A Writer’s Resolutions

 I’ve already compiled a list of key projects for 2022. Since opportunities pop up, a list like that isn’t “final,” but it’s invaluable to my resetting focus and avoiding weaker projects that beg for my attention.

My rule is always to keep goals confined to what’s in my control. So it’s about completing a novel, not selling one. If I have a finished work I want in the marketplace, my goal is to submit, not be accepted by a specific editor, agent, or producer. And with something like a podcast, it’s producing the show, not reaching an audience size that I set as a goal.  (Of course, doing due diligence on markets and collaborators may be a goal.)

There’s another kind of list, a list tied to the formation of myself as the kind of writer I want to be. It’s a project where instead of a manuscript, I am the project. The planning is comprised of education, experiences, and exercises that will mold my skill, habits, knowledge, and sensitivities… directing me toward being a more capable writer or discovering a new perspective on writing.

Anyway, here’s my list:
 
    1.    Collaborate with someone new. Nothing teaches like working with someone else. Sometimes I learn by observing. Other times, it’s through helping someone else explore something new. Most often, it’s because I or my collaborator(s) ask questions. Doable? I’ll be putting on a producer’s hat in 2022 and enlisting people to work with me.
    2.    Write poetry.  I want to think more deliberately about language and capture/develop insights. I haven’t written poetry in years, so it’s time for me to return to it. Doable? Yes. It’s a matter of putting the work on my calendar. I’ll draft a poem a week and get four of them ready for submission.
    3.   See a world in a grain of sand. When I serve the scientist in me, I sharpen my powers of observation. One year, I paid attention the birds who visit my feeder (often those waiting for a turn), and I discovered differences in behaviors and strategies. Some of those got me thinking about analogues to humans. I’ll take 2022 to learn more about trees. Doable? I already have a book, and I’m lucky enough to have a variety of trees on my property. Let the exploration begin!
    4.    Pitch and/or propose a novel. This has been on my projects list before. It belongs here now because my purpose is less about finding opportunities than it is to knock the rust off and reorient myself toward books. (My focus has been more on scripts in recent years). The manuscript is worth testing in the marketplace and will teach me about a world I've been away from. Doable? I have a starting point. I know how to research publishers and, in the past, I’ve been able to pitch and write proposals in ways that got requests. Even my skill set is out of date, there are no barriers to making the attempt.
    5.    Mentor. This is always on my list, so I know it will force me to articulate ideas and listen deeply. I never know what I’ll learn. Doable? Yes. I’ve kept my project list modest enough to provide the needed time.
    6.    Get out of my comfort zone. One year, even though I’m an introvert, I took an improv class. It paid off in pitching I’ve done because it requires dealing with whatever someone else throws at you, and making responses brief. (Note: This one doesn’t need to be directly related to writing.) Doable? I have a fallback list of courses and activities, but I’ll probably choose something that’s ridiculous. As long as it doesn’t involve jumping out of an airplane.
    7.    Kill a project. This won’t be an active project. It will be something that has been rattling in my brain too long. Doable? Yes. I can be ruthless. My time is not infinite.
    8.    Master one skill. I’m curious about operations, ways to handle flow of media (magazines, books, podcasts, etc.), opportunities, and tasks vying for my attention. I think having a wide net is essential for a writer, but too often, what flows in doesn’t get processed. And stuff accumulates. Doable? Probably. So far, my needs don’t match up well enough with what I know of engineering principles to create an ideal process. But rather than get bogged down with finding perfect answers, I'll see what emerges from trial and error. Could be disappointing.
    9.    Explore the weird. Hours can disappear if I accept the rabbit holes the Internet offers. I’ve gotten good at resisting all the allures, but, with that discipline, there’s been a reduction in the curiosities that used to fill my life, all the way back to my days of leafing through encyclopedias and wandering library stacks. I need some fun facts to know and tell my friends. Doable? I’d love to return to haunting library. Covid has kept me away for too long. But I have an old encyclopedia and lots of weird books gathering dust, and they’ll do the job if “normal life” continues to stay on hold.
    10.    Fun. I’ve never have added this before. That's been a mistake because too much of what might be recreation (reading, films, hobbies) ends up serving projects. Focus is fine, but my instincts tell me I need more fun and nonsense in my life. Doable? I'm not sure. There's a contradiction inherent to planning to be spontaneous. I may need to add notes on my calendar. And a daily question… Did you have fun (unrelated to a project) today?

Almost certainly, my list isn’t the best one for you, but I hope you’re encouraged to reflect on the kind of writer you’d like to become in 2022 and how you could get closer to realizing your goals.

Thirty Questions to Help Storytellers Make Scenes More Emotional

Ray Bradbury maintained emotion is key to storytelling. In fact, his advice was…

“find out who you really are, and try not to lie, try to tell the truth all the time. And the only way to do this is by being very active and very emotional, and get it out of yourself — making things that you hate and things that you love, you write about these then, intensely. When it’s over, then you can think about it; then you can look, it works or it doesn’t work, something is missing here. And, if something is missing, then you go back and reemotionalize that part, so it’s all of a piece.”

A starting point for evaluating a scene is getting back to your own emotional experience. It can’t be faked. In my experience, there are more steps to bring emotion to readers, and I created some questions to explore along four dimensions — Assessing the Scene, Putting Emotions in Context, Considering the Audience, and Tuning with Tools.

Assessing the Scene
    1.    Can you name the emotions? Beginning? End?
    2.    Do the emotions feel genuine?
    3.    What score would you give the emotions (1-10 or something subjective like meh, intriguing, unsettling, inciting.)
    4.    Are emotions experienced through the right character? (Often, this is the character with the most at risk.)
    5.    Are emotions proportional to the stakes?
    6.    Do emotions reflect change to an important relationship?
    7.    Is surprise an element? Could it be?
    8.    Do the characters react in proportion to events that trigger emotion?

Putting Emotion in Context
    1.    How do the emotions connect with the story’s theme? Do they add to the impact?
    2.    Are the emotions named worth the scene?
    3.    How do emotions add to the motivation and character arc?
    4.    How is the emotional experience interwoven with the plot?
    5.    Is the emotional experience highlighted by irreversibility? Or can what is done or decided be undone?
    6.    Does the emotion reflect the genre (horror/fear, romance/love)?
    7.    Does the emotion of this scene fit within the emotions and pacing of scenes before/after? The whole story?

Considering the Audience
    1.    Will the audience find this authentic or melodramatic?
    2.    Are the hopes/fears of the audience at the scene’s start set up?
    3.    Will the audience be defending against strong emotions or have they been made more open though devices like comic relief?
    4.    Are there elements in the scene (descriptions, complexity, too many characters) that distract from emotion, or is it trimmed to the essentials?
    5.    Is the emotional arc of the scene accessible to the intended audience?
    6.    Is the audience sufficiently engaged with the viewpoint character, the situation, and what’s at risk?
    7.    Are alternative choices (allowing the character — and audience — to avoid emotion) cut off?  

Tuning with Tools
    1.    Is necessary information fresh and valued or are reminders needed? Should elements be repeated?
    2.    Are emotions merely stated or are they shown physically, through character statements, and through actions?
    3.    Is each essential emotional beat given enough (or too much) time? Is the pacing right?
    4.    Could poetic tools (sound and imagery) be used to deepen emotion?
    5.    Could the stakes be raised or the choices made more difficult?
    6.    Is emotion understated (or overstated)?
    7.    Could the setting be changed to charge the emotion (say, putting the scene is a public setting)?
    8.    Could the protagonist be put under a time constraint forcing an action or decision?

Overall, the biggest barrier to true and appropriately intense emotions is usually the writer. Like the audience, there are times when we may protect ourselves (and our characters) from feeling too much. Also, fascination with the intellectual elements (like puzzles and inventions), settings, and language may provide value that is more about wit than feelings. So a final test of the scene might be seeing if, once what appeals to the head and the ego is removed, the emotions of the scene alone have enough power to engage and entertain.

Eleven Questions to Ask About Your Story Premise

The deeper I get into writing, the more I appreciate the value of making careful choices about the material I choose to write about. Though I still get value out of doing quick drafts (five pages or so) to explore story ideas and characters, I’m much more selective about projects that will likely take more than a week to reach “the end.”

This is not to say my radar is still up for what might be interesting to audiences. For me, both capturing notions (real or imagined) and brainstorming are processes done without filters. The strangest ideas smash together (sometimes years later), and weird, inappropriate stuff will often lead me to treasure.

Which brings up a Washington Post story that popped up today. A climber reached the site of a 1966 airline crash and found a box full of emeralds and sapphires. What a story prompt! The box was found in France and headed to India. I’ve visited both countries! This is perfect for me!

No. No. No. My connection is not exactly strong since I have not climbed in the Alps and I have no expertise in jewels. This is a front page story internationally, meaning writers worldwide will take this as a prompt (no doubt, one with a deal with the climber). And I’ve just suggested this to you and anyone else who reads this post. (Or blog, possibly books, of those who regularly harvest my blog posts for non-English-speaking audiences.)

No. (Probably not.)

