Breaking the Rules on Clear Transitions to Strengthen Your Story - Transitions 3

Creating transitions used to be easier. A confident, omniscient narrator would be your tour guide. Dickens, puffing on a pipe  and cuing you to the goings-on. Austen, perhaps between sip of tea, luring you in with a wry statement and a few insights, putting everything in to context before plunging in. Sometimes, raising questions is more important that answering them.

Including all the elements of a transition in the right order ensures that the basic work of keeping readers involved and oriented is achieved. Most stories put time, place, characters present, and situation (including reminders) close to the beginning so readers aren’t confounded or distracted.  

But it’s okay to tweak that. What if some of the transition information is in the cliffhanger paragraph and some is in the start of the next section? Provided the situation is dramatic, that split both prevents a large block of exposition and can make the cliffhanger more tense (because only a piece of the expected transition information is there).

Another alternative is the slow reveal. A mad scientist’s castle, for instance, could be described completely in a paragraph. The language can be wonderful and creepy and intriguing — doing a nice job as its portion of the transition. But it also can first appear in faint outlines as lighting flashes. Then a light can go on in a tower window. A scream can set the protagonist running toward (or away from) the castle. Assuming the former, more details may become visible as he or she gets closer.  A large cage. Then a winding of bloody bandages. Finally a skull.

Spread out information, escalating, and including action and reaction (and, in a novel, the protagonist’s thoughts), a straight description can build anticipation.

It also is worth considering including more than needed explanations. A description can set a scene and raise questions (why is the old man holding an ax? Where did he get it?)

One reason for a transition is because it’s a good time to change over to another point of view character. But the change can also be from (the most common) third person limited for the protagonist to first person for another character (like the villain). That can add to the jolt, but a writer can also slow the action, especially after a fast-paced and or emotional scene. I know an author who is excellent at putting protagonists into agonizing situations in her first chapter (third person protagonist). And then moving to omniscient third person and providing a god-like view of the location (usually, a character in itself), while easing up on the rattled reader (that confident, omniscient narrator).

Similar to changing point of view is introducing an artifact. This could be a poem or a quote (made up or real) or a newspaper article. I’ve even seen an author insert the script of a commercial. Or the writer may talk directly to the reader, “breaking the fourth wall.” 

Titling chapters might be considered a form of author intrusion. In the case of older novels (like Vanity Fair, 1848), it was expected that the chapters would include a preview like “In Which Miss Sharp and Miss Sedley Prepare to Open a Campaign.” John Barth used this technique (often to humorous effect) in The Sot-Weed Factor (1960).

Tone can change during a transition, too. Comic relief is the most notable example of this. Going from serious to funny pulls the reader away from the cliff for a moment of comfort. Of course, authors, smart enough to know how readers armor themselves against frightening and sad moment, and devious enough to use humor to get readers to let down their guards compose a sequence that goes, “uh oh, she’s in trouble,” “Oh no, this is gong to be really bad,” “Look at the clown, ha ha,” “Mayhem!”

Most radical is proceeding without any transition at all. Throw readers or audiences into completely new situations without any preparation at all and let them catch up. If a character has a psychic break, it might make dramatic sense. At the beginning of a story, where two (or more) threads will come together later on, part of the fun is anticipating how these different pieces will fit together and watching for clues. (Usually, the start has coherent, but separate plots with different protagonists or one protagonist at different times.)

Horror may jump around to unsettle audiences. Humor may abandon traditional coherence. I remember how I delighted at seeing Monty Python’s irreverence toward traditional transitions. (And how the shows totally flummoxed my parents.)

Taking chance by subverting standard transitions may engage an audience more deeply or in a more amusing way. It can also drive people away, so it’s taking a risk. In a draft, trust your muse. In revision, make the tough decisions. On that, more next week.

Options for Creating the Best Transitions (and How to Choose Them) - Transitions 2

As discussed last time, transitions are more than “and then…” Clarity is (usually) essential and keeping things smooth, almost to the point of being unnoticed is (usually) desirable. (In a later post, I will  discuss the unusual.)

So how do you create transitions? What are the choices and which do you choose?

Signals 

Did you know *** is called a dinkus? News to me, even though I have been using this bit of punctuation to communicate section break for years.

In fiction, it can tell readers a lot of things: Time has passed. This is a new scene. The point of view has changed.
For the writer, the dinkus can be used to keep what’s common together. The sections may have common themes or represent a sequence allow a less than chapter length intrusion of a villain’s perspective on a key task or development.

