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.