On the basis of analysis and instinct, I’ve been cutting back on my to-be-written and to-be-rewrtten lists. I’m happy with the results, so I’m sharing some questions I use to qualify premises. (For an earlier view on this, see A Story Premise You Can Love and Cherish: 10 questions. For analysis of premises, see my series on the topic.)

• After noting the idea, developing a premise, and exploring with a few pages, am I still excited? Even after letting the premise cool for a month? Does the excitement rise to a sustainable passion to tell the story?
• Am I the best one to tell this story? Can I really get into the world (either because I know it or I can do enough research)? Can I authentically present the characters? Does this resonate with an experience or issue that matters to me?
• Is the character compelling? Already whispering in my ear? Insistent? Popping back into my head even after I say no to the story?
• Are there already intriguing answers by a character to some of the 50 Rude Questions?
• Are more than one ideas connected in a fresh way that implies specific scenes?
• Does this premise fill me with anticipation and expectations? Does it fit into a genre I’m comfortable with?
• Is the setting one I know well or could learn about through friends, lesser known research materials, or my processes for speculation?
• Do I have one big scene or three small scenes of interest already running through my brain?
  

Not necessary, but supporting my commitment, are these questions:

• Do I see a connection with an emerging social issue?
• Can I already see an appealing ending? Beginning?
• Do I have a terrific title?

Work still needs to be done. Research may show necessary information is inaccessible. The character in mind may be a bad fit as a protagonist. Development may reveal reasons not to proceed. A shorter work that includes most of what I love may be a better choice.

The main advantage for me of making questioning and ranking premises part of my process is focus. The stuff that’s set aside isn’t distracting or tempting me. In addition, the questions suggest pathways for further exploration and development. Overall, my commitment to projects (and eagerness to stay engaged) goes beyond completing a draft (a problem for some, but not for me) to doing all the rewrites that make the story as good as it can be (often my worst problem).

Though I hope some of these questions are useful, one size does not fit all. I’d encourage you to develop your own. The more they are yours, the higher the possibility that you’ll get full value from this step.

Character Relationship Arcs

While story arcs and character arcs get the most attention from writers, character relationship arcs may be the most important in creating emotional appeal. For this, romances can be praised. Everything in the story, from “meet cute” to “happily ever after,” turns on how the characters grow to become lovers.

Some of the best romances illustrate how difficult trust, vulnerability, respect, and mutual appreciation can be. They show true relationships being built and tested by different values, interests, needs,  and outside forces. And we don’t just listen as the characters talk through issues, we see them act, often sacrificing and acting with courage to demonstrate what they learned, or haven’t.

Consequences for behaviors that support or threaten deep and lasting connections aren’t just imagined and discussed. They are shown, providing agonizing moments and those worthy of celebration. Romance climaxes often include the person needing to change the most making a “grand gesture” in public at great risk, followed (usually after a tense moment of doubt) by the affirmation of true love.

Character relationships arcs are vital to other genres, too. In a rags to riches story, the expectations of the old gang will often test the resolve of the protagonist. In Working Girl, no one—from the slimy boyfriend to the caring girlfriend—wants Tess to reach her ambitions or fulfill her promise. In some ways, they represent more of a threat to growth and achievement than the villain. In most rags to riches stories, the protagonist has to make a sacrifice and break bonds with family and friends.

Genres like mysteries and thrillers may put relationship arcs off to the side or give them one moment (a betrayal or reward). Die Hard is an exception. It skillfully intertwines the hero’s reconciliation with his wife throughout the story and never is far from the minds of audiences. And I’d argue that there’s a real arc for the relationship between the hero and the villain.

But whatever your genre is, there’s a potential for small moments that show that the nature of the attachment (for the good or ill) has changed. It can be quiet or loud, but most people will react to that change. We know how it feels. We all have grown and changed and seen how our opinions, ideas, behaviors, and values have deepened or eroded friendships and romances and even the ability to work with colleagues. Finding the opportunities to reflect changes in relationships (whether a full arc or one moment) can set your story apart and resonate with readers or audiences.

The first step is recognizing when characters begin to change, gain knowledge, and transform. These moments of growth can be viewed through other characters eyes, and their reactions will point to potential arcs. What’s lost and gained? What about the relationship is revealed? When Luke Skywalker loses his aunt and uncle, he loses an attachment, but gains the freedom to go from farm boy to hero. When Darth Vader cuts down Obi-Wan before his eyes, he (mostly) loses a friend. It’s agonizing (much more so that the loss of his aunt and uncle), but he gains the responsibility that forces him to truly mature and grow up.

Game of Thrones is a torture chamber of relationship arcs. It’s what makes it so emotional and engaging. The story significance of a new bond or a loss (usually by death or betrayal) is often less important than how the change in the bond impacts the mood and emotions of character we empathize with.

The more you see, understand ,and feel the relationship arcs in stories you love, the more you’ll have examples to create your own. So I invite you to look for them in the stories you read or watch. If it all seems too difficult at first, grab a good romance where the arc is center stage. Keep at it until you spot an arc between a main character and a secondary character that matters enough to touch your heart. Such small moments, once recognized, will provide examples that will be invaluable to your storytelling.

Engaging Readers More Deeply by Making Your Storytelling Moment to Moment

 This post came from a question is a recent course. I've covered the immersion experience in the past. This supplements it with a "how-to" for the most important aspect, presenting the story in a moment-to-moment fashion. Here's my method:

Making your scenes “in the moment” improves the ability of readers to immerse themselves in the story and identify with the viewpoint character. Making a scene truly moment-to-moment can be a challenge for writers because the early drafts often involve writing what we need to understand (and the reader doesn’t). This leads to scenes that are heavy on exposition, reflection about the past, and even flashbacks and flashforwards. (Robert Cormier, author of The Chocolate War, said, though needed to write them, he always needed to cut the first three chapters of his books.)

So it’s just fine (probably necessary) to drop out of moment-to-moment in drafts, but this needs to get cleaned up in rewriting. Especially in the beginning of the story. (Later scenes have more latitude.)

1. Print out the first pages (up to ten to start, more as needed).
2. Highlight
•     any exposition
•     any flashbacks or flashforwards
•     any reflection that includes information that is not in the moment (including reflection that occurs in the scene time but includes the past)
•     any dialogue that references the past
3. Make an electronic copy of the pages you’ve marked up so you can work with them without losing your original ideas.
4. Cut everything that is highlighted on your printed pages. This will be heartbreaking, but do it.
5.  Rework so the remaining prose makes sense through what is seen, what is sensed, what is said, what is done, and (carefully) what is thought in the moment. It is not necessary for all reader questions to be answered. It will be tempting to put a lot of out of the moment material in the thoughts. Don’t do that.
6. Read the pages out loud to get a sense of how they flow and if they stay sequential in the moment. Often, important pieces are left out or presented in the wrong order. After the fixes, see if YOU feel immersed.
7. Go back and look at the highlighted prose on the printed copy. Some of it can be revealed LATER (almost always to good effect). Circle that. Some, THE READER DOESN’T REALLY NEED, although you may. Strike that. Some (probably a small amount) is NEEDED in your first ten pages. (When in doubt, leave it out.)
8. Work the NEEDED bits into the first ten pages with care. Smooth the prose.

In the end, you should have a more immersive beginning (or full story, for flash fiction). I’ve found that it encourages me to include more action and make the pages more question-raising (removing unnecessary explanations). Readers find moment-to-moment addictive and will keep reading. And you can use more exposition, etc., later on, after they are fully engaged with the story.

This process is (purposely) overdoing things. With practice, you may be able to achieve moment-to-moment by just reviewing the pages and deleting what’s not needed in them.

Which Story Structure Should You Use?

Our brains naturally seek order. We want to put together instances, images, actions, evidence, imagination, and more to understand, satisfy our curiosities, assess safety and danger, learn lessons, connect, and have emotional experiences.

As a storyteller, structure is your main tool for bringing order. Clarity is a primary responsibility because many people will lose confidence in the tale and abandonment if they can't make sense of it. Or if there's not, at the very least, the promise of making sense. So linear storytelling, which is the primary way most people explain the world to themselves, is the most common structure. There is often a rigorous logic: this happened, so this happened, so this happened, but then this happened. As the chain is built, more is revealed to the reader/audience.

But every moment isn't linear. We reference past experiences throughout our days. We anticipate, project, and imagine possible futures. We dream and daydream to edit, sort, and play with our realities. So many linear stories are interrupted by flashbacks, flashforwards, considerations, memories, evaluations, and distortions.

When enough of these interruptions to the linear narrative find their ways into a story, that story becomes nonlinear. A movie like Pulp Fiction has multiple threads that are presented without concern about chronology. A movie like Memento works backwards. There are circular structures and many other variations, as well.

So, how does this fit with the idea clarity? The answer is that stories are not mathematical equations. Often, part of the fun is engaging with the story by putting the pieces together and making discoveries and finding new meanings along the way. We enjoy surprises, revelations, and finding answers for ourselves. And we’re willing to put in the work and deal with a certain amount of uncertainty to experience that fun. Writers who have content that can pay off in this way (and audiences who enjoy it) will push beyond the linear as far as they can.