The dinkus can also be used to manage pacing. I usually include three to five sections in a chapter, creating tiny speed bumps to separate them just enough to allow reader adjustments. But, especially for later chapters, sections may be fewer (and shorter). And, just as a montage can be a series of examples or collect a building set of actions, section breaks can be used to speed readers through condensed sequences that read quickly and leave the dull stuff out. (Done well, these can be almost poetic.)

The little brother of the dinkus I use when less adjustment is needed (and for some on-page montages) is an extra return. The big brother, when more change happens and the reader does more of a reset than an on-the-fly adjustment, is the chapter break.

Italics can signal a different kind of section break within a chapter. A verse or song, the thoughts of a character, or an actuality (real or made-up). The last is like sticking a newsreel or a spinning newspaper that lands on a headline or narration into a film. Breaking the third wall (talking directly to the audience, usually without other characters noticing) breaks away in stage and film in a way that would probably be expressed in italics in a book.

Note: The punctuation stated above may have variations. Manuals of style (including in-house manuals) are not as standardized for these as they are for periods and commas. The point is that readers recognize breaks and the attention they should bring to each one. Your choice of signals depend on how much you, as the writer, want to demand reader attention for a transition.

Orientation 

This all may be obvious, but it’s something I often got wrong early in my writing career, and I still fumble it. I see everything in a scene, so I am quite capable of assuming readers can read my mind. Not so.

When the location changes, that usually is the first thing to be noted. This may be by a cue (if readers are prepared) and there is nothing changed within the location. A change in time (and this can be jumping forward, having a flashback or a flashforward) is always implied by a new location. Even if it is brief. I’ve found it valuable to think in terms of the way a script handles this (DAY, NIGHT, SUNSET, DAWN, LATER, CONTINUOUS) or an onscreen title like PORT OF BALTIMORE - 1865.

A new location also raises the question of which characters are in the scene. The point of view gives you one, but others need to be identified in most cases. Even in a crowd (Times Square), all those who will speak or act in the scene need to be identified at the top. Otherwise, you’re not playing fair. The only tricky, not-introduce-at-the top exception is when a character is present at the beginning, but the viewpoint character doesn’t know it. Then a later mention is just fine.

But what if they aren’t present at the beginning of the scene? Easy. Place them there when they arrive. (When characters exit and enter within a scene, it’s called a French scene, by the way.)

If only time passes (and location and characters stay the same), that should be orientation enough. Though if characters become hungry or tired or edgy with time, that needs to be mentioned. Of course, if the situation changes or the timer on the bomb has advanced, keep readers apprised. In fact, it’s often a good idea to remind readers of story questions, tasks at hand, progress, and threats, even if they “should” already know.

Time, location, characters present, and reminders may simply be stated by the narrator (especially in first person). Unless withheld for dramatic effect, the order is usually determined by the priorities of what readers need to know to settle in. Sometimes, this results from what happened in the previous section or chapter, but the genre can make a difference, too. The tone (especially humorous) may drive it in some circumstances. So it’s good to go to some works by other writers and see the order they use.

When I was starting out, I used Roger Zelazny as my model, and I sampled dozens of scenes to get a sense of the order for his kind of science fiction. I’ve probably done the same over the years for a ten or more writers who seemed to be aiming at my imagined audiences. It’s a good exercise. And it will provide the best indications of how to order the essentials — time, location, characters present, and reminders — in your own work.

Not all orientation needs to be carried by narration. Dialogue can be a great way to orient readers. (I love it when a reminder is provided by an anxious character.) But never use dialogue if it isn’t organic. Dialogue does so much work in creating empathy and showing motivation and bringing the characters to life, that it should not be twisted to avoid narration.

One more thing. narration of activity beats static narration. A character doing something is easier to visualize and more memorable. Cold weather creates more reactions than comfortable weather. Shadows are interesting. Half the fun of Murder on the Orient Express is the train. If there are elements that both orient and make characters uncomfortable, the writer wins. If the elements used distract the reader, change them.

So the major options are order, narration/dialogue, and static/active. And your choices are guided by audience (often genre), fidelity to character, and engaging rather than distracting.

Threats and questions 

I’m a big believer in hooks and cliffhangers. I aspire to creating page turning fiction.

