still love and sing 1,000 years from now, and why?
Would you rather get sole credit for an app the blocks online bullying 100% or be part of a mostly anonymous team that ends world hunger?

Again, these are example questions, mostly tied to understanding the values, fears, needs, and wants of characters. You can use them as is, but making up your own versions is what will probably reveal the most about your characters.

One final suggestion. Listen to the answers (even though they come from fictional characters). This is something real-life interviewers often don’t do. It’s starkly evident when I hear questions asked that have already been answered. That is unlikely with your characters, but, when you get a “wow” response, it’s easy to be impressed and declare success. Don’t. Ask a follow-up question. Why stop digging when you strike gold?

Understanding Character Moments - A day in the life

Action and conflict – these are the stuff of fiction. But much can be revealed in stillness. In quiet. In what is normal in the life of one of your characters.

I love to explore typical days for characters. I’m curious about how their lives differ from mine, and how they respond to pedestrian challenges can say a lot about what will happen with all hell breaks loose.

Your setting can bring reality and meaning through a routine day. So instead of focusing on what your character does, focus on his or her environment.

The Place - Begin by describing key elements that would allow readers or an audience to put themselves, physically, in the locale. Max Adams has a mantra for scriptwriters – space, light, texture. Write them down in that order. Space needs to convey the size and shape of the room, hall, airport terminal, etc. Light specifies how the space is illuminated (Sunlight through a dirty window? Track lights?  Torches?). Texture anchors the scene with at least one object (a table, a jukebox, a bicycle), described vividly.

Note –While color may be valuable, texture is essential. Rough wood, smooth chrome, velvet, and sticky stains are more evocative because even though they are perceived through the eyes, they engage the sense of touch.

Beauty and ugliness – In each locale, what is the most aesthetically pleasing element? What offends the eye? Go further, and determine what might please or irritate the other senses.

Distractions – Is there anything in the space that demands your character’s attention? (Chances are it will be something in motion. We’re built to take notice of things that move.)

Surprises – Even though your day in the life is supposed to be typical, even boring, for your character, you may find an element in a scene that surprises you. Write it down.

Associations – Since this is familiar space, it is likely to remind the character of people and events. It may even stir up emotions. Note these down. They are invaluable.

Finishing details – If the above does not sufficiently communicate, keep adding elements until it really comes across. Don’t leave a scene incomplete.

As you work through these, consider some of the less tangible elements. Are there rules that restrict behavior (like quiet in a hospital)? Is the protagonist out of place and uncomfortable? Does time play an important role (say in catching a train)? Does dress matter? Don’t hesitate to explore these scenes beyond the basics, and be sure to write down what catches your interest.

Also, make notes on anything that raises questions or prompts research. There is a reason why your muse is pointing out certain elements. Many of them are there to enhance your story.

Viktor Frankl said, "For the meaning of life differs from man to man, from day to day and from hour to hour. What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general but rather the specific meaning of a person's life at a given moment."

What's true for us may be true for our characters. By looking more carefully at the mundane moments of characters's lives, glimpses of meaning may reveal themselves.