But thrilling and inviting participation and providing aha! experiences don't explain everything. Many subtle works which would never be considered mysteries or adventures or surrealistic stories play with story structure to enhance understanding and intensify emotions.

A simple example is comic relief. When things get tense or disturbing, a writer will often insert a funny moment. Why? Because we naturally protect ourselves against big emotions. The moment of comic relief distracts us from the emotions (often dark) that are building so that when the payoff comes we are unguarded.

There are many ways that structure contributes to emotions. Repeated sequences can become rituals to unlock feelings. And they can become even richer when the sequence is turned or broken after it’s learned. Sometimes parallel stories are placed so that comparison is invited (as I mentioned recently in my analysis of Catch Me If You Can). Even characters returning to a place can invite comparison with their last visit there, causing us to reflect on how things changed.

Exposition is often provided out of sequence because its natural placement lacks a context that demonstrates its value. Where information is placed, as every mystery writer knows, can make it memorable or allow it to hide in plain sight.

Storytellers also use another trick, choosing the point of view. For instance, a law story may shift point of view so that the character who is most vulnerable during interaction (say, a love scene) becomes the point of view character — enhancing the emotional impact for readers/audiences. This also can be used for ironic effect. Information presented from another character's point of view may tell us that something observed, missed, or experienced by a different character is more important than he or she realizes.

Very few stories play out in real time. Most have the dull parts cut out. Often this deviation from strict adherence to time is used for pacing. But it's not just editing. The placement of certain events can be used to manage pacing as well, disregarding the actual order of events. This is one of the uses of flashbacks.

The concept of pride of place is important, too. Where things show up – the beginning, the end, in association with a highly emotional scene – provides clues to how much they matter in the narrative. Some moments set up in support, while others are the jewels we came for. And we've learned there are times special things happen, and we lean in when stories reach those times.

Structure may also serve a purpose beyond the main story – spectacle. This can be as obvious as the insertion of car chases, explosions, and sex scenes, added to spice things up. But, especially in movies, the disruption in the story may have the purpose of including evocative images. Often these are wonderful in and of themselves, but more sophisticated storytellers will include them to suggest themes.

Images and dialogue and story logic and all the other parts of experiencing the story can be shifted around in delightful and novel ways, as long as they don't lose the attention of readers/audiences. Now, nothing satisfies everyone. Some people were delighted by the apparent chaos of Inception. Others found it tedious and unrewarding.

I should mention that sometimes the audience is the writer. A structure can provide the scaffolding some writers need and help them to focus in on what will work. I often use stories I love or that feel related to my topics as models to get me started or bring order to the ideas, characters, and moments that are rattling around in my brain. Usually (but not always), those structures survive the revision. But whether they persist or not, they raise questions, provide ways to challenge my ideas, and point me in directions worth exploring.

Another use of structure is to get attention. If you can present a satisfying story in a new or unexpected way, you have a powerful tool making your story stand out. Because people notice anything that is unusual. That’s a good practical reason for playing with structure, but notice the proviso:  present a satisfying story.

Which story structure should you use? Look through the options above (and what they provide), play with them, and make your choice based on what fits your purpose and your story (juxtaposition is almost always worth considering). Be open to make a strange choice, but return to the basics before you put your story out into the world: clarity, attention, and emotion.

Building, Twisting, and Deepening How Readers/Audiences View Character Reputations

I’m studying a TV series now, and the instructor pointed out that different characters become “go-to” for highlighting story/protagonist themes. It rang bells because my course with Danny Simon, many years ago, demonstrated how this works in comedy. Take a situation/comment and imagine responses for each character in the story. One will resonate. And that reflects what we expect of the characters.

Reputations are what drive our expectations. You know some characters can’t be trusted. Other will sacrifice themselves for others. Some will bring a laugh when it’s needed and others will point out what goes wrong. Last time, I used Catch Me if You Can (CMIFC) to present the evidence writers can use to shape reputation. This time I’ll talk about a few tools that can make the reputation memorable.

Building and Deepening

The reactions of other characters. In CMIFC, characters surprise us by accepting even slight evidence to continue trusting a character after that character has been proven untrustworthy. This ironic response reinforces our contrary point of view because it forces us (audience, reader) to defend the truth we’ve come to believe.

Repetition. This can be as simple as catch phrases that make sense, but it is more often a pattern of behavior. In CMIFC we know Frank will dig in and do research. In fact, he studies more and more intensely as time goes on. He similar builds on his other tactics, like distraction, often taking them to a new level (as when he surrounds himself with “stewardesses” to get past police and escape on a jet.

Seeing consequences. We naturally tend to observe choices and actions that lead to big results. Part of the fun of CMIFC is seeing what tricks might be used or might fail in a confidence game. The bigger the consequence (making piles of money, landing in a French prison), the more we attach specific attributes to a character. As always, if some of the results are surprising, they become more memorable.

Contrasts. CMIFC continuously plays Hanratty against Frank, usually in consecutive scenes. But one of the tricks for drama, and especially comedy, is creating situation that trap very different people together. Odd couples make it easy to assign characteristics.

Twisting

Losses, falls from grace. This is big in plot building, but it also reveals character, usually by showing that a characteristic that is assumed to be true is hollow. (It also make force the character to explore a latent talent or value and raise it to the top.)

Injustice. When a character is blamed unfairly or talents and values are unappreciated, it’s usually an emotional moment. And nothing makes information stick like emotions. This also might lead to a moment of courage, when the character stands up to the person who knocks them down (often even though it makes things worse for them). Betrayal is the flashing neon sign of this kind of a twist because it reverses expectations and shatters a personal connection.

Crushing cliches. There are a lot of stock character in fiction. They come with ready-made reputations (like the prostitute with the heart of gold). Often, writers will take advantage of that assumption long enough to lull audiences and readers in, then subvert it with unexpected behavior. A moment of grace from a villain or cruelty from a hero can deepen a story and become a vital, provocative moment.

Characters may double down when it’s ridiculous to do so. They may break away from their patterns and be misunderstood. They may make a late entrance that nullifies all the stories and rumors about them. They may behave differently in private than they do in public.

One of my favorite twists in CMIFC comes from Hanratty. A big contrast between him and Frank is his honesty. When he talks Frank into surrender, claiming the place is surrounded by angry police eager to kill him, we know he’s highly motivated to lie. And his statement seems ridiculous. But it turns out to be true. The one time he lies to Frank is when he says he can meet his dad when they get home. My interpretation is that he does this out of compassion, so Frank won’t have grief tearing him apart on the long flight home.

Exceptions and surprises, when they are tied to important turns, are memorable and always impact reputations.

How Writers Can Shape Characters’ Reputations (and Enhance Their Stories)

I was ready to push send on this post, a followup promised in the last one) when I realized reputation is a critical part of the movie Catch Me If You Can. It's filled with great examples. If you haven't seen it, you might want to take a look before reading further.

The main character, Frank, is already an expert in using appearance, charm, and gifts to get people to like and trust him. He got all this from his father, who was honored by the local Rotary, even as he was involved in tax evasion. Frank's first triumph is pretending to be a substitute teacher at his new school. He uses confidence, presence, and knowledge (of French) to pull it off.

He also uses it to humiliate a student who has bullied him, making him do a horrible recitation in French. In a sense, it's a moment of justice, but it also is a projection of power, which is another important element of reputation. Frank's ability to embarrass people, especially those who could challenge him, continues in the story (e.g., when he hides his ignorance of medical procedures from interns who could detect his con).

When he's caught at school, he reveals a knowledge of the use of documents for credibility, advising a student skipping class to fold the fake note from her mother. This foreshadows the use of documents as proofs throughout. He passes checks that are doomed to bounce. But passing them is more of a challenge. He needs more knowledge about who can pass checks easily (airline pilots).

For documents to have more success against challenges they need to overcome all the obstacles savvy people, like banks, put in the way. One of his actions is to obtain equipment to make checks that authenticate themselves.

So, so far we have reputation in its easiest form based on charm, likability, and confidence. Combined with reasonable documents, these can fool many people. Adding in knowledge can expand the range of people who believe. And the lack of knowledge or correct documents will engender disbelief and harm a person's reputation.

One piece of knowledge is jargon. Frank purposely learns how pilots talk, which becomes a short step toward another proof – the uniform. Often, people don't look past the uniform and in doubt people with credentials because they assume the appearance is validating. Showing a badge can gain cooperation. There is a funny take on this in the movie, where Hanratty accidentally shows a maid the back of his genuine FBI identification, and she accepts it.

Expertise — real knowledge and capability — also can bolster reputation. Another key element in the film is Frank's deep knowledge of stationary (which was his dad's business). He's obsessed with documents, and learns everything there is to learn about ink, paper, texture, and more. In fact, this genuine expertise gets him released early from prison to help the FBI. Ironically, he also shows expertise in law by passing a bar exam without cheating, but he loses all credibility with the judge because, though he has a lot of knowledge, he knows nothing about presenting a case.