Provided readers are empathizing with a character and goals, anything that might derail progress, raise stakes, or make (or show) the job is harder will cause readers to worry. The possibility of harm to the character (injury, anxiety, death) can also raise concern and keep pages turning to see if the character will be okay. This is why transitions often threaten the success or well-being of the character. 

A few ways to initiate a threat are having something bad happen or a villain appear or an important misunderstanding or bad luck. Any of these (and more) occurring at a transition point will hold the attention of readers. But there are three ways the writer can mess up. 1) The threat may be unlikely, 2) the consequences may be insufficiently bad, or 3) the writer may rush to reassure the reader.

The last here is played for fun in The Princess Bride. The Princess is being attacked by eels, the Grandfather interrupts storytelling to say, “She doesn’t get eaten by the eels at this time.”  (Comedy frequently turns writing rules upside-down.)

In my experience, 2) the consequences may be insufficiently bad is what writers usually fail at. It’s very hard to torture your characters (unless you’re Stephen King).

Questions may create worries, but it’s sufficient to have questions that will engage curiosity. My go-to is delicious questions. Why’d she kill the messenger before he could speak? How will he cross the bridge with the troll under it? Whose body is that floating in the river? What does the inscription on the gold chalice mean? What is the device used for? What’s in the box?

If it looks like a secret will be revealed, that’s good, too. Or a character showing an unknown capability. (He’s climbing up the side of a building like a human fly!) I love it when a mysterious character shows up in a story. I was delighted when Strider (Aragorn) was introduced as a potential threat. But so very interesting.

I haven’t covered two questions from last time.
The next post will attempt to answer “How might they be subverted in beneficial ways?”
And “how should revision be approached?” will be covered in the final post in the series.

Getting More Out of Moving From One Scene to the Next - Transitions 1

In fiction, transitions don’t get much attention. Unless they fail in the basic duty of orienting the reader when one scene becomes the next, they pass by unnoticed. With a few exceptions, noted below.

Which is odd. In life, transitions are everywhere, deeply explored and often ritualized. Christening. Coming of age. Graduation. Marriage. Death. With science, we’ve added gender reveal to the list.

In architecture, we have vestibules (and I can clearly remember my disappointment when, as a child our new church did not have a space for welcome, casual community, and transition to the sacred). We celebrate the changes of the seasons, licenses, new jobs, and retirements. We have voting and inaugurations, and even draft days for sports. Champions and kings are crowned with pomp and circumstance. Inflection points shape our lives and are celebrated in fiction, but largely ignored in the writing. To my knowledge, there is no book dedicated to how to write effective story transitions. (Though there are some effective articles. Noted below.)

This is odd because story transitions fulfill many important roles.

• They orient, clearly and simply alerting readers to the location, time, and participants in a scene.
• They may prepare readers for what’s coming next, especially in terms of tension, stakes, and goals.
• They direct attention, setting up what’s important in the scene.
• They often remind readers of what has already occurred, providing a context for what follows.
• They verify information that may have been intentionally ambiguous earlier, but now must be definite.
• They create anticipation through questions, concerns, or charm.
• They often provide satisfaction by resolving the tension of the cliffhanger at the end of a previous scene.
• They may provide a “yes, but” situation, turning the focus of the story while finishing an earlier concern.
  

With all the ways transitions support story telling, it seems strange to me that there aren’t courses detailing when transitions should be used, which kinds are most effective for different story situations and how to revise your transitions to make them more effective. Why don’t they get the same treatment as marriage, graduation, and death? (I don’t know.)

By the way, the exceptions (which you may have guess by now) are titles (which transition readers into the story), openings (which catch interest and raise questions), and, perhaps, cliffhangers (which take people out of chapters). Each of these can be explored almost as much at plot and characterization. Hooks and cliffhangers (which need to create anticipation), have uses not just at chapter beginnings and ends, but for many scenes as well (especially if you’re looking to create a page turner).

So, with all the value, the questions become:

• How are transitions created?
• How do writers choose between options?
• How might they be subverted in beneficial ways?
• What should be avoided?
• And how should revision be approached?
  

That’s a lot to cover, so more will be discussed next week.