Association is another means to harm reputation (as referenced regarding Stand by Me in the last post) or for building it (as with Frank claiming degrees from Harvard and Berkeley). Frank also claims to be working for the Secret Service (which handles crimes involving currency) to evade the FBI, and it's simply accepted, bolstered by handing over a wallet that he claims has his identification (and doesn't). Association is used in a negative way for Hanratty. The only people who will work with him are FBI screw ups. In fact, one of them is assigned to him as a punishment. This undermines his reputation, even though his knowledge is extensive.

One of the most intriguing elements of reputation in the movie is when The New York Times pegs Frank as a glamorous James Bond of the skies because of his ability to fool the airlines. Nicknames and public approbation can enhance reputation, but also can change a person inside. Frank deliberately accepts the Bond characterization, using the name Fleming (as in Ian) when he buys a suit that matches the one in the movie. He sees himself differently.

That brings up the impact of reputation and who is effected. Any piece of evidence that changes trust can work in different ways with different witnesses. In addition, the power and memorability of such evidence can be manipulated by writers to enhance a story. These will be the subject of my next post.

Your Story Can Turn on the Reputations (Good and Bad) of Your Characters

One of my favorite stories as a child was "Seven at One Blow" (also known as "The Brave Little Tailor"). The catalyst for the action is the tailor's claim that he killed seven. He actually killed seven flies, not, as people assumed, seven men. His reputation was overblown, but it opened up opportunities for him, eventually, to marry the princess and rule half the kingdom.

The Scarlet Letter is all about reputation in the community. Westerns are full of people challenged because they have the reputation of being the fastest gun. And it's very common in stories for characters to have their reputations threatened, which could destroy their hopes or even make them pariahs.

I love how in the movie Stand by Me, Gordy, the protagonist is overshadowed by his late brother's reputation as an athlete. In fact, it's interesting to see how, with all the action in that movie, reputation is vital to the story. For instance, Chris is trapped and abused because of the reputation created by his family. No one expects anything good from a Chambers boy. He's so oppressed, he's willing to surrender his future, but the story changes him so that he embraces his talents despite the community's opposition.

With all the great examples in fiction, I think, because visual storytelling is so powerful, the idea of reputation is neglected by today's storytellers. It still shows up, but often is its fully exploited because the focus is on goals and desires that you could photograph. Now, I'm a big advocate of having tangible goals and desires in stories. But sometimes deeply understanding the power of reputation can create story choices that resonate with audiences and readers.

As with the little tailor, can create opportunities (or threaten them, as with Chris). This can lead to more interesting and substantive challenges for the protagonist, putting him or her into a larger world where more is at stake.

A lot of new opportunities are founded on trust. If your reputation says you are both competent and someone who can be relied upon, people will want to include you in projects, to provide resources so you can do more, and possibly even seek you out as a friend, companion, or lover.

Of course, doors close if you are seen as someone who is untrustworthy. People will take precautions, at the very least, monitoring and testing your behaviors.

One of the most powerful things you can do in the story is have a trusted character betray others. It creates a visceral reaction tied to our own experiences of being disappointed in or damaged by people whom we trust.

In addition to opportunities and trust, those with remarkable reputations gain influence. Their advice, suggestions, and commands are listened to. They may even be seen as role models and their behavior may be imitated.

Note: While influence is often earned, reputation can be tied to expectations based on rank or association. Most people will obey a police officer. The influence of a General in the military may have nothing to do with known accomplishments, and everything to do with status. When I was in business, many executives were more likely to pay attention to someone with an Ivy League diploma (no matter how foolish they were) than to others. Cachet matters.

Reputation can be more granular. Think of a sports team. Someone who plays his or her position at an All-Star level, even though they may be disasters as human beings or as one coach described an athlete "dead from the neck up," they are welcomed as role players.

Likewise, people can make mistakes in specific areas and others will be warned not to give them another chance. In practice, it's often even worse than that, with people being defined by one horrible moment in their lives where they didn't meet the challenge.

The story possibilities of these consequences of reputation gained or lost aren’t exhausted with this list. Every single story could be looked at in terms of the value of reputation, both in terms of the people who matter to the protagonist and the impact on the character's confidence and self-esteem. How do you as a writer deliberately make use of reputation in stories? It begins with having a sense of how character reputations might be created, twisted, or destroyed as the story progresses. That will be the subject of next week's post.

50 Gentle Questions to Ask Your Characters

Do you know people who have a difficult time accepting a compliment? Who may even be more comfortable with constructive criticism? There are story characters that are like that, too. They have no problem exploring their faults and flaws, often seeing past bad behavior as learning experiences. Or they see current cravings not as “just who they are,” but as targets for improvement.

This is not to say that the characters (or real people) are saints. They can be as human as the rest of us, but they are comfortable recognizing and (often) admitting their shortcomings. With them, getting answers to my 50 Rude Questions is easy. Maybe too easy.

One of my most important writing practices is interviewing my follow-up questions. How they evade the truth tells me as much about who they are as their actual answers. Now, a straight arrow can be a hypocrite (or worse), but someone who is less egocentric and more self aware may welcome rude questions and answer them as best as he/she can. Think of most characters Tom Hanks has played.

I ran into such a goodhearted character while working on a recent story, and I came out of the interview with useful questions, but less of a sense of who he was. So I tried something new. I went after him with some gentler questions, and he got (wonderfully) uncomfortable. He had a lot of trouble talking about and owning some good traits and behaviors. That led to the kind of hesitations, equivocations, and telling responses that mean so much to my style of storytelling.

I’m eager to do more of this sort of questions, so I’ve used the experience to create this list of 50:

    1.    What kindness did you do for someone with no expectation of a return?
    2.    What lesson do you hope someone learned from you example?
    3.    What’s the most embarrassing compliment you’ve ever received?
    4.    What achievement are you most proud of?
    5.    When did you not get credit you expected?
    6.    Can you tell me about any friends or family who helped you get through adolescence?
    7.    How has a teacher inspired you?
    8.    Tell me about a time when it was awkward or difficult to do the right thing.
    9.    When someone suffered a loss, how were you able to comfort them?
    10.    What break or advice or example made you understand what your vocation was?
    11.    What challenging day of hard work ended best?
    12.    If you had a slogan on how to live your life well, what would it be?
    13.    What example or experience deepened your understanding of a value you treasure?
    14.    If you received a million dollars to make life better for others, how would you spend it?
    15.    What advice or story have you come to appreciate more with each passing year?
    16.    If you could spend an hour with one person from history, who would it be?
    17.    What’s the most important gift you’ve given or received?
    18.    What’s the greatest act of friendship you have personal knowledge of?
    19.    Which obstacle that you’ve faced taught you the most about life?
    20.    What moment would you like to relive?
    21.    On a regular basis, what’s the best use of time for you?
    22.    Which relative would you be most proud of being “just like”?
    23.    Tell me about someone you only came to respect and appreciate over time.
    24.    What advice led wisdom when you learned to ignore or reverse it?
    25.    What’s the biggest blind spot you moved past?
    26.    What’s the most important thing you learned accidentally?
    27.    What act of kindness (by you or to benefit you) led to the biggest payoff in terms of understanding?
    28.    What advice continues to challenge you to be better?
    29.    What incident caused you to seek out help that changed your life?
    30.    Tell me about a relationship that taught you the most about yourself.
    31.    Has someone ever rescued you?
    32.    What strength of yours is most needed by your family or community?
    33.    How did you respond successfully to a setback or blow that seemed impossible to overcome?
    34.    What’s the greatest gift your family or community ever gave you?
    35.    At this point it your life, who do you depend on most?
    36.    What was the most difficult choice for you between two apparent goods? Two apparent bads?
    37.    If you were drafted to provide a year of service to your community, what would you hope that service would be?
    38.    What for you are the values that are most difficult to put live out?
    39.    How do you express loyalty, affection, and commitment to others?
    40.    Is there anything that gets in the way of your doing the right thing?
    41.    Tell me about a time when you were surprised you had the strength to do something that mattered.
    42.    Tell me about a time when you were surprised by the positive impact of a choice you made.
    43.    What historical event would you have been delighted to witness firsthand?
    44.    What question would you have liked to have asked a contemporary who is dead now?
    45.    If you had one person you could partner with to get an important job done, who would that be?
    46.    Name a work of genius you admire that was created by a horribly flawed person.
    47.    Is there a chronic injustice in this world that you believe could be remedied in your lifetime?
    48.    Is there anything others see as nonsense that you see as wise?
    49.    If you could pass on just one fable, parable, or experience to the next generation, what would it be?
    50.    What do you hope your personal legacy will be?

For many of these, the follow-up questions are invaluable. While I often conceive of some questions in the moment and make them specific to the character, “Why?” almost always pays off.

Humiliating Villains (and Heroes)

One of the delicious aspects of entertaining fiction is what's sometimes called "creative humiliation of the villain." Seeing a bad guy kept his comeuppance in a way that wounds his ego never gets old. This often occurs after great damage to others, so it's an evening of the scales. But it also reflects repugnance for antagonists who believe they are smarter or better than everyone else and even taunt heroes and victims. I don't think I ever missed an episode of Colombo because each one enacted these little morality plays.

Against villains, humiliation provides readers or viewers a pay off. But humiliation can also be useful to good storytelling if it's used against heroes. Often, the reason why we empathize with the character is because he or she has been wronged. As Damon Knight told me once, "we've all been wronged, so we're naturally on their side." In addition, humiliation can contribute to real change. The more a character faces obstacles, including reputational damage (which is largely what humiliation is), the more likely they are to deal with a flaw.

Note: Depending on the villain, it might also be used to create a level of empathy or understanding. Think of the backstory of Syndrome’s rejection in The Incredibles.

Suffering humiliation for the sake of doing the right thing makes a character more noble in our eyes. In Jerry Maguire, Jerry makes himself vulnerable and reveals his true love in the presence of a women's group, where none of the members are on his side… to say the least.

How do you humiliate a character?

• Show the character has crossed the line or violated the taboo.
• Present a behavior out of context were put it in its worst light.
• Make the "offense" against a cherished part of the character's self image or public persona.
• Make the behavior appeared to be cruel or worthy of disdain.
• Put the offensive behavior on exhibit, often including the character falling for a trap or being hoisted by his own petard.
• Focus on a behavior the character is ashamed of.
  

How do you make the humiliation more intense?

• Be sure the humiliation sticks. Make it difficult for the behavior to be disavowed, apologized for, or minimized.
• Make a shift in power part of the moment of humiliation.
• Make the consequence proportional for the villain and out of proportion for the hero.
• Make the humiliation happen in front of enemies or people the character cares about.
• Increase the consequences, making them more dire or including multiple impacts (such as hurting family as well as self).
  

How do you create humiliation in fiction?

I found that, often, my characters tell me what would humiliate them. Or, I can ask what makes them proud, and then reverse it. Similarly, I can examine some of the factors above (the audience for the humiliation, the image tarnished) and use these to amplify the emotional and practical consequences of a humiliation.

I think it's easier to imagine how to humiliate a villain that is to come up with powerful ways to humiliate your hero. Giving heroes flaws, making them suffer, and creating obstacles for them is very difficult for a lot of writers. The easiest trick is to think in terms of humiliating the villain, then do something similar to the hero. It doesn't always work. In advising students and clients, I may resort to using a step-by-step process that gradually makes even horrendous moments for heroes tolerable. I'll suggest one for humiliation here:

Embarrassment is closely related to humiliation, so remember in times when you or someone you cared about suffered embarrassments can help re-create the feeling and even suggest what the humiliation might be.

Once you understand the what and the how of humiliation, you can get creative with it. In Mad Men, Don Draper has (unjustly) been discovered to be an imposter by Pete Campbell. The information is true. He does not have the credentials, identity, war record, or name he has claimed. It’s so humiliating, Draper’s initial reaction is to run away (sacrificing his career and family). He is further humiliated because his sweetheart of the moment won’t go with him. And she calls him a coward. (In fact, he loses her completely.) It is a low moment for him. So he challenges Campbell to do his worst. The two go into his boss’s office. Campbell puts his discovery in a horrible light. Draper not only faces the situation, he takes ownership of it. He suffers the blow with dignity, and is Campbell whose character flaw is revealed, with him ending up being humiliated. It’s brilliant storytelling.

One area I haven’t touched on is comedy. While humiliation works for me in drama, I’m not a big fan of laughing at people being humiliated. Even the slights of name-calling and practical jokes feel like cheap humor to me. But there’s no doubt that a lot of humor, from late night hosts to sitcoms (like Fawlty Towers) to movies (like Something About Mary) lean heavily into humiliation. Much of what I’ve mentioned here can work for comedy though it might include the same level of pain (except in dark comedy) or story importance.

Curiosity for Writers

“Curiosity has its own reason for existing.” 

                                                    -- Einstein

For me, part of the fun of writing is making connections between ideas and finding something that's amusing and/or insightful. I have an outsized curiosity and, as a child, tormented people with my questions. I can get obsessed with subjects, researching them and probing for the limits of understanding.

While this is not an essential trait for a writer (observation, grace, and facility with language may be enough), I suspect it's important to creating work that is original and innovative. And the surprises and revelations that make stories (especially commercial fiction) engaging often depend upon knowledge and facts that are gathered more by happenstance than by focused research.

For some curiosity is an overwhelming drive, while for others it is a minor distraction.  Given how universal and familiar curiosity is, it is surprising that its definition, “a desire to know,” is less than helpful.  David Beswick, a social psychologist and professor emeritus, University of Melbourne, points to the origins of the word in careful attention or scientific or artistic interest (from the same root as accuracy, curate and care).  This seems like a relevant perspective for writers since curiosity often leads to the sort of focused attention that provides insight.

Experimentally, curiosity has been viewed both at a state (feeling curious) and a trait (being a curious person).  For the former, it is clear that we all have a need to be in a state of arousal with regard to knowing more.  If we didn’t question or learn, we wouldn’t be able to satisfy basic needs or grow.

Curiosity, in most cases, is its own reward. It’s an intellectual hunger that feels good to satisfy. It’s also a natural and healthy cure for boredom. But it also can have some practical value. It can be a starting point for creativity, motivating action. It can suggest deeper and/or transgressive  questions that challenge the status quo. It can reveal unexpected truths and new areas worthy of exploration. And it can stimulate an interest in going beyond the obvious to understand other people.

If you are naturally curious, there are a number of ways it can be piqued, including:
    ▪    Novelty
    ▪    Contradictions
    ▪    Incomplete information
    ▪    Delayed gratification (especially when questions go unanswered), which builds anticipation
    ▪    The urge to complete a picture, resolve a story, or solve a mystery.
    ▪    Recognizing and learning to form good questions
    ▪    Getting past expectations so you can observe and listen to other people without judgment

There are ways to reshape your environment to encourage and deepen curiosity:
    •    Reduce attention to wants so that adequate resources for basic needs are not in jeopardy.
    •    Schedule time for exploration that is driven by interests and questions, not just directed at goals.
    •    Move past habitual subjects (preferred genres, current hobbies, engagement in topical subjects) to discover and sample new intellectual areas, kinds of art, and perspectives.

Einstein said, “It is a miracle that curiosity survives formal education.” But, even if you have been trained to be conventional, you can find your way back to child-like virtues like humility, wonder, playfulness, and even obsession, unreasonableness, and rudeness. Embrace the toddler within.

Beswick sees curiosity as successfully balancing openness to what’s new and a natural concern for orderliness. He says, "I see curiosity as a process of creating, maintaining and resolving conceptual conflicts." When something surprising or unique comes up, especially when it doesn’t fit your worldview, a productively curious person will not dismiss it or force it to fit. Typically, it becomes a prompt for questions that lead to research and exploration. And, when enough information is gathered, analysis, restructuring, and testing new perspectives—real and often difficult work— begins. With enough questions, wonder, doubt, and imagination, something new is allowed to emerge. The surprise may fit itself into place or may lead to a new structure of thought and perception.

For many people, going so far with curiosity is difficult. Beswick says, “highly curious people will remain longer than others in situations of uncertainty, as well as being more likely to be there, that they will have developed a range of investigative skills to help resolve conceptual conflicts by gathering additional information, that they will have a sufficient sense of security in their world to put their cognitive map in jeopardy without debilitating anxiety, to run the risk of creating a new and better order, and that they will have the capacity to carry out the integration required to create a sense of cosmos where there was the threat of chaos. That is, they will be able, typically, and more than most people, to create, maintain, and resolve conceptual conflicts.”

Here are some other thoughts on developing curiosity:

• Go slowly - This is about learning at your pace, not someone else's. This may mean taking piano lessons, teaching yourself another language or exploring a new sport.
• Take small steps - Remind yourself of the sayings "How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time!" Remind yourself that self-managed learning means making mistakes so you can learn what works and what doesn't. There are no grades posted, no deadlines to meet. This is your learning something solely for your enrichment.
• The best part is to make a list of things you want to do, learn or play. Find something delicious to eat, play your favorite music, sit down, and create your wish list.
  

Then get ready for the unexpected. You never know where asking a good question will take you.

This is adapted from an article I wrote regarding curiosity and innovation.

Conflict 3 - Us against them

Recently, I heard a reading of a new play (one act) that left me totally charmed. I wasn't alone. Audience members gushed about how positive and uplifting it was. I chewed on it while others dropped in their comments, and the lightbulb went off. The two characters were in league. They were not in conflict with each other; they were in conflict with an external entity. The whole story was about finding ways to help each other — first with the initial technical problem, then with problems they shared regarding relationships.

Such an "us against them" conflict is, in my experience, rare for a stage play two-hander. Most such plays are battles between the characters. So that was a surprise. In addition, the transition from a technical problem to one of relationships was illustrated by the actual development of a relationship between these characters (who began as strangers).

I think that looking for conflict can blind writers to a lot of possibilities for such us against them stories. Romance is one of the few genres where it's easy to pick out mutual appreciation and support through a pair of characters. "Friends to lovers" is an actual trope, with many examples. We love battles. Romantic comedies almost always are founded on a big secret (lie), where the subtext is creating enough vulnerability in a character to make the truth acceptable. Basically, therefore, the two characters are fighting for the same thing, though neither of them really understand it until a lot of work is done.