Articles on story transitions:
http://theeditorsblog.net/2010/12/16/mastering-scene-transitions/
https://www.instituteforwriters.com/the-process-of-novel-writing-transitions.aspx
https://www.theopennotebook.com/2018/09/25/good-transitions-a-guide-to-cementing-stories-together/

Legacies - What characters want to leave behind shapes their stories

I just reconnected with a set of writer friends after many years. A few of that group has passed on. I poked around and found the obituary for one to be singularly unsatisfactory. Luckily, I kept at it and found his wife’s obituary. It was much more revealing, noting their long, loving marriage, his service in Germany, and the 100,000 miles the two put on motorcycles, touring Europe and the US. It brought him back to me for a moment, not the leas of which because I believe he was he author and every word reflected what made life matter to him.

For fiction writers, obituaries have many uses, including providing touchpoints for character perspectives (as detailed in an earlier post of mine). But one thing I haven’t focused on is what characters want to leave behind. That seems like an essential bit to know, and I don’t recall seeing “Hoped for Legacy” in any forms used to profile characters.

I suspect most people want to provide, in one way or another for family. In America, about 40% of adults have wills. My guess is that those who care for disabled family plan extensively. The one thing they want is to make sure they aren’t cut adrift, which, sadly, can happen in my country where safety nets are pretty frayed. Providing a future for small children is probably a to concern, too.

All that shows the common concerns. But, of course, there are other goals. Leaving a gold watch to one and an ugly lamp to another. Or cutting someone out entirely. The material distribution can be the message.

There are those who leave behind power as well as goods. It was a big deal for Henry VIII, worthy of murder, but business has this, too. Sons take over the family business and may even (as with Murdoch’s News Corp) be groomed to take over a publicly traded company. Sometimes, it’s more subtle. Entertainers build good will or a brand that opens doors and smooths the way for their children. Walter Huston begat John who begat Angelica — all Oscar winners.

So family can be a big deal. For some, a lot of progeny is legacy enough. Is this important for your characters? And why?

Sometimes the legacy that’s sought is to be understood. I have autobiographies of both my father and my grandfather on my shelf. My father’s is full of facts and genealogy. For him, data led to understanding. My grandfather’s has moments that mattered to him. The text is integrity, but often the subtext is coming to see things in new ways.

But biographies can be weapons and explanations. To me, Marlon Brando’s (Songs My Mother Taught Me) was aimed at building his image, defending poor choices, and getting even with enemies. He seemed to want to find meaning, but was always more interested in other things. But I don’t think that was how he wanted it to come across.

The extreme of the tight focus on self excuse and getting even might be the suicide note. (Not ALL suicide notes.) Haunting and guilting those left behind may become the point. If you have characters who are broken or angry, such a note might be the best way to understand what they want to leave behind. Just don’t write it in a way that makes people worry about you, the author.

Sometimes the final moment becomes the legacy. The far better thing done by the humblest of us, such as perishing to save another, may be a way to snag redemption. Or to inspire. Would sacrifice define the legacy of one of your characters? How much would they give up and, if they are willing to die for something or someone, why?

One of my favorite legacies people aspire to is beauty. I suspect this was important to Leonardo da Vinci, since he kept the Mona Lisa at his side. Harper Lee gave us To Kill a Mockingbird, and that was enough. I think the collaborative, anonymous, glorious work of Chartres speaks of what humanity can be.

The artist does not always see clearly. Kafka wanted most of his brilliant work destroyed. As I recall, Ray Bradbury hoped he’d have a handful of poems that would outlive him, but didn’t equally value his prose. Conan Doyle expected Holmes would fade away and posterity would come to appreciate his serious work.

Imagine creating such characters, who want to be remembered or even leave the world better off, but uses the wrong measure of greatness. Twisted dreams make good stories, and they may be revealed through the lens of legacy.

Making lives better for future generations was probably the intent of Madison as he and his colleagues labored on the U.S. Constitution. I suspect Marx had similar notions for communism. Loyola formed the Jesuits who became the marines of the Catholic Church (with one of their number in charge now), intentionally stepping into a raging battle of ideas. Bill Gates said, “A computer on every desk, and in every home, running Microsoft software.”

Their legacies are big and tested by history, but I wonder if they are minor compared to Gutenberg and his movable type. (Was Gutenberg thinking about posterity? Or making a living?) Overt intent to change the world is common in fiction, the DNA of some stories, but could unintended legacies, like butterfly effects, shape your tales in surprising and wonderful ways?

In general, asking characters what they want as their legacy provides a treasure trove of information about them. Figuring out WHY this matters fits this information into your story.