Friends to lovers can be part of a story, as is true in When Harry Met Sally…. Obviously, the truth can also be true in a buddy movie, which often plays like a romance without connotations of sex. And many team movies are about the development of mutual admiration and respect. Remember the Titans begins with a lot of internal conflict, but advances to the need to come together for a higher cause. And, interestingly enough, a heist movie like Ocean’s Eleven begins with all the characters together working toward a common goal, without much internal conflict, and deepening relationships based on mutual testing and support through difficulties and unpleasant surprises.

In my experience, one of the best ways to build a connection is to work side-by-side with someone on a difficult project. Bonds are formed that matter more than differences and flaws. And I think that's the basis of the deep attachments that people have for Star Trek, The Lord of the Rings, and Star Wars. I'll note that it's quite common when groups are larger than two for betrayal to be a concern or an important plot point. Sacrifice is usually a major element, too. Often, the strength of the relationship is validated by what each character is willing to lose. The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry is a nice example. The husband and wife sacrifice what's precious to them for the other, and even though the practical value of the gifts themselves is nullified, their love for each other is exposed. (I'll note that secrecy is essential to that story.)

There's another area of us against them that's worth mentioning — mentor/mentee relationships. Though there may be some tension around the mentee needing to gain some independence, most of the stories that include such relationships have both characters working toward the same goal and, as they face challenges, becoming more dedicated to each other. Without an outside force, the relationship would remain casual and unproven.

As I worked on this, I noticed that almost every dimension covered here is present (not necessarily between the same characters) in Jerry Maguire. In fact, it's a film worth exploring to see how each plays out to create a positive story with a feel-good ending. And by observing and mastering these ideas, you may more easily create stories about friendships that are all too rare.

——————————
Sept-Oct course
Surprises, Secrets and Revelations - Adding Memorable Twists to Your Stories
September 20 - Oct 17 


How do you keep a reader engaged? One tool is using the desire to find out what happens next. That means predictability is the death of stories. Many people will put down a mystery as soon as they figure out whodunit. And “spoilers” that give away turns and plot points in a movie or a TV show can ruin the experience for audiences.

Twists in the story road add interest by shifting power, revealing intent, and taking things in unexpected directions. They may be tiny or they may be huge. Chandler suggested adding someone coming through the door with a gun when things got slow. Dickens exploited secrets, including family relationships. O. Henry made a career with surprise endings. The Sixth Sense reset the reality of the story in the final minutes of the film.

Surprises may come naturally, as when writers surprise readers because they surprise themselves. But they also can be planned, injected, shaped, and highlighted deliberately.

Lesson 1 The uses of surprise, secrets, and revelations
Lesson 2 Raising questions and surprising yourself
Lesson 3 Faking out the reader without being fake
Lesson 4 Mistakes to avoid
Lesson 5 Pacing (expected/unexpected)
Lesson 6 Planting information
Lesson 7 Revolting developments (amplifying impact)
Lesson 8 Delving deeper
Lesson 9 Working for wonder

Story Conflicts 2 - Fights scenes

I love sword fights in movies and on TV. As a kid, I watched every episode of Zorro (Guy Williams), and those duels excited me so much, I couldn't sit still. I was carried away by the movement. I can't remember any of those fights (except his carving his signature Z), but the duel on top of the train in The Seven Percent Solution and the duel on the ice in The Four Musketeers are both locked into my brain.  My favorite sword fight is from The Princess Bride, and happily it includes some of the elements of a good fight.

Athleticism. Like a good kung fu battle or a boxing match, a sword fight includes startling exhibitions of physical prowess. And these occur within elegant choreography.

Disadvantage. Because a weapon is involved, the loss of a weapon offers an immediate opportunity for a character who might succeed otherwise to be challenged. This possibility makes power shifts believable and easy for the writer to include in dramatic moments. While any sort of fight can offer something like this (guns can jam, limbs can be broken), with swords, the advantage can be quickly restored.

Just as there are shifts in power that occurred during an argument, there can be shifts in a sword fight. Ideally, these escalate, becoming more and more excruciating for audiences with each turn.

Conversation. While there may be a few words shouted back and forth during a gunfight or grunted comments between blows in a boxing match, neither offer the believable option of fairly normal dialogue. The grace of a sword fight is such that, though at one level we know the fighters are somewhat breathless, it appears that both the distance and postures make it seem as normal as talking to a dance partner.

Time. Anyone who has watched Olympic fencing expecting exciting duels has been disappointed. Points are scored with amazing speed. Real sword fighting is nearly as quick. (Michael York, who is an expert, had to be slowed down for the musketeers movies.) As it happens, audiences are trained to allow for extended fight sequences. (No real barroom brawl with last as long as most in films.) So cheating is accepted.

But sword fights can cheat and add interest by having them occur in a setting that has many obstacles, which is done in an exaggerated way in The Princess Bride. As a note, it includes the classic spiral staircase. It turns (as is true in real structures all the time) in a direction that disadvantages right-handed fighters headed up versus right-handed fighters headed downward. Interestingly, this is the only portion of the battle where Montoya (fighting right) and Roberts (fighting left) battle with opposite hands, nullifying any advantage.

Spectacle. Any physical battle is visually interesting. Gunfights can be dramatic with rushes to cover and desperate moves to reload guns. Boxing matches are close in, with both characters and frame at the same time, and become very personal with consequences for each blow. But sword fights include strategic positioning and can have both characters in frame.

Now, while I believe that sword fights have natural advantages, all of the above are worth considering for whatever physical conflict (including those with person against nature) fits into your story. (Man against himself conflict with the physical dimension is fairly rare. But Mr. Smith Goes to Washington does combine argument and Jefferson Smith working to keep himself going hour after hour during a Senate filibuster.)

A point on describing the conflict: There is a temptation to focus on the moves of the characters (especially the protagonists), but the interesting part is the effects of their actions. Stating that a character throws a left jab is not as compelling as what that jab does — say, break the opponents nose. The writing comes alive more effectively when the impacts of each initiative are clearly described.

The preparation should be mentioned, too. Visually, it can be fun to see the choices the character makes and, the information in terms of how people put on protective equipment, bind their joints, choose their weapons, etc. can be fascinating. While there is not a lot of that in The Princess Bride, it does have a memorable conversation that fits in nicely and naturally provides the back story for Montoya.

I don't pretend to be comprehensive in this post. But I hope some of the elements here will provide helpful reminders of what makes a good physical conflict scene.

Story Conflicts 1 - Characters Argue

You’re at a restaurant and an argument erupts at the next table. Something about going down to work on Mabel’s house. Again. 

You lean in, hoping to figure out what’s driving the disagreement. Why it matters to both parties. Any context that allows you to take a side. Mabel can hire someone. She has plenty of money. Mabel carved the best pumpkins. She takes you away from your own family. She’s lonely. Is that wrong? She pissed off half the town when she fenced off the pond. Etc. Etc.

Who’s right? Who’s wrong? Who’s playing fair?

Who’s winning? Who’s losing? Maybe they’ll say more about the pumpkins.

Conflict is central to storytelling. It’s dramatic. And family arguments are both familiar territory and wonderfully disorganized (from a writer’s point of view).

Organized arguments, like courtroom scenes, have their place. But they tend to be reserved and predictable. They usually turn on evidence. They are as much puzzles as dramas. The emotion often comes from the stakes (which is why criminal cases far outnumber civil cases in storytelling).

But family fights? They are pure gold when it comes to emotion. Those involved know each other. They have a relationship. So whatever the issue is, the bond between the characters is being tested.

This is true beyond families, of course. Friends, business partners, clubs, neighbors, and church groups often argue without rules, facing off against people they have to live with. For any conflict that is within a group, the stakes can rise to the value of the interpersonal connection… even as the content of the fight is in contention.

Why do people argue?

• To persuade. Hasten or compel a decision or action. Prevent or delay a decision or action. Convince.
• To shift or express power.
• To negotiate.
• To win.
• To explain themselves.
• To impress, charm, or gain confidence.
• To inflict pain.
• To play (e.g., play devil’s advocate).
• To explore a subject with someone who is intelligent or has a different point of view.

I’ve listed these as they came to mind, but they don’t all have the same dramatic potential. Since your ranking is likely to be different from mine, I recommended organizing this list in your own way. Chances are, as you do so, you’ll start to imagine examples, and these might be valuable in a current or future fight.
 
And how do they fight?

• Some people use evidence and build a case. They fight fairly.
• Others use stories, examples, and anecdotes.
• Some make claims they feel are probably right or they sort of remember, maybe from a Web page.
• Some exaggerate, tell half truths, or lie.
• Some listen to and weigh every point from the opposition, others never listen.
• Some jump from topic to topic.
• Some spew out talking points they can’t defend or explain.
• Some ask questions to understand or clarify.
• Some ask questions to mislead or entrap.
• Some watch for and attack any weakness, whether in a flawed point or in the opponent’s certainty or strength.
• Some win by using raw power or threatening.
• Some distract or charm.
• Some are impromptu, while others argue systematically.
• Some need to win at any cost, while others look for compromise or concede when the stakes rise too high.
• Some erupt with words and interrupt.
• Some invade space, use silence, make faces, glare, or cross their arms.

This is not a comprehensive list. One of the most interesting things to do is to mix it up, with fair and unfair techniques from both sides. There are good examples of argument ploys and useful articles online. I like (for story) The 8 Worst Things You Can Do During An Argument With Your Partner. Here’s another one that might provide some more ideas.  For story (and I hope not real life), some good practices can be reversed as well as included.

So, your palette of colors to mix and compare — a dab of relationship (sibling rivalry) , a touch of contention (whose turn it is to drive the car), and a smidgen of technique (shaming)  — can lead to an infinite number of variations.

But not necessarily interesting. A productive argument, one which leads to a resolution, is interesting if it has stakes we care about. Bickering has to work at being interesting in drama (although it can be wonderful in humor) because it doesn’t go anywhere. There are also what couples therapist Sue Johnson calls “Demon Dialogues” (which are not limited to couples) that need to be handled with care in stories. They may be revealing once, but, when they are repeated, tend not to be fresh.  

Some ways to keep arguments interesting.

• Surprise. Unexpected points, revelations, and secrets told can all defy expectations.
• Reactions. How people respond emotionally and physically move arguments beyond words.
• Distractions. These may occur as a ploy, but also can come from something outside, like a phone call. They can reset and shift power.
• Beats. Both characters want something. Unless the idea is to crush one character, taking turns in holding the power position (for the relationship or the point of contention) adds drama.
• Humor. This can be a ploy, comic relief (before something crushing), or an expression of character. Truths may be state in jest. And, of course, the whole argument can be funny. Like this. 
  
• Escalation. Make things more intense and more interesting with each exchange. The stakes can crank up, the chances of someone losing can increase, the emotions can become more extreme, or the relationship can be closer to the breaking point.
• Place, moments, and witnesses. There are some horrible times to get into an argument. Before appearing together in public. During a moment of danger. When one person has already suffered a great loss. When someone is exhausted. When there are witnesses (from strangers to vulnerable children). Of course, these are horrible from the points of view of the characters, not the audience.

Sometimes a winning isn't winning because it's only a battle in the war. Sometimes the loss leads to the other participant falling into a trap. Sometimes there is an intentional loss that the gambit. That may be used later as a chit.

In stories, there may be must win arguments that are worth destroying the relationship. A good argument will include beats (power shifts) and escalation in stakes and intensity. There may be moments for emotion, including diffusing the worst circumstances with humor. The strategies the different characters use may tell you about what they value and just how far they'll go to win. Deceit may be part of it. Place for sympathy maybe part of it. Threats, unrelated to the topic at hand, may pop up. Many people also use distraction or change the subject.

Who's on first? Is an argument. As are many humorous exchanges. Arguments are aimed at someone. There is no ambiguity about who the words are for (although there may be confusion about the true identity of one of the characters). As opposed to formal arguments, people tend to argue in their own voices, with few references to quotes or attempts to use an unfamiliar idiom.

An argument in a story almost always touches upon its theme. And it immediately becomes an emotional moment. And emotional moments drive great stories.

Some Thoughts about Banter in Storytelling

In real life, banter probably peaks in high school. Often, it shows up as a combination of needling and borrowed catch phrases (and even memorized exchanges) from movies and TV shows. The expectations of the audience (fellow adolescents) with regard to intelligence and wit feel within range, and I suspect soaring hormone levels make everything funnier (especially if if provides escape from the tensions and anxieties of growing up). But crank up the anxiety and even a pair of unremarkable 15-year-olds can hit their stride and create an unforgettable moment.

As we get older, with the exception of flirting, banter requires wit. Improvising intelligent, fast-paced conversation in the moment — and having a partner in that enterprise — is fairly rare. Being smart and funny in the moment isn't easy, and, at the same time, listening intently adds to the challenge. Hearing two people do this for an extended period of time is a little like watching a volley between tennis masters, with each unable to put away the other.

Luckily, written banter can be composed over a long period of time, reworked, tested, and polished. In a screenplay, it can become a collaborative effort, with bits added by the director or improvised by the actors. Movies and television provide a lot of good examples of banter. It's actually an expected element for most romantic comedies and action films.

Banter generally takes place between equal characters: lovers, buddies, and protagonists and villains. Like a good boxing match, it's best when there are power shifts and the outcome is uncertain. I've been alternating between watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and Gilmore Girls. By the same creators, they both have a lot of smart humor, but Mrs. Maisel has more banter because she faces other characters of equal intelligence. Gilmore Girls has a lot of witty mother/daughter exchanges, but the two "Girls" are almost identical in their approaches. Banter really requires differentiation between the characters. And often they need to be in conflict with very different strategies toward winning.

Romances, the differences in the banter are intrinsically interwoven with the differences (and concerns and goals) that keep the lovers apart and make the movie last for more than five minutes. Similarly, there are intrinsic differences between protagonists and villains that are reflected in their banter. In romances, the banter usually leads to a victory for one or the other lover and that has consequences. Very often, banter between a protagonist and a villain ends when the villain feels uncertain about victory, and moves to (often brutal) action or threats. The moment for protagonist/villain banter is often just after the tension has been built about danger, providing some relief before the danger gets real.

What about the buddies? Their banter sometimes harkens back to high school banter, raised to a higher level. There's usually needling and some care is taken to make sure their relationship isn't jeopardized. At the same time, a writer needs to actively work to distinguish the two characters. There is no intrinsic reason why they can't reflect each other (the way the Gilmore Girls do), so it becomes a deliberate storytelling choice. Part of the fun becomes anticipating how their different viewpoints and ways of speaking will show up in their responses.

In most cases, neither buddy wins the banter. The most that happens is an insult lands, and, rather than leading to a break in the connection, becomes something to appreciate about the friend.

Banter needs to be quick, usually a line or two for each character so there is a back-and-forth volley. It needs to surprise at times. And needs to be smart — impressive in its wordplay, strategy, and knowledge. It needs to be between equals without an obvious winner. Both characters need to be consciously involved and committed to the exchange (except with the villain, who usually opts out at the end). If possible, it needs to escalate, with the verbal challenges rising with its exchange like an entertaining insult argument (where each "your mother" remark becomes more absurd and risky over time). As much as possible, the exchanges should shift power back and forth each time. (An exception to that is, if the story goal is to move away from banter to crushing humiliation, which may happen to some especially loathsome antagonists.)

Above all, banter needs to be funny, and funny from two different points of view. I'm of two minds on this. On the one hand, I suspect those who haven't been able to master writing a scene with two characters being funny in different ways probably shouldn't try and do something as distilled as banter. On the other hand, I’ve seen dialogue open up people and break through their inhibitions. Just as in high school, nerves and anxiety can sometimes force a moderate person into a moment of verbal genius.

Thoughts on Standout Characters

It’s an odd thing. For many of us, fictional characters become guiding influences in our real lives. We follow their adventures. We worry about them. We quote them. We remember how they face their toughest challenges.

Conan Doyle famously killed off Sherlock Holmes. Then had to bring him back to life due to popular demand. (And he continues to live on in the stories of new generations of writers.) Dracula persists. So does Batman. Real people like Tesla have edged their ways into fiction as well. (Following a human pattern of legend making that has wonderful examples like Robin Hood, St. Nicholas, Wyatt Earp, St. Joan, and many others.)

Great characters often outlive the stories that created them. They become larger than life. And, in many cases, personal. For legends, writers have starting points. They refine history to give precedence to generosity, courage, suffering, horror, and many other traits. Some facts get in the way and disappear. Some truths get amplified beyond fact.

Writers can do something in between. They can create characters based on real people, including people they know.. Dr. Joseph Bell, who was a master diagnostician and Doyle’s teacher, inspired Sherlock Holmes. (And Dr. Gregory House was inspired by Holmes.) Many popular fictional characters were modeled after real people. 

Sometimes characters are more Frankenstein monsters, assembled from the parts of real people to create something new. Truman Capote’s Holly Golightly may have been such a character.

Most of my characters rise up from nowhere and audition for a role. Once they start talking, I may consult them about adding a trait from someone I’ve met, but I never force it.

Standout characters may draw on archetypes, but they are never cliches. I remember when cowboys ruled TV, NBC introduced a (very short-lived series) Destry. He was tall in the saddle and a sure shot, but “when trouble came this way, he went that-ta way.” He was a reluctant hero, and I was thrilled. Here it is, over 50 years later, and I still remember a show I only saw a handful of times. The reverence for biographies of geniuses is thrown out the window with Amadeus, where Mozart is childish and vulgar (but still lovable and dedicated to his work).

Comedy, of course, lives by creating characters who reverse expectations. Lucy and today’s Mrs. Mazel both reach past the dutiful wife and mother of the 50s because they dream of becoming performers. Unlike Lucy, Mrs. Mazel can, in a heartbeat, go from zany to serious, which makes it more subversive.

Tricksters, from Bugs Bunny to Ferris Bueller seem to become reference points for every generation. Often, they are funny, but I think there is more. First, for your trickster character to be memorable, he/she/it can’t be malicious (though they are not necessarily benign). Second, the antics usually need to present a kind of freedom that current audiences long for. Wish fulfillment both makes cultural restraints visible and provides vicarious fun. Third, their stories usually provide a benefit. In Ferris Bueller, the sportscar is beautiful and valuable, but it represents everything that is destroying Bueller’s friend, Cameron. Wrecking the car saves Cameron’s life.

Mercury, a trickster, was the portal god who allowed the taboo to be rescued from society’s junk heap when its true value could be embraced. The best trickster do that for their times. We are so grateful, we cherish them.

Sacrifice also makes a character special. Among many wonderful characters in A Tale of Two Cities, Sydney Carton is the one who sticks in my mind because of his unselfish act. (The act also provides redemption, a notable Dickens’ theme.)

Note that unexpected betrayal can also make a character unforgettable. Judas, Benedict Arnold and Quisling have all become synonyms for traitors.

Individual actions and decisions can define remarkable characters, but these all occur in context. Timing, relationships, culture, consequences, and power dynamics are all part of the equation that helps to make the action and decision resonate with readers and audiences.And I think there is one more thing: possibility.

So often, especially when the character is hurt or hurts others, turning points occur along the way in the story. When the high impact scene plays out, we are invited to wonder “what if” and to consider alternate paths. Returning to the experience and reflecting on what might have been can bring characters permanently into our lives.

Thoughts On Plot Twists

Last week, I was reading an old interview with Philip K Dick. In it, he mentioned that a lot of the choices that shaped the plot of The Man in the High Castle came from his use of the I Ching.

It got me thinking about plot twists and where they come from. My preference is for the work to be as organic as possible. Often, some of the more interesting turns in my stories occur to me as I'm writing and surprise me. I can trace back where they came from, but they are far from deliberate. Since many of my stories come from intuitive (not systematic) collisions of apparently unrelated ideas, sometimes the odd story developments emerge from the natural consequences of those combinations.

Because the muse doesn't always show up, I have techniques that lead to twists. Sometimes, these fit right in. Sometimes, they necessitate a lot of rewriting to smooth them out enough so that they feel organic. And sometimes they lead me into lots of pages that never make it into the final manuscript. My first "go to" approach is to list 10 to 20 options. Often I write these out in full sentences so that I know I'm being absolutely clear about each. It's very rare that one of these doesn't feel both right for the story and unpredictable.

Another thing I do is imagine how some of my favorite authors would move the story forward. Oddly enough, even though these are really coming out of my brain, no two authors ever make the same choices. More often than not, I'm stuck with more than one option that intrigues me — not a bad situation to find myself in.

On occasion, I've also written the scene over again from a different character's point of view. This is less successful, but always worthwhile in terms of insights. In fact, it's worth mentioning that many of my favorite story terms seem to been whispered into my ear by one of the characters. Or they've resulted from the reaction of another character in the scene that was stronger than I expected. One more character piece that has worked is including a wildcard character (often a trickster) in the story and introducing them into the problematic scene.

Context can play an invaluable role as well. Getting out of the character's head and exploring the larger meaning of the scene, in terms of the story world, often causes me to include forces (such as cultural) that make a modest decision epic. More rarely, I focus more tightly on the character's interests, even breaking down each beat and working to experience deeper emotions that come into play.

The easiest way to flip expectations in ways that engage rather than lose readers is to refer to models. I’ll often look to similar stories or history to explore possibilities. These come with their own authenticity, which helps me to be convinced as I use what I’ve learned to work on my own story. The one caution here is that the excuse “this really happened” may work its charms on the author, but may mean nothing to a reader. The improbable doesn’t work in fiction. And that goes double if it benefits the protagonist.

One more thing. Every plot twist needs to be challenged in revision. This can be a pain if you’ve fallen in love with it and other elements of the story depend on it, but a bad plot twist can shatter the story logic and drive readers away. Luckily, it’s almost always the case that any concerns that arise can be fixed by making changes to scenes that come before the twist. In my experience, these are not just simple fixes, but opportunities to make large chunks of the story more interesting.

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A Task Approach to Efficient Writing
August 16-September 5 

 

One key to writing productively and doing a thorough job is understanding the tasks of writing. If you only see big activities, like exploration, drafting, revision, and polishing, it’s hard to plan the day’s work. Each requires many different skills, approaches and time commitments. That’s one reason finding “revision” on your to-do list can be so overwhelming. Where to start?

By breaking the work down to specific steps (like analyzing story logic, tightening prose, and sweetening the humor), you can assign yourself tasks to make each writing session rewarding.

This course will help you divide huge writing jobs into bite-sized pieces, with guidelines on how you can order them to match the way you write.

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Five Exercises to Create More Intense Conflict

Conflict grabs attention. It draws crowds. And, in real life, we can pick it up with a slight change in tone or from a raised eyebrow.

In fiction, it's good to be able to make it bigger than life. I'm naturally somewhat conflict avoidant, so I need to work hard at getting way out of my comfort zone and finding approaches that intensify conflict. I try to push past what's reasonable in terms of stakes, concern from the characters, and the possibility of failure. I can always dial it back if I need to.

Often, I'm too gentle of my characters in early drafts (meaning I'm less demanding of myself), so I need to use exercises — many of which never end up in the story — to exaggerate things as far as I can. Here are five that I find useful.

Appalling injuries. I try and force myself to imagine, without getting too far away from the story, a physical outcome that would be upsetting. If physical is impossible, psychological trauma almost always is. I imagine creating a loss that could impede or even end I character’s quest. Anything less than this tells me that I have not been daring enough. And, emotionally, I look for an internal reaction that mirrors my most difficult readings of Stephen King.

So character consequences and emotion become my criteria. Assuming it's just an exercise opens the door for me, and it's surprising how often I create a scene that is close to what ends up in the story.

Horrible choices. You know how in horror movies you beg characters not to go into the basement or otherwise take an action that could be fatal? My inner voice constantly warning my favorite characters away from bad choices. But bad choices make good stories. I'm usually pushed by flaws I've provided the characters and consoled by the growth I know they'll achieve, but my first drafts often miss opportunities for mistakes that could make the story better. (This does not mean advancement of the plot by stupidity. That's a horrible sin for a writer and should be avoided.)

When I come across a "good" choice that needs fixing and I find I'm reluctant to press very hard, I ask myself, “What choice could the character make here that would end the story?” This could be ending the story in a way that's positive for the protagonists — a cheap, unearned solution that is dramatically flat — or in a disaster — where the character might even be killed, but certainly would have no chance of achieving his or her goal. The positive choice often reveals an answer that would occur to some people in the audience, and that involves real rewriting and opens up some wonderfully painful choices. Those that lead to complete failure almost always hint at a slightly less disastrous choice that adds power to the story.

Constricting communities. Sometimes the conflict is not between individuals, but between the protagonists and a culture or friends or even family. Those who set aside the rules to make an unpopular but important choice are often punished. I used to think in terms of what would make them want to kill the character, but the answers seemed a little ridiculous in most cases and too obvious. There is a much better question to ask: what could my protagonist do that would lead to exile or shunning? In many ways, living with an isolating choice is more emotionally wrenching than simply dying.

Small, but deadly. There are some people who grab attention by shouting, but often those who whisper have the most impact. I'm reading a book right now where the disruption caused by whom a boy chooses to take to the prom is startling and painful. No one is murdered. Families are not broken apart. Everything that happens happens within the two friends involved. Why? Because it changes, for each of them, how they understand themselves. The experience — which one imagines would be important to his reputation — only really matters in terms of what it reveals about selfishness and a distorted identity. One of the things deep characters hold onto most tightly is a sense of themselves. So I always ask the question, how could I violate that stable, unquestioned concept?

Worst moments. Often, it's less about what action is demanded by the circumstance as by when it happens. In Die Hard, John McClane spends most of the movie in his bare feet. Something small, that becomes important when the floor is covered with broken glass. Not being ready, not having time to think, the presence of witnesses, being in the midst of difficult natural circumstances (like a snowstorm) — these are things that can make a less-than-perfect action or decision go awry. So how can this be used?

In a story I'm writing right now, a woman in assisted living wants to proposition a man who is also elderly. There are enough strikes against her. He's rather traditional and prudish. He has a standing in the community, with authority derived from his honor. Also, he's hard of hearing. So I force her to proposition him in the facility's cafeteria, when other people are present and the ambient sound would make it difficult for anyone to hear. Speaking loudly about a delicate subject in the presence of many witnesses who matter — that's a puzzle to solve.

This is not a comprehensive list of ways to intensify conflict. I've found that how things are designed around the premise and the theme lead to story moments that are organic and flow during the draft. These are more useful to me in revision. And during that process, fixing one mistake often leads to natural ways to crank up conflict elsewhere. Still, these provide a solid fall back position for improving storytelling, and sometimes the results are magical.